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.

SEED has a fleet of drivers and several very nice cars.  Since Accra traffic is rather difficult to negotiate, they have sternly requested that we not drive ourselves anywhere, especially on company business. I doubt I could do it here anyway.  Our drivers are masterful.  Negotiating an intersection is an artistic blend of forcefulness and courtesy that I will never understand.  Everyone bunches up in the intersection until someone yields or waves another in.  Someone has the right away, but I haven’t completely figured out who has it when.  Lane divisions are merely a suggestion, and the nicer your car is, the more you’ll get squeezed.  Tro-tros are the worst.  These battle-scarred vans move where they want to, and as their quarter panels will indicate, it often requires a bit of force.

Your average, every day tro-tro (public bus). Trading paint and sheet metal is all in a day’s work

Accra has all the standard  challenges of city streets, and a few more, like the gutters.  These are nicely tiled cement troughs about a foot wide by two feet deep.  If you trip into one, your tibia is toast.  If your car does this, an axle meets the same fate.  Pedestrians are also quite brave, although I cannot understand why.  They move in, out, and around obstructions, with apparent  trust that drivers will make allowance.  The hawkers are even more fearless, completing several negotiation and sales transactions within one cycle of a stoplight.

Some friends I made next to their car-eating gutter

Red light. Time to sell!

I am slowly appreciating what the workday is like for our drivers.  Hours of boredom (waiting for us) punctuated by minutes of anxiety (bringing us safely to our destinations on time).  Like any outdoor activity in Accra, it is a sweltering way to make a living.  Kicked back in your car with the engine running and A/C on is just not acceptable – not at these fuel prices.  Find a hunk of shade and settle in for the long haul.  Our meetings are not short.  They don’t often start on time and anything substantive like visioning or supply chain modeling will consume a whole day.  Our guys are stoic and cheerfully patient throughout.

These gentlemen are also my unofficial Twi language instructors.  I only wish they had a better student.  Months into this thing and I’m still fumbling with opening formalities.  I’m discovering that this is a difficult age to learn a language.  Those nice, pliable synapses have hardened to the point where neural rewiring is useless.  I have to plunge right in and blurt something out.  Whether it’s a perfectly intoned “how are your wife and children?” or “did I light your cat on fire?” I’d never know.  Ghanaians always chuckle when this obroni says anything in their native language.

Tony Aidoo – driver extraordinaire

Dodoo is my main Twi instructor. He’s very good. It’s not his fault I’m so bad

Annan always has a smile. Or he finds my Twi very humorous.

Lagos again. I’m halfway through a longish stint here.  I’m getting to like Nigeria more and more.  It is relentless.  It’s as different from the calm of Accra as a beehive is to a ladybug.   With the continent’s largest economy, it’s clear they are going somewhere.  The drive from Victoria Island north makes it clear that some folks will get “there” a lot faster than others.  And some are trying to take shortcuts.

When you are traveling on the road at night, you’ll run into numerous police checkpoints.  It’s so reassuring to know that, in the land of Boko Haram, Nigeria’s finest are on the job and vigilant for threats.  Your driver sits up straight, slows to a stop and turns on the dome light.  The officer and his rifle approach.  A window goes down and a few words in Ebu or Yuruba are exchanged.  The policeman leans in, sees my white face and breaks into a grin.  He wishes me a happy weekend!  What a friendly place!

Except it’s Wednesday.

“Happy Weekend” is not a wish.  It’s a request.  They are not hoping I have a wonderful Saturday.  They would, however, appreciate it if I made THEIR weekend more enjoyable through on the spot donations.  The first time it happened, I was ignorant.  I thanked him and wished him the same, and said goodbye.  He looked confused.  We drove on.  A block or so down the road, my driver decoded that for me.  Since then, I’ve used ignorance as my strategy in these situations.  I’m sure there’s going to be a point where it won’t work so well.  That said, the Foreign Corrupt Practices Act does not allow for paying bribes, so I’ll have to find another tactic.

My challenge is nothing compared to what companies face.  Contracts are sometimes dependent on making a big, happy weekend for some minor official.  Regulations ebb and flow depending on which party is in power.  There is promise, however.  One of the strongest criteria for admission into the Stanford’s SEED program is that the company and its leaders display a strong set of ethical values.  These folks refuse to play the game, and they shall reshape Africa.

Aftermath of “land guards’” rampage. Photo edited to remove image of dead person. Photo courtesy of GraphicOnline

My friend’s brother-in-law was shot a few days ago.  I was with him when he got the call.  He was quite shaken, so I asked if I could go with him to the hospital.  Even though I’m not allowed to drive, I could at least be a distraction.  It worked.  On the way, he shared his thoughts on this situation.

While most of the land sales in Ghana are on the up and up, there is a very dark side.  Often people will sell land that doesn’t clearly belong to them.  These may be criminal opportunists looking to make a buck or in some cases, an honest family member who feels they have a legitimate claim to the property.  Some transfer of property ownership is familial here in Ghana, so a distant cousin may assert a claim, or just sell it outright.  Some plots have been sold up to 5 times or more.  Either way, the new “owner” feels the land is theirs.  Title searches are available, but not always used, which gives scammers an opening.  Real estate development is a tough and litigious business here.

The new person may sometimes hire “land guards.”  These are security people of unknown experience or training who are handed guns, a little money and told to keep people away.  In this case, two people were wounded and beaten, and one was killed.  My friend’s brother-in-law is recuperating.  They’d been harassed for a long time by these people and an injunction was in place.  The police seemed to be busy every time the injunction was violated…

The problem is well known.  I had been puzzled by the many fences with “This property is not for sale,” or “Property of… Permit 409” spray-painted on them.  Now it makes sense.  It’s one way for the rightful owner to warn people about the possibility of being scammed.  Sometimes it’s not enough.  There are cases of squatters moving onto property which has been uninhabited for some period.  The owner may have a nice house, but went to live in some other country for a few months.  When they return and try to evict these people, they run into difficulty.  Some owners have been brought to court by the squatters (and an opportunistic lawyer) to try to prevent it.  The judges not only agree to hear the cases, but there have been cases where the landowner has been forced to pay to get them to go away.  “Rule of law” is a bit murky in some ways here.

In theory, this law should keep people from trying to steal your land. In practice, not so much.

A warning – don’t buy this land from anyone!

If I buy another house, I’ll be real nice to the title insurance people.

Today I feel small and ineffectual. There is so much pain in the world, much of it in the countries where I work. Young girls were kidnapped, and have been sold for the equivalent of 2 hours of minimum wage work in the USA. A brand new country is tearing itself apart. Several governments are so corrupt that Satan would be impressed. And I come here to help build jobs? Maybe if I’m really good at what I do, a hundred more people might be employed next year. A few hundred more may have better jobs. It feels so small.

I watched the Ghana government channel. There was a self-congratulatory documentary on the installation of tank toilets at a cinder block school in Tema, gutter ditches in Accra, and so on. This from a government that taxes everything in sight and has set its eyes on businesses as the goose that keeps laying their golden eggs. The same government that steals from the poorest of the poor, refuses to arrest known murderers, and passes laws it won’t ever enforce as a sop to the populace. They pay lip service to the tragedies that sit by the roadside, or in shanty towns where corrugated roofs stretch to the horizon. Where children hawk phone cards instead of attending a school they can’t afford, ensuring that yet another generation will struggle harder to get up.

As a Ghanaian friend said, as I was fretting over something inconsequential: “The day will still end.”

So today’s a new day. Some has changed, but not enough. I’ve changed, as I do every day here. It is clear that solutions are a long time coming, and that mine is a small part. In the bible I read, “but now faith, hope, love, abide these three; but the greatest of these is love.” I knew that I really had to work on the faith and love part. I didn’t expect that hope would be so difficult.

For now, I’ll have to hope like that little boy tossing starfish back into the ocean. Helping one person may not seem like much, except to that person.

Afterword:

I’ve been in a period of what I can best describe as culture fatigue. It comes well after culture shock. It’s when you realize that of course it will take 45 minutes to get your meal, but you just don’t want to deal with that. You forgot to put on your bug juice to go out for an evening, and have to traipse back upstairs to do it. It also comes from looking around and wondering if you’re really making a difference. Read about that in another self-pitying blog entry. Not today, thank you.

Today I’m sitting in my client’s office waiting for him to arrive. I know he’ll be late(r), and that’s ok. He’s probably late because of the rain. It’s one of those nice, warm, steady African rains, where the tropical green is even more verdant, and dirt roads turn a beautiful red and brown as they become even more impassable. The door is open and the girl who signs us in is passing the time singing hymns – “How Great Thou Art” and “Ode to Joy” – a capella. She knows I’m listening and doesn’t care. And she’s good.

This is Ghana.

Another day, another West African country.  This time, it’s Cote d’Ivoire.  One of my clients is a manufacturing company here.  They are from the last cohort, but due to a lot of missed schedules, visa hassles and transformation session priorities, I’m only just getting out here for my introductory session with them.  I’m sorry it took so long, because I’ve fallen in love with this place.  I’d angled for a Francophone country and lucked out.

Abidjan skyline from my hotel room window

Ivoirians share the same welcoming spirit I’ve enjoyed everywhere in Africa.  Traffic is better than Accra and (obviously) Lagos.  The spirit is even more laid back than Ghana, but the service I encountered is quite good.  The weather is very mild, although this is relative.  My prior lessons in sweating came in handy here.  The heart of Abidjan is quite modern and the food is excellent.  I guess that’s one good thing the French colonial masters left behind.  The other is their language

Termite mound – nature’s sawmill

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Finally, my years of French classes and living in Tours have paid off.  I am actually able to ask directions to the bathroom and understand the response!  No telling what I’ll find there, but mission accomplished.  Actually, I’ve done a bit better than that.  When I first land in a Francophone country, it takes about a day for me to get up and really rolling.  This is good, because on the second day I had to interview all of the staff, none of whom spoke English.  Since the CEO didn’t have to do the translating, people could really open up to me in a one on one setting.  It was rewarding to find that I could get a good feel for the whole company – from technical operations to human relations.

Spy for the competitors?

Unfortunately, the police shakedowns occur here as well. The gentleman who gave me a ride to the airport was the target this time.  We paused outside departures to unload my bags – which required pulling the key from the ignition.  Several gendarmes with AK-47s descended on us immediately, shouting about stopping there.  Fair enough, pull out.  We’d been stopped for about 15 seconds.  Well, the car was old and reluctant to start.  I finally got out and pushed, and we got a successful bump start.  Total elapsed time:  about 2 minutes, and the vehicle was never unattended.

Apparently this was not good enough.  The weekend was approaching and these guys needed money for partying.  They waved us over to the curb further on and before you knew it, slapped a boot on the back and issued a “ticket” for about $20 – a steep sum for folks here.  Maybe even a day’s pay for this fellow.  Of course, the big guns and uniforms apparently gave these cops the “right” to shake someone down like this.  Egregious, but a fact of life here.  Corruption is rampant at all levels.  The honest people (i.e. the vast majority) address this by doing anything from paying up, to pretending not to understand, to getting up in the faces of those abusing power.  Unfortunately, there’s no arguing with a boot.

Once again, the SEED coaches went on the road.  This time we were off to Kumasi, the former capital of Ghana.  Melissa, our wonderful coach wrangler, runs a hotel there.  It is the second in the chain of Miklin Hotels, named after Mike and Linda, her parents.  All three are charming hosts. It’s a great example of successful family businesses here in West Africa.  We saw a lot more examples in our 2 ½ days there.

We went to a place called Suame Magazine.  I’d pictured reporters, photographers – hey, we’d be famous in Ghana!  Well, not so much.  Or at least not there.  I think “Magazine” is closer to the French word “magasin,” or “store.”  This place is the world’s largest auto parts swap meet.  It stretches over 63 acres and is row after serpentine row of market stalls.  Pick a part, any part.  It is there, or made there by the very talented artisans.  I was amazed at what they were able to do with so much scrap metal and recycled parts.  They do not beat plowshares into swords.  They beat them into grinders and palm kernel crackers and more auto parts.  Unusable parts are melted in locally made furnaces and recast in any number of precision forms.  The work is hot:  90 degrees and 70% humidity next to a 3000 degree cooker.  Be warned however, if you don’t know exactly where you’re going, you’ll have better luck finding your way through a 63 acre cornfield maze.

Furnace for melting scrap metal poured into grinder wheel molds.

Bridge Over Troubling Waters: Kweku navigating the “pipe bridge” over a sort of creek at Suame Magazine

Maize grinder fashioned from recycled metal machined onsite.

Grinder wheels in molds. These are cast from recycled/smelted metal

Leaf springs and 5th wheels at Suame Magazine. I’ve never seen so many in one place.

Suame developed as an ad hoc assemblage of related businesses – some complementary, some competing.  The Suame Magazine Industrial Development Organization is working with the cluster of approximately 12,000 different stores to provide structure and bring skills forward into higher technology pursuits.  Cars that required manual tuneups and carburetor rebuilds now require new onboard computers and sensors to roll again.  They are working with this vast pool of talent to address the aftermarket needs for today’s high tech products.

Our newest coach, Terry Duryea in Suame Magazine. We sure can use the help. So yes, Terry, you are God’s gift.

The next “business tour” was to Bonwire (pronounced “Bonwree”) to buy Kente cloth.  Check it out on the Google Machine, there are lots of references.  It is a very special cloth, peculiar not only to Ghana, but Kumasi in particular.  We were asked to play the role of customer.  Well, actually, I was asked by my sister and daughter.  It is woven locally and you really need to bargain for this expensive product.

Kente weaver at Bonwire. The warp is extended about 20 feet out, stretched and held down by stones.

Around the storefronts it is chaotic.  Since Bonwire is frequented by tourists, the sellers and wannabes descend on you quickly.  They are persistent and somewhat aggressive.  It is easy to get freaked out in this situation.  However, there’s not a lot of real danger here, and joking around with them dispels tension.  But not persistence.  They are trying to make a living.  This technique works for them a lot of the time.  Since it was obvious that we ALL came to buy, we attracted a lot of attention.  Bonnie and Kathleen will be delighted to know that Melissa did the negotiating for me, and did it very well.  You will both look lovely.

Here’s a link to a video of the gentleman weaving:  http://youtu.be/G0mPfwy6doY

Our host Mike Nsiah is friends with Otumfuo Osei Tutu II.  He is Asantehene (King of the Ashanti) and is revered by all in this huge tribe and highly respected by everyone in West Africa.  In his way, he is more influential than the President of Ghana.  We were invited as guests to Awukudai, a festival which occurs at about 4 month intervals.  Here’s where I pinch myself.  I never shook hands with a king before.  We were solemnly introduced and presented to him and the multitudes as part of the Stanford University SEED program, right after several kings from Nigeria but before the opposition candidate for President of Ghana.  Otumfuo (“His Highness”) then came back around to greet us more personally after the festivities.  He has taken a great interest in the SEED program and what we’re trying to accomplish in his country.  It’s great to have a supporter like him.

Otumfuo Osei Tutu II at Awukudai. To his right is the gentleman who carries his water.

Preparing for Otumfuo at Awukudai, Kumasi

Awaiting Otumfuo at Awukudai – Chiefs of Niger State, Nigeria

Being presented to Otumfuo Osei Tutu II

Queen mother Nana and me

The coaches and friends at Awukudai: Melissa Nsiah, Terry Duryea, Mike Nsiah, Linda Nsiah, Clinton Etheridge, Robert Mayberry, Corinne Augustine, me, Alan – Kweku’s cousin

When I was a kid, I never even dreamed of these experiences.  My job at HP took me all over the world.  I’d find myself riding around Bangkok in a tuk-tuk (jumping out of a plane without a parachute is safer), being a guest of “Cornbread” Maxwell at a Celtics game, or bathing in a mountain resort in Japan while negotiating quality issues with a strategic partner.  These are times when I think I’m a stunt double for someone else’s life.  And I wake up every day startled that I’m in Africa doing this work.

Field trip time again.  Since all of us have client companies somewhere in Nigeria, all the coaches plus our wrangler/mom, Melissa, packed up and headed  to Lagos.  When our Ghanaian friends heard this, their responses were all the same:  “Oh, you’re going to Lagos!”  Eye roll, nervous laughter, conspiratorial nod of the head.  After about the 10^th time, it got a little unnerving.

A simple yet effective alternative to an electric fence

I thoroughly enjoyed Lagos and the hospitality of our Nigerian hosts.  Yes, it’s a big city, with big city problems and attractions.  It has high unemployment and poverty like a lot of places in West Africa.   Nigerians are (by their own admission) more forceful than Ghanaians, who agree with that assessment.   The feel is different – bustling, moving fast.  Lagos’ population is nearly the same as all of Ghana.  It’s spread over a large area of mainland and islands.

Stars and Stripes Forever – Clinton and friend at Lekki Market

We stayed in a hotel on Victoria Island.  It sports some of the most expensive real estate in the world.  The juxtaposition with parts of the mainland is jarring.  Imported tile, corrugated metal or thatched roof?  Private school or no school?

Lagos – Contrasts

Traffic is the common denominator.  Lagos is now #1 on my list of places in the world where I don’t want to drive.  Or even open my eyes while on the road.  Picture downtown Boston without rules.  OK… too easy.  Lots of drivers in many places in the world make 3 lanes from 2.  In Lagos they turn 2 into 5.  Cruising at about 40 mph down a main highway, I heard thumps.  No, it wasn’t  a bad tire.  We were trading paint with cars around us.  NASCAR in Africa!  The driver thought nothing of it.  But when someone ahead slowed down, he sure got upset.  Abuja (capital city in the north) is beautiful, with similar congestion.

The Grand Mosque in Abuja

We had the opportunity to talk to government leaders in the capital.  There is a wide gulf between their view of the economic situation and that of business people.  The former were bullish about everything.  New programs are the solution.  The folks we talked to were very serious, and may make a difference some day.  The business leaders were more realistic and cynical.  They saw a public sector that “lost” $20B, then immediately fired the official who sought to investigate.  The shiny object called oil made them lose sight of Nigeria’s strength as one of the world’s top agricultural exporters.  Now they can barely feed themselves.  One might ask, just where is that oil wealth is going?  The GDP growth rate is phenomenal, but that money stops somewhere.  A short drive down the street makes it painfully clear where that money is NOT going.

A suburb of Lagos