Some Amusing Anecdotes from Togo and Ghana

Talk about the occasional culture clash :) ....

The Phone Conversation

At the end of July, I went on a short vacation to Ghana. I returned to Togo only to realize that I’d left my beloved headlamp at New Haven Hotel in Accra. The following real conversation is the one I had (verbatim) with the desk clerk(s) when I called the hotel to see if they’d found it. (Note: The official language of Ghana is English, but with the different accents and terms for things, miscommunications occur frequently)

Clerk: Good evening. You have reached New Haven Hotel. How may I help you?
Me: Yes, hello. My name is Kristina. I was a guest in your hotel last night. I stayed in room #2, and I believe I left my flashlight on the bed. I’m calling to see if it was found.
Clerk: Ok well what day do you want a reservation for?
Me: No – I don’t want a reservation. I was just there – last night.
Clerk: Ok well you can’t make a reservation for last night.
Me: Yes, I know that – Look, I don’t want a reservation. I stayed there. Last night. In room #2…
Clerk: Yes
Me: …And I left my flashlight on the bed.
Clerk: Yes yes yes.
Me: Was it found?
Clerk: Yes yes yes.
Me: ….So you have it?
(silence on the other line)
Me: Are you following me?
Clerk: No, I don’t think I am.
Me: (sigh) Ok look…
Clerk: Hold on, I’m going to transfer you to someone else.
Me: Ok.
(babbling in local language on the other line. A different man picks up the phone)
Clerk #2: Good evening. This is New Haven Hotel. How may I assist you?
Me: Hello. I was a guest, last night – Sunday night – in your hotel. I stayed in room #2 and I left my flashlight there. I want to know if you found it.
Clerk #2: So you want a reservation for Sunday.
Me: No – I DON’T want a reservation. I lost my flashlight at your hotel and I’m trying to locate it.
Clerk #2: You lost your flash …?
Me: FLASHLIGHT
Clerk #2: Flash …. Light?
Me: Yes – you know – a light, you use – at night – when it’s dark?
Clerk #2: Flashlight?
Me: Look – it’s black. Did someone find something BLACK on the bed in room #2 this morning when they cleaned the room?
Clerk #2: Ok you are going to have to call back tomorrow.
Me: Well can’t someone just go look in the room right now?
Clerk #2: That man isn’t here right now.
Me: What man?
Clerk #2: The man who goes in the room.
Me: Well did the cleaning man turn anything in this morning?
Clerk #2: That’s who I’m talking about – He isn’t here right now. You will have to call back tomorrow.
Me: (sigh) Ok, what time?
Clerk #2: Any time.
Me: Ok – I’m going to call back tomorrow.
Clerk #2: Yes, have a good evening. And thank you for calling New Haven Hotel.

The punchline is: Another 2 conversations (and a couple mille of phone credit) later, I discovered that they miraculously did find my headlamp after all – at which point an almost equally absurd and repetitive conversation ensued in my effort to convey to them that I wanted them to hold it at the front desk until the next PCV who was going to stay there could retrieve it for me. Special Thanks to Larissa, a fellow PCV, for ultimately recovering it.



The Post Office

My personal post box is in the post office of a village 15 km north of my village in Togo. It takes me 45 minutes to get there on bike. There are only 2 personnel who work there; we know each other very well. They're actually quite the amusing pair. In addition to knowing me (because I, in addition to Danielle [my closest PCV neighbor)], receive the most mail out of any of their clients), they know that I have to bike a ways in order to even come and check my mail (mail arrives on Tuesdays and Fridays so I'll often bike all the way up at the end of the week just to check). Nevertheless, the following true anecdote demonstrates how their need for routine necessarily overrides their ability to extend any customer service that accomodates that fact.

I arrive on bike at 7:30AM. The post office has just opened. I check my post box but nothing is inside. I go inside to double check because sometimes they do not get the mail into the boxes in a timely fashion and it's still at the front desk.

me: Marius, Eugene, Bonjour!
M&E: Bonjour! Bon Arrivee (Welcome)!
me: Et le travail? (How is your work?)
M&E: Ca va. Et la maison? (It's fine - and your house?)
(I approach the front desk)
me: Oh ca va. Hey so no mail came for me or Danielle yesterday?
E: Oh, no. None came. (He goes back to shuffling through papers)
me: (disappointed) Oh... Ok. (I'm about to turn away when suddenly I notice a flat rate box with the familiar American eagle on it sitting on the floor against the wall behind the desk) Wait - what about that box?
E: (turns around) Oh ... yeah (laughs awkwardly and then turns back to his papers)
I stand there for a couple seconds, confused about exactly what's going on.
me: So.... can I have it?
E: (looks up surprised) Oh - you want it now?
me: Well ... if I could, yes. See, I did only bike up here just to get the mail...
E: (looks a little stressed) Well, you see, we just opened.
me: I know...
E: It's just that we have things we need to do first. Do you mind waiting a little while?
me: Oh. No, I'm not in a rush I guess. I can wait.
I go and sit down on a bench against the wall. Eugene and Marius now pick up some towels and beginning dusting down all the tables and folders. They pull out pens and line them up on the table. They rearrange chairs and open the side door to let some air in. They sweep the floor.

20 minutes later they motion me over, and then hand me my package over the front desk.



The Worst Bush Taxi Ride Ever

I am in the front passenger seat of a 5-placer bush taxi. I am the only one in the car. I was transferred to the car after the original driver who was going to take me to my final destination decided not to since he couldn’t find any other passengers who were going that far. So I was swindled into making the (once in a lifetime – never again) mistake of paying the full fare (to my final destination) so that the first chauffeur could figure out how to split the earnings with this new driver [1]. “There’s no one in the car,” I remarked apprehensively when I was moving my bags. The new driver waved the remark off saying “Oh – on va partir, toute de suite, toute de suite!”[2] I know that’s what they all say, but I’m hoping it’s true in this case since it’s market day in this particular village and there are a lot of people milling around [3].

No time exaggeration: 2 HOURS later, I am still sitting by myself in the stationary car. For the first hour of this time period, the driver had disappeared. Irked, I had finally climbed out of the car and spotted him across the street eating beans and garri [4]. He happened to look up and saw me glaring, at which point he wolfed the rest of his meal down, rushed over, and motioned for me to get back in the car, saying we were going to leave. “You weren’t even looking for passengers!” I scolded. “Yes I was,” he lied. “Get back in the car – I’ll get one more person and then we’ll leave.” He disappeared into the marché [5] again.

Now he has reappeared. He is standing in front of the car, yelling at a vendor of silly bumper stickers and car trinkets because he just bought a plastic butterfly for a ridiculous 400 cFa, which he had the vendor put on the hood of his car, but is now enraged because the vendor didn’t put it on symmetrically enough for his tastes [6]. He has now removed the antenna and is using it as a measuring device to prove that the plastic thing is not precisely in the middle of the hood. The driver is obviously ticked off enough from the argument, but I can tell he’s avoiding my eyes, which are emitting the Glare of Death through the windowshield as I’m sitting on the other side with my arms crossed.

I can’t take it anymore. I get out of the car and grab my bags, which – when the driver sees – makes him all flustered. He drops his argument and motions with his hands for me to get back in the car, saying again that we’re going to leave. I tell him it’s too late, I’ve already been waiting 2 hours, and I want my money back – I’m going to look for another car. He says we’re leaving. I repeat my previous statement in a louder voice. He says to just give him 5 more minutes to look for one more passenger. I yell my repeated statement, now drawing attention which embarrasses him. He approaches me and hushes me saying, ok ok – if I just give him 25 cFa, we can go. I tell him I’m not giving him any more money and besides what does he need it for? He says he doesn’t have any more money and he just wants to buy a cigarette and then we can go. “You know why you don’t have any more money?” I scold in a loud voice, “It’s because you just wasted your money on a pink piece of plastic! I mean – what is that anyways?” I wave at the butterfly on the hood, exasperated. He hushes me, grabs my bags, throws them in the car, swears we’re leaving, guides me back into the seat, and then gets into the driver’s seat – at which point he pulls out and lights a cigarette as he starts the ignition. I didn’t even waste my breath asking why he dared asking me for 25 cFa when he already had a cigarette; I’m just glad we’re finally leaving.

Ten minutes later we pull over to a house on the side of the road because he says he’s arranged to pick up someone. He gets out of the car and then comes back solo 15 minutes later. “He’s not coming?” I inquire, to which the driver responds saying he’s just not ready yet and since I’m so pressée-ed [7], he’s just going to take me ahead first. We get on our way and start mulling over the meaning of his last statement, especially since I’ve become aware that he’s not appearing to look for other passengers. “You know,” I say very calmly, “I’ve already paid.” “I know,” he says. A couple seconds go by. “Meaning,” I further clarify, just to be on the safe side, “I’m not paying you anymore.” Sure enough – his next statement verified exactly what I’d been afraid of. “Well,” he said, “this is like you’ve loué-ed the car now.” [8]

That was the last straw. I went off on the tirade of a lifetime. I started berating this guy at the top of my lungs about how he was a cheat, how he’d wasted my time, and on and on and on. In the seconds I’d pause for air, he’d interject, saying that well, maybe I could at least cadeau him a couple loaves of bread … and some money [9].

“NO CADEAU!” I yell. And now I’m at the point where I’m threatening him with the lie that if he asks me one more time for any kind of extra compensation, I’m going to bring him to the chief of gendarmes (police) in our destination village (who I claim to know personally) and I’m going to have him imprisoned. The driver totally falls for it and waves his hands, saying that isn’t necessary [10]. I finally finish my diatribe and revert to glaring out the window. I'm still fuming, but I'm trying to calm down. In my head, I’m daring him to say one more thing.

He does. After about 5 minutes of silence, I can see him looking at me out of the corner of my eye. He asks, calmly but completely seriously, “Are you mad?”[11]

My head turns slowly towards him in disbelief that he’s really asking me this question. My eyes meet his and he smiles, then starts wagging his finger at me as if he’s just thought up the best idea in the world. “You know,” he says, “You and I should make babies together.” [12]

Cultural explanations
[1] The reason you never do this is because if something happens (such as the car breaks down or you’re not leaving quickly enough), the driver already has your money, and you’re obligated to stay with him – unless you can succeed in getting your money back from him, which is very difficult to do. You always pay only after arriving at your final destination.
[2] Translation: “We’re going to leave – right away, right away!”
[3] A bush taxi will never (or I should say, rarely) go on its way until the car is filled to capacity (meaning 7-8 people in a 5 passenger vehicle). This is why, when you look for bush taxis, it’s better to get in one that already has people in it. Otherwise, you may be waiting for a very long time.
[4] garri is manioch powder. Delicious with beans.
[5] marché is French for market. Every village has a designated market day once a week (or more than once a week if it’s a big city).
[6] The Togolese LOVE car trinkets. Every bush taxi will be ornate with beads or dirty stuffed animals hanging from the broken rearview mirrors, flags from random countries – especially the U.S. flag since they love America, bumper stickers with random euphemisms written on them, overpowerful car fresheners, you name it. They spend a ridiculous amount of money on these things – but then complain about how they have no money.
[7] To be pressé –ed is a term Peace Corps volunteers use, mixing the French and English language, meaning: to be in a rush.
[8] Togolese taxi drivers will often try to con foreigners into louer-ing, or renting, a car. This means that you pay for every empty seat in addition to your own. The advantage is that you can leave right away and don’t have to wait around for other passengers. A disadvantage is that sometimes you’ll agree to louer ahead of time, but then the driver will pick up other people and allow them to occupy the extra seats (which you’ve agreed to pay for) but then still demand that you pay the full fare at the end – which always results in a huge argument. The other thing is, drivers will often try to trick you into it; they’ll take you to your destination and then say that since they had extra seats, you should pay for those too. It’s absolutely absurd, but they’ll fight with you over it and you have to end up yelling to get your way. If you're too meek, they will absolutely take advantage of you (I had to learn to yell at taxi drivers when I came here - it was very difficult for me to do at the beginning, which meant I got cheated a lot at first). This is why you always have to be clear that you’re paying for your seat alone.
[9] To cadeau someone something means to give them a gift. The Togolese make really funny logic out of it. They’ll say that you don’t have to pay, but you should cadeau them something of equivalent value. They are never ashamed to ask for cadeaus.
[10] In this case I'm slightly ashamed to say that I took advantage of a stereotype; the Togolese believe that white people are incredibly powerful and have very high contacts. For example, people here believe that, since I come from America, I know Obama personally. In this particular case, I was lying to scare him, and he found it completely believable.
[11] The thing about taxi drivers is that arguing and yelling is their lifestyle. They do it without ever really taking it seriously. It’s all a game. They’ll yell and scream at someone one day and then be laughing and joking with them the next. It is for this reason that they won’t be able to tell when we’re actually mad because they think we’re just going along with how things just are.
[12] Welcome to my life, and to the life of every other female foreigner around here. You won’t know someone for 5 minutes and they’ll already be talking about marrying you and having babies with you. They’re not always completely serious, but it gets really old, really fast.