A week in Accra

I've been in Ghana for a week interviewing candidates for my department (only to be told yesterday that they've cut my budget so I can't offer a job to any of them...)

Tuesday was a public holiday. I worked for most of the day on training programmes for staff I now won't be able to recruit (okay you get the picture - I'm rather unhappy about this), but then took a wonder along the street from the hotel, to the old British colonial sector, Jamestown. It was such a lively place - very poor, but the poverty hasn't stopped a number of people buying enormous sets of speakers, which were blasting out reggae and rap to people who were actually dancing in the street.

I noticed a sign advertising the Champion's League game to be shown on TV Wednesday evening and thought it would be a great place to watch it. Two weeks ago I watched the first leg with my friends in the Medina district of Dakar, with some 150 of us crammed into a tiny space creating an absolutely superb atmosphere. But I thought I had better check with colleagues here as to whether it was safe to go there at night. Particularly as there would be very little light around given the power cuts here (lack of rainfall meaning the hydroelectric dams are mostly inoperative and electricity is now rationed, even in the capital, to every other day). How sad to be told that there was no way I could go there safely after dark. That there was a high likelihood of being mugged, and that if I carried no valuables I could be physically harmed in retaliation for having nothing of value to those trying to mug me.

Tomorrow I travel to Togo, where I will be for three weeks. I will probably not be able to post anything here, as there are real connectivity problems in that country right now. The only internet provider, Togo Telecom, currently has only 2MB of bandwidth for the whole of Togo!

So, in the absence of anything particularly interesting to say, this seems like a good opportunity to show a little of my home in Dakar - the courtyard and the kitchen.

Being blonde

Oh my goodness. The day I had dreaded arrived at last – the day my roots needed doing.

I’ve had my hair highlighted blonde since I was 17. In many ways I would love to go natural, as I dislike looking artificial in other ways; I never wear make-up, rarely wear jewellery, and prefer simple clothes. So over the last few years my hairdresser in the UK had listened to the repeated phrase “not too blonde, please”, and gradually – so gradually that you didn’t notice it – my hair was getting darker. I’m not sure that I would ever have ditched the highlights completely, as I was accustomed to being a blonde, and it’s true, blondes are treated differently. But as someone who tans easily, and had reached middle age, I had an intense fear of ending up looking like Donatella Versace. My hairdresser had responded brilliantly – dear Tony, who has done my hair for more than twenty years.

But Tony was no ordinary colourist - he had risen over those twenty years to be head of colour for Vidal Sassoon UK.

So I knew I was in for some disappointment over here. In fact, I nearly chickened out of getting it done at all this time around – although it was three months since it was last done, my hair looked ok, a combination I suppose of the gradually darkening highlights and the effect of the sun on the roots. I could have waited until my conference in the UK in July and gone back to Tony. But I knew there would come a time when I would need to have it done here, and I had spotted a clean, modern place, with a French woman doing hair colour, so decided to bite the bullet.

Oh dear.

I have managed not to cry so far since it was done. I tell myself that the Senegalese don’t understand ‘natural’ anyway. Their women straighten, lengthen, colour, tease, braid and goodness-knows-what-else their hair. They glue on artificial nails, wear exotically coloured robes, layer on the gold jewellery, and totter around on glittery, jewel-encrusted high-heeled shoes. So they will probably think my pale apricot-coloured hair looks great.

I suppose this isn’t a tale of ‘louiseinsenegal’ as it could easily have happened in a suburb of London. But when she asked if I wanted the roots done the same colour, it was easier to just say ‘oui’ than to try to find the French words to explain that I wanted them the same colour as the hair next to them, ie with little silvery-blonde streaks. But even without the language differences she must have known that I didn’t want horizontal blonde stripes above my ears? When she spotted me examining them with a concerned look, she immediately offered to cover them up – but I made the assumption that the stuff she was applying was a darker colour, whereas in fact it was more bleach, so now I have two completely bleached-out areas at my temples, which in a bad light look like bald patches. & goodness knows what it will look like once the roots start to grow through.

To be fair, she knocked $20 off the price as she knew I wasn’t happy, and she told me it will be better next time as now she understands what I want. But I think much of tomorrow will be spent seeking out hats or scarves (or perhaps a wig??), and poor Tony is going to have a hell of a repair job on his hands when I go back to the UK for a conference in July…

To cheer myself up, here's a photo (from Kenya) of another African bird with funny hair.

Kenyans fighting over an orange

On the plane from Nairobi to Djibouti I read in ‘The Standard’ newspaper of 5 April that officials and supporters of the political party ODM-Kenya (the Orange Democratic Movement – Kenya) had stormed the offices of the country’s Electoral Commission demanding the registration of the orange as the party’s symbol. However the ODMPK (the Orange Democratic Movement Party of Kenya) has already registered the symbol and has vowed not to give it up. Their lawyer said ODM-Kenya had many options, and that there were many other fruits ‘like the avocado, guava, apple or lemon’ that ODM-Kenya could use instead.

Honestly, I didn’t make that up. Thank goodness the politicians in Senegal seem to be a little more concerned with the real issues facing their population.

Easter in Djibouti

Djibouti, Africa’s smallest country, sits on the junction of three tectonic plates (the African, Arabian and Somalian), two of which are moving apart at an average rate of 2cm a year, creating new land in the rift between them. Apparently this is the only place on Earth where this process is visible, as all other constructive plate margins are under the oceans. It gives rise to hot springs, frequent small earth tremors and occasional volcanoes, and means that much of the country is covered in bare, inhospitable, volcanic rock.

Additionally the climate is harsh, the southwestern corner of the country forming part of the Danakil Depression – the hottest place on Earth, where summer temperatures can reach 60˚C. What little rain there is tends to fall in short, sharp bursts, so the wadis are filled with a torrent of rushing water and broken stones, demolishing anything in its path including bridges and roads.

We (my tour group) visited the Assal Rift where the plate boundaries meet. It was a harsh landscape of black basaltic rocks and occasional outcrops of white diatomite (formed from the skeletons of microscopic diatoms from an earlier era when the area was under water), with vast jagged lava fields from a recent (1978) volcanic eruption.

Near it was Lac Assal, once a freshwater sea but now completely saturated with salts, the salt and gypsum deposits around the edges making the water look a brilliant turquoise.


We also visited Lac Abbé on the Ethiopian border. This lake, now 160 km², is all that remains of a sea of 6,000 km², now shrinking rapidly from the combined effects of climate change and a dam on the River Awash that feeds it from Ethiopia. The receding waters have left behind several hundred calcareous chimneys, up to 50m high, formed when water from hot springs under the lake (arising from numerous faults in the Earth’s crust) met the cold water of the lake. This left columns of mineral deposits – presumably calcium carbonate as, looked at closely, their colour and texture is exactly like that of limescale in a kettle. Many hot, sulphurous springs are still bubbling up around the chimneys (the name Abbé means ‘rotten’ in the local Afar dialect).

The whole area is quite dangerous, not only from the extreme heat but also because of the ground surface. The layer of sand above the underground reservoir of boiling water is very thin – jump on it and you hear a hollow sound as you feel it shake – and in places it is easy to sink deep into the sand. Only the day before we arrived the army had used a helicopter to winch out a car sunk halfway in, its occupants trapped there for three days as the sand held their doors shut.



We first saw the place in the early evening (when our thermometer had touched 50˚C around 5pm!) and the low angle of the sun cast terrible shadows on and around the chimneys. As it got dark a sandstorm blew in, and as a group we decided this place was the nearest one got to hell on Earth. Oh yes, and when the wind dies down you also get bitten to pieces as the area is infested with mosquitoes…

But the area has a harsh, apocalyptic beauty, which I would highly recommend to those who can bear the physical discomforts.

Normally Lac Abbé is home to numerous flamingos, pelicans, ibises, etc, but strangely they were absent when we visited. However we received compensation in the form of a young member of the largest species of fish on earth – a 3.5m long whale shark, which swam repeatedly around our boat over the course of the two days we spent anchored near Atar Beach in the Gulf of Tadjoura. There must have been a high concentration of plankton around the boat, as the whale shark kept coming to feed. It also seemed quite curious about humans, as it came to investigate us when we got in the water to swim and snorkel around it. It was wonderful to be so close to such a large creature, though I resisted the temptation to touch it.

I also saw turtles, manta rays, and some very aggressive surgeonfish. It would have been a wonderful place to dive.

We ended the tour with a quick trip for a few of us to a sanctuary for cheetahs and other animals rescued from captivity but too tame to be released back into the wild. Two of us were very lucky to be given special treatment, and allowed to stroke one of the cheetahs. It purred, just like a cat.

A visit to my Mum

After our marvellous trip to Lake Nakuru National Park, Mum and I travelled down to the small settlement of Kiembeni, north of Mombasa, where she is now living. I met (and stayed with) the lovely family she lodges with, and also visited the Wema Centre where she has been volunteering since last October. Mum is clearly loved and appreciated by everyone in the community there, and I think has found a place where she can be truly happy.

Wema was set up as a refuge for street girls from Mombasa, but now also caters for orphans and other vulnerable children, some from the most awful backgrounds with parents who are alcoholics and/or prostitutes, living many to a room in homes without proper roofs and beds let alone plumbing or electricity.

Mum absolutely loves her work there (helping to teach classes in the morning and to prepare dinner in the afternoons) and was keen to show me around. I don't really have any experience of children - and in fact tend to avoid them whenever possible - but I have to say it was easy, and rewarding, to interact with the children at Wema. They were clinging on to me, holding my hands, stroking my hair, and begging to be picked up and hugged. So desperate for the love most children take for granted. It was impossible to resist them and very moving.

Although many were still dressed in rags, it is clear that the Centre is doing a great job - giving those children stability, education and love, as well as hopefully a future. I know some of Mum's friends read this blog, so I will use this as an opportunity to tell you that Wema can always do with more money. Mum will never ask you as that is not in her nature, but I know she would gladly pass on donations (cash rather than clothes, etc, as the latter attract import duty). Hope you don't mind me posting this, Mum.

Meetings in Nairobi

Having raved so much in my last post about the IFAN museum in Dakar, I thought it only fair to mention the excellent National Archives in Nairobi. I’m here for meetings, but had a half-day free. It was a difficult choice between the Giraffe Centre (where apparently a raised platform enables you to look giraffes in the face and even feed them), and the Archive Centre (with its new exhibition of traditional African art I had read about on the flight from Dakar), but eventually I settled on the latter and am very glad I did.

For only a $3 entry fee I saw a superb collection of stuff from Kenya, Somalia, Ethiopia, Mali, Nigeria, Ghana and the Congo, amongst others, including an extensive section on traditional African jewellery. I don’t have any particular interest in jewellery, but was fascinated by the history of the beads brought to Africa from India, then Europe, and more recently India again. Apparently a few centuries back there were entire communities in the Czech Republic making beads destined for Kenyan tribes! At different times in history the various tribes in East Africa have used flakes of ostrich egg, antelope toe bones, coral, glass, melted down aluminium cooking pots, brass, amber, shells, and even giraffe tails in the making of jewellery. There was a lot of information in there and also some beautiful exhibits. They have so far missed a trick though in failing to set up a shop selling replicas, which was a good thing for my bank balance!

Then back at my hotel I went out into the shady little garden, but the procession of different birds came more quickly than the speed at which I could identify them in my newly acquired Birds of East Africa guide book. I only went back inside when the birds became outnumbered by the biting mosquitoes. This weekend I am going to Lake Nakuru with my Mum and am hoping that the rainy weather doesn’t encourage all the wildlife to stay in hiding. Hopefully I will get a nice photo of the flamingos to add to this post.

Back from Lake Nakuru (but without my camera cable - will add photos later so please revisit this post after 16 April!), I just had to say what a beautiful place it is. Part of the Rift Valley, it is an alkaline lake surrounded by hills, with a population of some 2.8 million flamingos. I had read that their numbers had recently declined, but that was hard to believe as I looked out at a sea of pink. I was able to get surprisingly close to them - such strange creatures, both elegant and ungainly at the same time - and I was really surprised by the noise they made. Our guide said it was the beating of their wings, but it sounded more like drumming on the water surface.

In addition to the flamingos there were marabou storks, sacred ibis, zebra, giraffe, warthogs, buffalo, impala, waterbuck, ostriches, kudus, two types of gazelle, white rhinos (we saw five, mostly at pretty close quarters), rock hyraxes, a crested eagle and a group of beautiful black and white colobus monkeys. All helped by a cloudless blue sky and a very few other tourists. Worth getting up at 5:30 for, definitely!

Birdsong and antelope masks

Work has been pretty demanding over the past couple of weeks, leaving me no time to post an entry here. In fact it also left me without the time or energy to do anything worth writing about. Everyday life for many people, I guess: get up and eat, go to work, go home, eat, wind down in front of the TV for an hour and go to bed again. Only the time in front of the TV was mostly spent searching through the channels to see which, if any, had any reception, and so was more likely to wind me up than down.

But through all of this I was still reminded of the many differences in my life here. In the early hours of the morning, trying to push work out of my mind and get back to sleep, I could hear the call to prayer from a nearby mosque. The banging of large but not-yet-ripe mangoes hanging from one of my trees being blown against my metal roof in the strong winds we’ve had all week. Then, much later, the persistent and demanding sound of a vehicle horn – the signal to householders or their maids to bring out their rubbish and take it to the rubbish truck making its way very slowly down the main road.

Birdsong, too, is different, from the cheerful ‘chuk chuk twiruwe’ of the common bulbuls, the harsh call of the long-tailed glossy starlings, to the wheezy, plaintive ‘kheeey-errrr’ of the black kites circling overhead – always to be seen over my house as a pair have a nest in a tree around the corner.

The starlings were in a tree outside the IFAN museum in Dakar – a museum of West African tribal art, with some wonderful masks and other wooden sculptures. Some friends reading this will know my love of the elegant chi-wara mask from Mali (a representation of the antelope spirit that taught agriculture to mankind, with associations of harmony between man and woman, and between humans and the earth), and so would understand why I went around the top floor display three times. But in addition to a lovely collection of different styles of chi-wara were some amazing nimba sculptures from Guinea – enormous, heavy and yet graceful representations of female fertility. My scheduled trip to Guinea in late February was called off because of the civil unrest there at the time, and this reminded me of how much I am looking forward to the rearranged trip later this year.