The news reports from the US play a repeating duet: Ebola and ISIS.  The sound bites on Ebola continuously refer to “West Africa.”  Occasionally the worst hit countries are mentioned, like footnotes:  Liberia, Sierra Leone, and Guinea.  So much more convenient for commentators to just say “West Africa” and paint ‘em all with the same brush.  This is lazy and misleading reporting that has only fueled Americans’ traditional xenophobic tendencies.

Other countries were infected. Senegal has had one case.  One.  They are now close to “clean” by WHO standards (no active cases in 2x incubation period:  42 days).  Nigeria, where we feared the disease might bring us to Armageddon, has brought it under control.  It is no longer an issue there.

So why are so many (including U.S Senators) in the States saying that we should ban all flights from West Africa? I am due to return to the US this Friday.  I’m fighting a head cold.  Will I be turned away?  I currently live in a West African country that has had fewer Ebola cases than the US.  Ghana has had zero reported cases.  Over a hundred people were tested, all negative.

My in-laws have been concerned for my safety since I started on this journey. When I was back in Boise for home leave, we took them out for their 70th anniversary. As I hugged my mother-in-law goodbye, she told me in an “enough-of-this-nonsense” tone that there are people in the US who need help.  After I left, Linda had to take her mother to hospital where she spent 6 days recovering from fever, nausea, and diarrhea.  It was salmonella from the restaurant she chose for her anniversary meal. About 400 people per year die from salmonella in the US.  Perhaps a travel ban for chickens?

I stopped travel to Nigeria after my last trip in late July. They were near their peak for active cases.  This was not for fear of catching the disease, but rather a concern for being caught on the wrong side of a border closure.  My colleague left her client in Liberia a mere 18 hours before the border closed.  I did, however travel to Cote d’Ivoire 2 weeks ago, my final visit to an excellent client.

Cote d’Ivoire shares a border with 2 of the worst-hit countries in this epidemic. They have been very serious about procedures since the outset.  At the airport this time, they shot a temperature sensor at my forehead and made me use hand sanitizer as I came off the plane.  On my return, the Ghanaian airport authorities did this and also requested my seat number.

Based on ECOWAS membership, “West Africa” consists of 15 countries. 3 of them are enduring a catastrophic human tragedy because of Ebola.  Calling out all of West Africa does a disservice to the hard work all countries are doing to keep it from entering (or exiting!) their borders.  I’ve made a habit of being very critical of the corrupt ineptitude of governments in this part of the world, but in this instance, they might actually be doing their jobs well.

So do we just ban those from Liberia, Guinea, and Sierra Leone? It’s a huge risk for health workers to go there to help.  Yet they leave their security and their families and go.  Who would possibly go if they knew they couldn’t come home?  How fast and how far would the disease spread with no one to help in the hot zone?  The borders are porous.  People will find a way out and be impossible to monitor.

The effect of this lazy reporting is worse than just bad press. This categorical dismissal of an entire economic region discourages investment and isolates West Africa at a time when it is poised to sustain itself.  It is wrong, just as classifying AIDS as a “gay disease” was wrong.  Ebola is not a “West African disease,” it is a deadly epidemic causing tremendous suffering in Liberia, Sierra Leone, and Guinea.  We’ve seen that it can and will spread beyond those countries.  We must do all we can to help defeat it, because it’s always been “our disease.”

Every morning, at exactly 6AM, sunlight comes crashing through my curtains. No daylight savings time here.  At the equator it’s always the same.  It brings the daily crisis of self-confidence.  Just what am I doing here?  Is it making a difference?  Where’s the coffee?  I try to push away self-doubt until after my second cup.

Our visionary Executive Director, Tralance Addy, fired us up back in January, telling us that we are to help these leaders and companies “transform” – grow many times over to build more and better jobs in West Africa.  Great.  THIS is why I came.   He also said something very terrifying.  “You are all pilots of your own planes.  You decide the flight plan to get there.”  This is a brand new program and a groundbreaking model for stimulating growth.  There’s no recipe.  Best practices come from the outgoing coaches and our colleagues who all got dropped into the same hangar.  Personal initiative takes on a whole new meaning.

During the first of four transformation sessions in the SEED curriculum we are all introduced to new ways of thinking about product design, leadership and supply chains. It is a bucket of cold water dumped down the backs of the unsuspecting CEOs of the cohort.  Some are expecting a comfortable string of training sessions that end with notebooks and a certificate so they can ultimately forget the whole thing.

Tralance dispels all that in the first half hour by zeroing in on the opportunity in front of them. He’s very direct about what is holding these West African entrepreneurs back – whether outside their spheres of influence or inside their heads.  Novice coaches facilitate the breakout sessions to work the problems the Stanford faculty has tuned to their needs.  At the same time, it’s a speed dating marathon.  The company leaders identify their top choices for coaches.  Separately and anonymously, we choose where we think we’ll fit best.  SEED management churns on these choices and matches us up as best they can.

Then what?

The first step is diagnosis. Not so much what is “wrong” with the company, but what do they need to transform and grow by leaps and bounds?  Is it factory expansion?  Marketing strategy?  Financing is popular topic here.  How do we figure it out?  I decided to go with my strong suit:  ignorance.  I ask questions.  Lots of them.  It turns out you have to dig through layers.  Production, marketing, accounting, finance, family – one or all of these things are either holding them back or putting them on the fast track to collapse.  There are a number of things outside of their control:  the ham-handed tactics of the governments, impassable roads, a poor education system, and so on.  You can’t go through these, only around.

The fun begins when you start engaging the whole organization. Pulling the Managing Director into a brainstorming session with production workers is a study in contrasts.  For a coach, the first 30 minutes are excruciatingly uncomfortable.  Everyone wants the big guy to speak, but you’ve told him/her beforehand to keep quiet and let the team bring out the ideas.  I’ve used a number of techniques:  calling on unsuspecting victims, telling stories, grilling the CEO, and yes, “shaking it out.”  As corny as it sounds, getting adults to stand up, shake and wriggle changes the energy in the room.

Ready to brainstorm with the whole organization. Hijinks ensue.

One on one discussions are also a good way to assess where you can help the organization. Again, the beginning is terrifying for both of us.  Fortunately, I’ve found that most people can only endure about 15 minutes of awkwardness before they open up.  Sometimes the floodgates REALLY open and you get coaching overload.  Best to just listen and not go into problem solving mode.  A lot of people hate their boss, and you’re not here to fix that.

As an Ops/R&D guy, product design is my passion and factories are my Disneyland. I’m able to pull on all I’ve learned from years of walking through precise Asian factories to help improve substantially lower tech processes.  It’s a kick to hear that your suggestion helped a manufacturer build a subassembly 14 times faster, with better quality than before you came.  I skipped back to my hotel when I heard that one.

It’s even more gratifying to help in areas beyond my corporate experience. I’ve found myself coaching salesmen in the art of closing deals.  Most of these CEOs are profoundly courageous entrepreneurs with great ideas.  Accounting and market segmentation skills didn’t get them where they are.  But they’ll need them to grow at the rates we’re chasing.  That’s why we’re here.

The transformation visions are all different, just like the businesses and CEOs. But there are some common elements.  Their growth needs to bring more and better jobs to West Africa.  Positive impact on society and public infrastructure are key.  We test our work against those objectives.  We know that 9 or 12 months is not enough time to bring these to fruition.  I’m now transitioning all my clients to brand new coaches.  Later they’ll do the same.  We push our clients beyond the day to day crises of small business.  My favorite role as business coach was named by Tralance:  we are “tormentors.”  We will not let our clients settle for “enough is good enough.”

I love my job.

Flipcharts, markers & tape – the SEED coaching toolkit.          Photo courtesy of Andy Meade

Big rainstorm this morning. A great, huge, the-rainy-season-is-not-going-away-without-a-fight storm.  The next thing is predictable, it’s just a matter of when.  Sure enough, just as I’m getting ready to back up my computer, there is a “lights out,” the local euphemism for a power outage.  A second later the huge diesel generator in the parking lot thunders to life.  But still no lights.  In our apartments, we have to go out into the stairwell and twist a huge switch to the backup generator setting.  Ready to rock.  But…wait for it…  Our outages always come in pairs.  Once the grid is re-established, they turn off the generator, everything shuts down until we flip the switch back.  This morning I forgot this quirk and tried to restart my backup too soon.  Now Windows is off licking its wounds.

When I ask the leaders of my client companies what should be the highest priority for government to stimulate business growth, they say one word: “Power.”  They rank it above education, roads, and employment programs.  Ghana has a huge hydroelectric plant near Lake Volta, one of the largest manmade lakes in the world.  At one time, they made so much power that they sold about 25% to neighboring countries.  Now they cannot keep up with growth.  To run a manufacturing or data center operation, an apartment complex, or even a modern household, you must have a generator.

The generator at Stanford SEED

Size matters. Some of my clients are constrained from adding critical equipment because their generators are too small.  Some can work around it:  when you’re blowing plastic bottles, you turn off the filler.  It gives a different sort of twist to production process analysis.  Since the power is not clean some other strange things happen.  When one of the “legs” of a 3-phase supply is too low, machines can run backwards.  This can be slightly humorous and messy for a bottling machine, evoking images of Lucy and Ethel.  However, it can be downright life-threatening when operating a saw.  And it’s no laughing matter when an expensive computer circuit packs it in from all the abuse.

During one of my business trips to Nigeria, I decided to count the outages one day. I gave up after a dozen.  The wry joke there is that you buy a big generator for your business and use the national grid as backup.   They all run on diesel, which is a significant budget item for most companies.  An internet service provider or anyone whose business must have uninterrupted power doesn’t even bother hooking to the grid.  The generator runs 24×7.  This puts significant pressure on costs and the environment.

Where there is challenge, opportunity blooms. We have visited villages that are not even bothering with the national grid nor diesel-generated electricity.  They are working directly with solar power and are able to keep phones charged and small computers up and online for classrooms.  Perhaps the paucity of power supplied by utilities companies will make solar a “leapfrog technology.”  Dump the diesel, reap the African sun.

The library at Asiafo Amanfro Community School. Solar Charging for the computer lab

I just got back from my fourth visit to Jamestown. I’ve spent most of my time in the fishing village below the cliffs.  There it is an extremely close-knit community.  Everyone seems to know each other and watches out for their neighbors.  So when a gaggle of obronis covered in sunscreen descended on the place with Nikon necklaces, word traveled fast.  Before we had all dismounted from expensive SEED-issued SUVs, one of the main guys was there to meet us and understand our mission.

Nii Quaye – our guide and friend

Nii’s Friend

Nii Quaye is a member of the Fishing Association which, as you might expect, is a force in a fishing village. Bodyguard in tow, he headed over to “greet” us, sort of a “why are you here?” challenge.  Then he recognized Tony Aidoo, our driver.  Tony had escorted former SEED coach Bill Scull on numerous visits to Jamestown.  Bill is also a professional photographer, and cemented his friendship with Nii by printing his best and giving out the pictures upon return.  With so many tourists coming down just to shoot “poverty porn” and leave, Bill’s gifts to these people spoke volumes.  His work is truly remarkable, and his care for the Jamestown denizens comes shining through in his work at http://billinghana.blogspot.com/ .

Nii ushered us around his community, a very active commercial fishing port. The long canoes bearing a variety of phrases praising God Almighty are launching and beaching continuously.  It’s very easy to get caught up in the lines strung out across the beach.  They jump out of the sand without warning as boats put tension on them, making you look like a real idiot if you don’t keep your wits about you.  Watch where you are going and don’t trip – or get in the way.  This is serious business.  Crews of about 8 young men jump on these dugout boats to cast nets and haul in whatever they can catch.  A few meters away you can buy some of the still wriggling haul.  Any time not on the water is spent mending or untangling nets.

All in a row

Maybe not his boat, but he sure acts the part

I followed Bill’s lead and returned the next time with a handful of photos. I hadn’t a clue how to find the people in my pictures.  No matter – Nii was right there, grabbing the photos and dragging me, Linda, and Dodoo through a jumbled maze of storefronts and dwellings to chase these folks down.  Along the way he would direct me to shoot a frame or two of an unsuspecting victim.  Many of these people are just not crazy about being photographed.  I’d pantomime something like asking for permission.  If they demurred, Nii would start yelling at them.  Then he’d turn to me and inform in no uncertain terms that HE is the boss here.  OK, I guess we’re gonna shoot.  Afterwards, he’d show the person the photos and explain that I was going to give something back.  Order is restored and my ink bill goes up.

Breakfast

Three fishermen

The kids in Jamestown are the best. They are running all over the place, curious and innocent.  They have plenty of supervision, though.  Every woman is an “auntie,” and men are “uncles.”  As much as possible in this environment the adults look out for their welfare and help keep them out of trouble.  To the children, white people are living, breathing novelties they just have to touch.  And pose.  I’ll let them finish this part of the story.

I expected bugs when I came to Africa. And they are here.  They’re a lot like our bugs, at least the ones I’ve seen.  But I expected Big Bugs like in National Geographic.  Most of what I’ve seen are smaller.  I mean really small.  The omnipresent mosquitos who have not yet shown an interest in me (thank God) are tiny.  You could fit 3 of them inside one of our Idaho bloodsuckers.  I bought one of those cool electrified tennis racquets from a hawker on the street.  Think light-saber-bug-zapper.  It’s alarming what a thrill I get when I stalk them and hear that satisfying sizzle.

Since there are two men living in this apartment and our housekeepers are both men, one would expect that stuff doesn’t always get cleaned up on time. Sunday evening is the worst, since that’s the day that Prince and Ernest are off.  One of my little luxuries here is not doing dishes.  Linda would probably ask, “And that’s different how…?”  I’m not going near that mess after Kweku and I have both asserted our culinary skills (Mark, our chef, is also off Sundays).  This leads to the scourge of 5B:  Ants!

These guys are tinytinytiny. And very fast.  And crazy.  They’ll run around in circles over and over again with no (apparent) goal.  I’m picturing my daughter’s cat on meth chasing a laser pointer.  They’ll swarm anything, too.  I’m still trying to figure out what’s so attractive to them about my drum, which they temporarily held hostage.  I’m the coffee addict at the SEED Center, so I fire up the brew in the morning on one of those updated Bunn-o-Matic industrial strength coffee makers.  One morning, I found that someone had dropped a bit of cake on the grate where you add water.  When I lifted the cover, several million ants dived down into the reservoir, taking the morsel with them.  The cleaning lady and I looked at each other conspiratorially.  “I won’t tell if you won’t,” was the unspoken oath.  The coffee was quite flavorful that morning.

Cake is their favorite prey. It is our favorite too.  The battle has raged for several months.  Saran wrap hermetically sealed to the plate barely slows them down.  Someone bought a high tech “cake keeper.”  It was child’s play to these 6-legged demons.  We’d been working with our chef to get him to bake American-style cakes.  Apparently Ghanaians like theirs very thick, like brownies without the charm. One night, Mark cooked the best cake I’ve had in years.  By morning, it was captured by a force of thousands.  By this time, it was Ants 15, Humans  0.  Then came The Moat.

Kweku has an extensive design background, some of it in architecture. While I don’t know the exact genesis of this medieval throwback, his hand can be clearly seen.  The cake is set on a pedestal which is then lowered into a large plastic pan.  Water is added to just below the “cake line.”  Voila!  The Moat.  The ants crowd the shoreline shouting all kinds of high-pitched threats and obscenities, but to no avail.  Victory is savored with a cold glass of milk.

The Moat. Primitive. Effective.

I like to go to the 7AM Mass on Sundays.  While this may sound like a slight sacrifice, there’s really a selfish reason behind it.  The next and final Mass of the day is at 9AM.  So while the later service might go on for longer than my knees can take, the early Mass can only last about 2 hours.  I am not proud of this, but as a lifelong Catholic, I’ve learned a few tricks.

I take a taxi to St. Michael’s even though it’s only a half hour walk.  I need those last precious minutes of sleep.  The walk back home is quite nice.  It’s still early and the city hasn’t quite recovered from Saturday night.  The first time I tried it, I immediately took a wrong turn and ended up deep in some back alleys.  I sorted it out, but not without backtracking, which I hate, and surrendering to a taxi, which was humiliating.  I might have just pushed through, but I felt like an intruder, aimlessly wandering around half-finished homes where peoples’ lives are laid bare for any passerby to ogle.

The next time I got it right.  My route takes me past a family whose home is a street corner under a tree.  There’s a guy who sleeps naked at the bus stop.  It always throws me.  I’m not sure what the story is there.  He clearly has clothes, but prefers to sleep in the raw.  In public.  There are two bus stops close together.  Everyone else crowds into the other one, giving him his space and “privacy.”

My walk brings the stark contrasts of Accra into focus.  The climate, the foliage, the birds all croon “paradise.”  Living conditions can often tell a different story.  From the bustling, active area around the barracks church through a few very tough areas and back to my home in Airport Residential Area, I pass by shacks with 3 walls and corrugated metal roofs, then mansions and embassies with electrified razor wire and armed guards.

It’s easy to see how this walking narrative might provide an excuse for some to focus on the failures.  There is no escaping the poverty here.  You move through it every day.  It’s too easy to ignore the inexorable progress.  Lives are improving, albeit slower than they should.  The U.S. so often fails to see this place as the next (and maybe last) area for explosive growth.

West Africa is brimming with opportunity – financial, social, and cultural.  Especially financial.  As inept and corrupt politicians are replaced by the up and coming crop of true public servants, the fog lifts from the path to success.  These people have had to work harder than any I’ve seen.

One of the SEED professors, an American, closed his lecture by noting that as West Africans throw off these government-imposed shackles, “[they] will eat our lunch.”  I had an ominous realization like this many years ago, in a clean, efficient Japanese factory.  Now, another continent, another time, and bigger stakes.  America needs to help serve that meal now, or we will be left in the dust of our own hubris.

I’ve been here a little over 6 months.  Stanford SEED was very generous and bought me a round trip to go home and see family, take care of things, and just decompress.  This was above and beyond the contract I signed, and I was very grateful.  Even though Linda came out to Africa a month or so ago when I needed her most, my apartment is a temporary place.  There’s no place like home.

However this time it’s different.  Boise is where my heart and my love are.  But for now, it’s not where I live.  I’m a tourist in my own neighborhood.  Linda now very capably runs the show.  I have projects, friends to see and lots of things to catch up.  But I have to leave to live somewhere else again.  Bonnie described it well:  it’s like coming back from college for Christmas.  You’re home, but really you’re not.

About 30 hours from there to here.  No long boring travel saga.  I ate, I sat, I whined.  I still hate flying after all these years and miles.  But the flights weren’t nearly as bad as I’d expected and the Senators’ Club in Frankfurt is the best way to kill 8 hours in any airport.  Sean & Mandy met me in San Francisco.

We went to an Italian restaurant on the way from the airport.  I was overwhelmed.  Things were disjointed and, well, foreign.  I can best describe what I felt as “reverse culture shock.”  The restaurant seemed huge.  Everything was in motion all the time.  My face didn’t stand out like a glaring light – in the Bay Area, everyone is a different color.  They hadn’t changed.  My frame of reference had.  Familiar things like drinking fountains would make me flash back to West Africa, where I’ve yet to see one, and wouldn’t use it if I did.

Returning to Ghana was more difficult than I expected.  The comfort of my American life, my wife, family, and old friends made me want to stay.  My commitment, my passion, and my new friends pulled me back to Accra.

My time here is winding down.  October is just a couple of months away and I’ll be saying a lot of difficult goodbyes.  But I’m looking for my next opportunity to work here in West Africa and know that I’ll always have a home in Ghana.

Back in the States, I’d recently resumed going to Mass.  I’d spent some time away to mull the scandals of my Catholic church.  Upon return, I was lucky to find a good parish with a delightfully cynical pastor who really makes me think.  Well worth the price of admission.  I’d hoped I could find something like that in Ghana.

When you get off the airplane in Accra, religion is right out there. Many of the taxicabs have inspirational messages stuck to the back window.  “Nyame Adom” (By the grace of God) or “Nyame Bekyere” (God will provide) are popular expressions.  While it is comforting to see a fellow motorist with such devotion, they still drive like cabbies.

The storefronts also demonstrate the strong devotion of Ghanaians.  “Faithful Is the Lord Cold Store,” and the “Pray Hard Provision Store” are good examples.  The “God Is Great Beauty Salon” implies a lot of faith by some patrons. The “Trust Nobody Cool Spot and Pepper Soup Joint” is there for balance.

In my very limited mastery of Twi (i.e. greetings), I’ve learned that Ghanaians don’t really say “hello.”  Instead, the greeting is “ete sehn?,” or “how are you?  A common reply is “Nyame adom, mehoye,” or “by God’s grace, I’m well.”  The first time a business meeting started with a prayer, it kind of surprised me.  Not wear-it-on-your-sleeve devotion, but ever-present and a cornerstone of this culture.

In my quest for a parish that felt like home, I attended an interdenominational service which set the bar pretty high. This was my first of this type, and it was inspiring.  Music, testimonials and laying on of hands.  Powerful, but I’d grown up with a different structure that sort of defined my religious comfort zone.

My next attempt was a parish that was dominated by an Irish pastor.  My roots are predominantly Irish and I served a sentence in a Catholic boys’ high school run by Irish priests.  So this wasn’t really something I wanted to repeat.  I soon found that I just couldn’t pick the right Masses to avoid this guy.  His sermon (lecture) to first communicants about the evils of not making your bed and to their parents about the perfidy of eating kabobs finally put me over the edge.  Time to go shopping again.

I checked some other places out that didn’t really ring my chimes, but learned a lot.  Catholic Masses in Ghana are much more invigorating than in the States.  People get up at random and dance in the pews to compelling, inspirational, rock-out music.  Communion is relatively disorganized – no orderly pew by pew march.  Folks get up as they like, and the priest keeps going until no one is left.  Offertory (collection) is another story.  Pews are emptied in order, EVERYONE queues and dances up the aisles to put something in the baskets at the front of the church.  Maybe a bit of peer pressure?

In the USA, most Masses I’ve attended take about 1 hour, tops.  Then squirming ensues.  We’ll tolerate a bit longer for Easter and Christmas.  In Ghana, don’t expect to get out in under 2 hours, 3 if there’s a veneration or a lot of parish announcements.  I’m always faced with a dilemma:  do I duck an accounting of last week’s collection proceeds or sit tight knowing that because I stick out, EVERYONE will notice me departing early.  Oh, and never choose the last Mass of the day.  They can go on and on…  In the end I decided that Mass length would not be (much of) a criteria for parish selection.

Finally, I found the military barracks church.  The Reverend Doctor Philip Mensah is just what you’d expect of a priest who is also a Wing Commander.  I’d put him up against any Baptist minister in full swing.  His voice, his command of the congregation, and most important, his message brings it all home.  No kabob lectures here.  He doesn’t mince words about the corrupt aspects of the government either, and charges the parishioners to force the change that’s needed in this country.  My kind of guy.

One of our local SEED staff, a pastor in his own right, pointed out that without strong faith, Ghana would be a “burning inferno.”  It’s an understatement to say that Ghanaians have been kicked in the teeth a lot.  They have put up with everything from massive slave export to colonial brutality, vicious despots, military coups, and a very corrupt government.  I don’t begin to understand their tolerance and patience, although I see it every day.  When I tried to describe their spirit to a fellow American, she concluded, “so they’re happy.”  No, I told her, not always and not enough.  The life for so many folks here is very hard.  But they persevere and grow and have their joys and tragedies, more than their share of tears, lots of laughter and of course, that deep faith.

Back to relentless Lagos.  Today we’re on our way to Ota, in the Ogun State north of Lagos.  My driver, Lawal, is from that area, one of many reasons I insist on working with him.  The other is the fact that he literally rescued me last time at Lagos airport when things started going wrong.  You really need to have someone waiting for you at arrivals, especially at night.  Since taxis aren’t allowed to queue in front of the airport, the drivers walk you out into the parking lot.  The cheerful character touting “taxi?” may just take you for a ride.

On that visit, the hotel shuttle driver went AWOL for a few hours.  Lawal never got the word that he was not the pickup guy.  Very awkward conversation.  But he knew I was in trouble and hung out just in case.  When I cried “uncle,” he got me out of there in a hurry.  A good driver in Lagos is literally a life-saver.  His English is much better than my Yuruba, but communication is still challenging.   Lawal’s standard response is “no problem.”  I take that at face value.

Off to work.  We pull out of the hotel parking lot and I watch the security guards pass a mirror on a stick underneath an incoming car, searching for bombs.  Then they use a chemical sniiffer.   The “boot” and its contents are checked thoroughly.  The gate with electrified razor wire rolls aside and we’re off.

I like Ota.  It is very calming after the ball of nerves that is Lagos.  With that calm comes much greater poverty.  Lawal showed me the street where he lives, and I wonder just who gets the king’s ransom we pay for the driver service.  Clearly not the guy in whose hands I put my life.  I have to pay the bill in cash at the end of the week.  In Nigeria, the largest note you can get is 1000 Naira.  The 2^nd largest economy in Africa runs on $6 bills.  We’ll make our nightly stop at an ATM, like we did last night and will again tomorrow.  I squirrel it away in the hotel safe until it’s time to go.  $300 in grimy bills make pocketing your wallet like folding a phone book.

I’m leaving now.  5 days of intensive work with 4 clients.  They (and their business results) are best to judge how I did.  We addressed critical needs and some tangible progress was made.  The proof will be in the number of jobs we create.  That’s my prize.  I know some jobs have been added and saved, and that’s a good thing.  I also know a company that had to let some workers go to stay afloat.  Small business is a struggle anywhere, especially here.

We developed value propositions, customer segments, hiring plans, worker motivation, corporate goals, and factory improvements.  I coached on a number of topics – a lot of it leadership training.  I really like that part of the job.  Throughout my career at HP, especially in later years, I got more of a kick out of mentoring rising stars than cool assignments.  I didn’t know this job would fit me like a glove.  I guess I’m really lucky in both my careers.

And now… Murtala Muhammad Airport.  Gateway to Lagos, Nigeria and most of West Africa.  Check in was good.  I’d arrived ‘way early since there it’s too easy to lose an hour in Friday traffic.  I glide over to security where the stern lady is holding the metal spoon I carry for measuring various nutritional powders.  The agent has decided that it must go.  Of course, rationality triumphed over common sense and I complained.  She made an ominous cutting motion across her jugular vein.  Fortunately, I resisted the urge to point out that there were a number of pens and pencils in my bag that could do the job better.  When you’re in a hole, stop digging.  Plastic spoon from now on.

Murtala Muhammad is festooned with many beautiful 37” displays, one at each gate and then some.  Every one of them had an identical, sincere welcome message from the Federal Airport Administration of Nigeria (FAAN), but no departure information anywhere.  Really.  No list of planes and gates.  Nothing.  But I really felt welcome.  What more could I ask for?

Well, anything except Arik Air.  The flight I’d booked on Africa World was cancelled 3 days ago.  I was relegated to the “Wings of Nigeria.”   Their concept of time is unparalleled in West Africa.  My best flight so far with them was only 2 hours late.

So hours after the scheduled departure time, I left my 2^nd lounge of the night to find the gate area empty.  Panic rises.  The woman selling cookies nearby has very specific details about the reassignment to the other terminal.  So, the system works – in its own way.  I speed walk over to find a long line at the gate while our baggage is searched again.  Then the attendant waves at some folks walking down the corridor and tells us to “just follow them.”  We each blindly follow the guy in front.  Downstairs, out onto the tarmac, around aircraft, dodging baggage vehicles to the correctly labelled plane.

A dozen lost passengers finally catch up with us, the doors are shut and we’re ready to go.  But first, regulations require an insect spray.  The cheerful voice on the PA tells us that if we’re sensitive we should close our eyes.  It is, after all, a “non-lethal” spray.  Wait, non-lethal?  Isn’t some living thing supposed to die when you spray this stuff?  Will they just sleep it off until the plane returns to Nigeria?  I plan to hyperventilate and hold my breath until blue.

A million and a half miles and I still hate to fly. Turbulence brings me closer to God than the exuberant Masses in Accra.  You’d be amazed at how many childhood prayers you can remember on a roller coaster at 30,000 feet.  As a special bonus we had not one, but two screaming babies.  40 minutes is a very long time.

Immigration at 10PM is a root canal that you all can picture.  My only comment is to the two young ladies with diplomatic passports that shot them to the front of the line:  I heard you talking about coming to Accra just to hang out at Labadi Beach.  Official business, my ass.  That said, bien jouée.  If I’d had one of those babies, I’d be home and unpacked while everyone else was still getting fingerprinted.

36 years ago today, on the best day of my life, I married Linda Louise Geisler. Now she’s come to Ghana for 2 weeks and we’re celebrating. For the past week, I’ve been like a kid getting set for his first date. Just ask our cook, housekeepers and my housemate what it’s been like. They roll their eyes as I try to make it perfect. They may make me pay later. I don’t care, I’ve been looking forward to this since January 12.

Looking west from Coconut Grove

Linda has been the unsung hero in this whole adventure. She’s been on the front line since January, tending to her 90-something parents, shouldering my half of the remote parenting activities (yes, 30-somethings still need it), acting as irrigation association secretary/treasurer, and keeping The System going. She has been my angel, my confidante and my pillar through the tough times here.

Linda is courageous when it comes to DIY. Early in our marriage when we had no money, we would often “repurpose” (“cut a bunch of holes in”) various bits of furniture and apartment structure to suit a new need or desire. I was usually reluctant, although I was the one wielding the jigsaw. Linda chided, “c’mon, what’s the worst that could happen?” Over the years, she’s picked up a lot of techniques due to my frequent business travel. She’s learned the mundane (recharging car batteries), the arcane (deciphering IKEA instructions to build wall units), and now the insane… The Irrigation System from Hell.

On departure day, all flights from Boise to Chicago were cancelled. Weather in the Windy City, and everything stops in the City of Trees. So the next day, she was up and at ‘em. Minutes before the cab is to arrive, sprinklers don’t come on. She’s been slaving over this Rube Goldberg contraption for 3 months and finally got it dialed in.  Unbeknownst to her, the day before her departure, the neighbor decided to grind up a stump next to the pump, destroying it. A stump grinder is a scary machine – picture a 5-foot chainsaw piloted by a guy behind a thick shield. This one was quite effective.

Coconut Grove has a crocodile pen and a tilapia pool. I think they are related…

Linda swallowed that defeat and arrived on time a day late. We’re in Elmina at a romantic spot named Coconut Grove. She has been a good sport during the forced march through Kakum National Park and the Canopy Walk (see previous post). However, I walked behind so she wouldn’t throw me over the side.

This has been the best anniversary ever for me. I’ve missed her terribly, and try to avoid thinking about the fact that in 2 weeks she’ll be gone. Then I’ll start looking forward to the next time…

Linda’s here. I’m here. It must be home.