[Obroni Journalism]

The Ghana Video

2009-02-17T23:52:00.000-08:00

This was the final project Molly and I completed. I think it does a pretty good job capturing the program.

Okpongolo house tour

2008-08-12T10:30:00.000-07:00

THIS IS SOMETHING I've been meaning to get online since we first arrived in Ghana, but unfortunately the internet is too slow there. Today, I let the video process for several hours while Molly and I toured Paris. Finally it's up, and you can see the house we lived in this summer.

Our trip to the Volta Region in Ghana

2008-08-12T01:00:00.000-07:00

This is a blog post from Katie Dally's blog, Going, Going Ghana. (Obviously another UO student on our program). She wrote a great post about our trip to the Volta Region, which is something I've been meaning to write about, and so rather than spend time to replicating her great work, I'm just going to post it here as if it were news wire from the Associated Press. Enjoy:

national lampoon's volta vacation

Paris

2008-08-11T23:55:00.000-07:00

OUR FRENCH FRIEND IN GHANA WAS RIGHT, Parisians don't care much for speaking English. But we've decided that doesn't matter because we're in Paris and it's a beautiful city. We've seen most of the major sites already; the Louvre, the Eiffel Tower, the Arc de Triumph and countless other behemoth objects. The French really liked to build big monuments as a testament to their wealth and greatness, which is an incredible contrast between Ghana. It's a strange juxtaposition to come from a third-world country to a place like France, which is a place that's so wealthy it can spend millions of euro building otherwise pointless monuments like the Grand Arc. My trip here has made me realize that most western countries have enough money and ingenuity to solve all their problems of poverty and waste, they just don't have the drive to do so.

On to Paris

2008-08-09T21:48:00.000-07:00

IT'S HARD TO LEAVE AMSTERDAM, and not because prostitution is legal (joke). Getting around that city was easy, the people were friendly and most of them spoke English. We fear that Paris is going to be a little more intimidating. When we were in Ghana, Molly and I spoke with a guy from France who was staying there. He told us that most Parisians don't like tourists and they don't like to speak English. I guess we'll find out when we get there. We're taking a bus all night and arriving at 6 a.m., which saves us some money because we won't have to pay for a hostel that night.

That wasn't too hard

2008-08-07T03:30:00.000-07:00

THEY CANCELED MY FLIGHT, put me back on it, made us take more than 10 lbs. out of our luggage and then lost a bag, found it and separated Molly and me on the flight.

But other than that, we made it to Amsterdam without a hitch. So far, Amsterdam seems great. Everyone here is even friendlier than they were in Ghana, which is hard to top. The only downside is that it was POURING down rain when we arrived, and both of us got soaked trying to get to our hostel. The rain has stopped now, and Molly and I are in a coffee shop trying to plan how we'll spend the next few days here. (Pictured above: The oldest zoo in Europe, the Artis, which we saw on our walk to the hostel.)

It's amazing how much work I put into getting online in Ghana, but I have only been here for about four hours and I've already been online for free at two separate places.

Goodbye Ghana

2008-08-06T10:03:00.000-07:00

I CAN'T BELIEVE I'M ACTUALLY writing those words. It feels like I just got here. My flight out leaves at 9 p.m. local time, and I'm heading to the airport in a few hours. I wish I had more time and more internet access so I could have shown you more of this amazing place, but as my grandpa always used to say, you gets what you gets.

Maybe it's the right time for us to leave, though, because the insects are starting to win the war. Our house, which was void of mosquitoes when we arrived, is now full of them. Ants have sent their armies to the kitchen and each morning we wake up with fresh bug bites.

But despite the bites, I'm really not ready to leave. I finally have a much better understanding of the layout of the city, and I'm getting more adjusted to the climate. But that's the way it goes, I guess. I can look back on this experience knowing it was completely invaluable. I wouldn't trade my time here for anything (even though I'm getting pretty good at trading things at the local markets).

A few of us are off now to see Europe. I have a few videos I'm planning to post to the blog when I get back to the states and get faster internet. Until then, see you later.

Circ Circ Circ Cirrrrrcle! (The call for a Tro tro to Circle Station)

2008-08-06T09:44:00.000-07:00

THIS IS CIRCLE. Or, at least a portion of it. This is the behemoth Tro tro lot where I catch a ride back to Okpongolo, the intersection where our house is located. It gets its name from the giant roundabout nearby that's named after Ghana's first president, Kwame Nkruma. When I get there, I have to listen for a Tro tro mate calling out, Madina roldolololololo!! (They're saying, "Madina Road Road Road Road Road! so quickly it all blends together). Once I'm on the Tro, it's only about 10 miles away, but because traffic is so bad, it usually takes at least 1 hour and 45 minutes. Everyday I think that I could get from Eugene to Portland in that amount of time. It's crazy.

But I'm almost glad it takes so long to get home, because that means these vans, which can only be described as a moving death trap, drive slow enough to avoid serious crashes. These are hollowed out metal frames. There is no upholstery other than the thin layer of padding on the seats. There are no seat belts, so if we crashed at 40 mph there's nothing to stop me but bare metal. Fortunately I made it through this whole trip without any serious accidents.

Orphanage

2008-08-06T09:36:00.000-07:00

DURING OUR STAY in Ghana, Molly and I (although she's completely been the driving force in this) have made several trips to the Peace and Love Orphanage, located only a short Tro tro ride from our house. Yesterday, she took out one of the girls, Portia (the one wearing the brown shirt in the top photo), for an afternoon at the new Accra Mall and dinner at the Chicken Inn. Portia made Molly feel a bit uncomfortable because at the mall she kept asking Molly to buy her things. After dinner, we took three large bag fulls of bedding to the place. I'm glad I helped out, and I am sure I probably wouldn't have done it if it weren't for Molly's enthusiasm.

Feeding the monkeys

2008-08-06T05:44:00.000-07:00

This is at the Tafi Atome Monkey Sanctuary in the Volta Region. We visited there last weekend. The monkeys are friendly and there are plenty of bananas to feed them.

Thin enforcement and corruption mean few Ghanaians wear seat belts

2008-08-02T13:44:00.000-07:00

By Ryan Knutson
The Daily Graphic of Ghana
(British English)
Published in August 2008

Mrs. May Obiri-Yeboah, one of Ghana’s top road-safety officials, knows first-hand how seat belts save lives. In 2004, the driver of her car swerved on a gravel road in northern Ghana and slammed into a tree, destroying the vehicle and leaving the pair stranded on a rural road.

Mrs. Obiri-Yeboah’s only injury was a sore shoulder from where her seat belt held her in place. It was an ache she gladly accepted if it saved her life.

“People see the vehicle and are surprised we survived the crash,” Mrs. Obiri-Yeboah said. “I think it was because of the seat belt. If we weren’t in our seat belts, the probability we would have gone through the windscreen was very high.”

But not all travellers are as lucky – the safety commission's statistics show that more than 1,800 people were killed in road accidents in 2006 alone, and that the number of serious accidents increased 16 per cent from 2005 to 2006. But those numbers could decrease drastically if more drivers and passengers wore their seat belts like Mrs. Obiri-Yeboah, who is the Deputy Director of Planning, Education and Information at the National Road Safety Commission.

According to the World Health Organisation, using a seat belt improves the chances of avoiding serious injury or death during a crash by more than 60 percent. Nevertheless, only 40 percent of travellers on Ghanaian roads use them, according to a 2006 study by the Global Road Safety Partnership.

“The use of seat belts has been one of the most effective road safety measures ever implemented, saving more lives than any other invention,” according to a WHO study.

So why don’t more people wear the seat belt? Aside from common excuses such as that the seat belt is uncomfortable or that it is not needed for short distances, part of the reason is because wearing a seat belt has only been mandated by law since 2004, and that despite the law, the penalties are barely enforced, Mrs. Obiri-Yeboah said. What’s more, officials who certify vehicles are often bribed into overlooking malfunctioning seat belts.

At the moment, the law is a bit difficult to enforce, Mrs. Obiri-Yeboah said, because it lacks specific regulations and an easier method of enforcement. The current law, which is found in section 13 of the 2004 Road Traffic Act, says that the driver and all passengers must wear a seat belt at all times. If they are caught without one, they can face up to a GH¢ 120 fine or six months in prison.

But officers rarely prosecute travellers for not wearing their seat belt, sources told the Daily Graphic.

During his more than 20-year career as a taxi driver, Mr. Ishmael Donkor has rarely worn his seat belt in the city, and yet has only once been warned by police to put it on, he said.

“Around the city at times we are not wearing it,” Mr. Donkor said. “But when we’re out of the city we are used to wearing it.” Mr. Donkor said most taxi drivers don’t wear their seat belts in the city because they think they are only going short distances and they have to get out of the vehicle often to help passengers with their loads.

Mrs. Obiri-Yeboah disagreed with that logic. “People think, ‘I’m just going a few kilometres and so there’s no need for a seat belt.’ But accidents can happen at any moment,” she said, adding that the accident she experienced is a good example.

“After I had seen the use of the seat belt (in the crash in 2004), this gave me more indication that yes this is true,” she said. “So when I am talking about it, I know what I am saying.”

But people still fail to buckle-up.

The need for regulation

Part of the reason only 40 per cent of Ghanaians use the seat belt is because it’s difficult to punish someone for not having a seat belt in their vehicle when there is no government standard that describes what kind of seat belt is satisfactory, Mrs. Obiri-Yeboah said.

Since 2006, the National Road Safety Commission has been working to create the necessary regulations that will give the current law the backbone it needs to be enforced. The regulations create guidelines for how a seat belt should operate in a vehicle, as well as other mandates on speeding and overtaking. The regulations will also create an easier avenue for enforcement, as it will provide officers with the ability to issue tickets to travellers who violate the law. Currently, the only method of punishment for offenders is to prosecute them in a lengthy trial. The new method will allow offenders to instead go to an office and pay the fine, rather than appear in court, Mrs. Obiri-Yeboah said.

“Until the law is passed, people cannot be held accountable,” said Mr. George Ackom, Director of Vehicle Inspection and Registration at the Driver and Vehicle Licensing Authority. But the 2006 regulations have stalled in parliament.

Mrs. Obiri-Yeboah hopes the new law will be passed before the end of this year. “I’m sure that when the regulations are accepted by parliament and people can be prosecuted the change will be drastic,” she said.

Until then, drivers are still finding ways to avoid putting it on.

Circumventing the standard

The Driver and Vehicle Licensing Authority requires vehicles to have working seat belts before the vehicle can receive a certificate, yet somehow many vehicles on the road don’t have seat belts that work.

Before 2004, the licensing authority allowed vehicles to receive certificates even if they weren’t properly fitted with seat belts, but that practice changed when the Road Traffic Act passed in 2004, said Abraham Tetteh, assistant chief of technology at the authority. Now, working seat belts are one of several items on a check list administered during vehicle inspections. If all the seat belts don’t function properly, the owners are denied a certificate and are told to fix them and come back.

“At times we do have some vehicles that get away with it,” said Mr. Ackom, Director of Vehicle Inspection and Registration at the agency. “Some vehicle owners get away with it because they connive with some of our officers, which compromises the standard.”

Each month, at least one employee at the licensing authority is caught and punished for accepting a bribe, Mr. Ackom said.

Vehicles are also altered following the inspection, Mr. Ackom said, which gives the appearance that the agency isn’t doing its job. Mr. Ackom also indicated that it was the police who need to be stricter about enforcing vehicle quality and seat belt laws.

“If the driver no longer complies with the standards, police are supposed to enforce compliance,” Mr. Ackom said. “But enforcement does not go along the way we expect. Police mostly look for the driver’s license and that’s all they’re looking for. Mostly they do not look at the state of the vehicle, and they should also check for seat belts and advise them to use it.”

Impact on the economy

Many travellers who refuse to put on their seat belt do so because they think it is a personal decision that only affects them. But that’s not the case, safety experts say. When a person is not wearing a seat belt and there is a crash, the person is flung around the cabin of the vehicle and can collide with other passengers, putting them more at risk. When a person is seriously injured in a crash, they also must receive medical care, which clogs the already over crowded hospitals.

“More seat belt use would lead to a reduction in use of hospitals, so that the hospitals can be used for people who really need them and not for something that could have been prevented,” said Mr. Rudolph Beckley, Research, Statistics and IT Manager at the safety commission.

The build-up of costs of medical care and treatment for people who have been injured in traffic accidents is significant. Each year, road accidents cost the nation roughly GH¢ 100 million, according to the NRSC. When a person dies or is seriously injured in an accident, Ghana loses out on their output to society, Mr. Beckley said.

There are costs in getting the nation to buckle-up, however. Many commercial vehicles, like tro tros and busses, don’t have seat belts for all passengers. In fact, seat belts aren’t required or regularly installed in the rear seats of a tro tro. Mr. Beckley said by 2010, the road safety commission and the licensing authority have set the goal to have seat belts retrofitted in those vehicles.

Getting those seat belts would cost money, but “you cannot compare that to the cost of the life of one person,” Mrs. Obiri-Yeboah said.

Education

For now, the primary method the safety commission is using to increase seat belt use is education. “Before we implement this law we have to make people aware,” Mr. Beckley said. To do so, the commission participated in an information campaign in 2006 and plans another campaign for next year. As part of the sensitisation project, the commission distributes flyer highlighting the benefits of seat belt use, including how:

Even if you’re a talented driver, you cannot control other vehicles that can lose control because of mechanical failure or bad driving.

Newer seat belts allow for more movement and more comfort because the latching mechanism is only deployed during a sudden jolt of a crash.

If you don’t wear a seat belt, you could be thrown through the windscreen into trees, rocks or other cars. You could also slam into the pavement or be run over by another vehicle.

If your car is submerged or on fire, the seat belt would have kept you safe in the crash therefore you would be conscious and able to remove yourself from the vehicle.

No matter how strong you are, you cannot hold yourself or your infant in place during a crash.

If you are unbelted and there is a crash, you could bounce around the inside of the vehicle and collide with other people.

Eighty per cent of deaths and serious injuries occur in vehicles travelling less than 65 km/h.

Despite their work, the death rate on Ghana’s roads is still rising, but “it’s not rising as fast as if nothing was being done,” Mrs. Obiri-Yeboah said. Even still, education only goes so far. The commission admits that better enforcement is the final key to getting more drivers to wear their seat belt.

“If everybody complied,” Mr. Beckley said, “fatalities would go down significantly.”

It rains in Ghana, too

2008-07-31T08:58:00.000-07:00

THE PAST WEEK here has been cool and extrodinarily rainy -- even for Eugene standards. Last night I was startled by the loudest boom of thunder I've ever heard, and this morning I was woken up by the sound of water gushing from the gutters.

When it rains here the drainage system does a pretty good job at filtering out the water in some places, but in others, it comes up drastically short; it's not hard to find roads and sidewalks that are covered in an inch or more of standing water.

This morning, on my way to work, I was walking to the Tro Tro stop, pleased at how the rain and small puddles were washing the dirt off my black dress shoes. The traffic was heavy, so I decided to hop cheerfully over the curb and onto the dirt and gravel on the side of the road.

But I didn't realize how much the rain had softened the dirt. My shoes sunk at least four inches into the mud, and my once nearly clean shoes were now covered in a bright reddish brown mud.

I caught a Tro tro and sat there, muddy and soaked. I made it to the station down town and started walking to the office. Being the native of rainy Oregon, I thought I could handle the rain. But it was more than rain, it was more than a down pour. It was a deluge. Water wasn't just falling from the sky, it was ensconcing it.

Fortunately, not even 30 feet away from the tro stop, there was a woman selling umbrellas for GH$ 3. I bought one and used it all the way to the office, but the damage was already done: I was soaked down to my undershirt.

The remainder of the 15 minute walk taught me that Accra's drainage system is far less effective than I originally thought. Almost every intersection I passed had something just short of a full-sized lake pooling over the sewers, which are clogged with dirt and garbage.

When you don't use protection...

2008-07-30T14:00:00.000-07:00

SO I HAVEN'T HAD antivirus software on my computer since I reformatted it in December, and now it's finally coming back to bite me. My flash drive, which I've been inserting into computers at internet cafes all across Ghana, has contracted a virus and spread it to my computer. It's hard to tell how badly it's affecting my computer, but I can tell that everything is a bit slower.

I've also decided not to plug my camera into my computer until I knock this thing out, which is why I haven't posted any pictures lately.

I've had a hell of a time getting antivirus software to work, also. Since I can typically get on the internet for no more than 1 hour each day, I only have time to download one program. Then I take it home to install it, and sure enough, it doesn't work. I finally got some software on their today, so hopefully the next time I get on the internet, which might not be until the weekend, I'll get up some photos from our trip to the Volta region, my trotro rides home and our visit to the orphanage.

Anyway, they're kicking me out of the cafe for now. But until next time, stay classy.

...And we have ice cream?!

2008-07-30T13:49:00.000-07:00

LAST WEEKEND, we traveled to the Volta Region to swim under a waterfall and feed monkeys in a sanctuary (both things I'll tell you about and show you pictures of later).

On the drive home, our already tired bus broke down. The whole weekend we had been stopping the bus to let it cool and to pour water into the coolant tank, but about 20 miles outside Accra, the old clunker couldn't take it anymore. We stopped on the side of the road to allow it to cool and to pour water in the tank, the usual routine, but after about 30 minutes, she wouldn't start.

Then, out of no where, a lone ice cream man (which are very popular in the city) rode by on his bicycle, tooting his horn. We all bought ice cream and frozen yogurt, and not two minutes later, an empty bus (again, we're on a rural road here) drove by and we flagged it down. This bus was even nicer than the one we were just on, and, for crying out loud, it happened to pass by the moment we broke down. It's funny how things work out like that.

Ghanaian Court

2008-07-30T13:04:00.000-07:00

TWICE IN THE past week, I've had the wonderful opportunity of covering a trial at a Ghanaian court. The case involves a woman who was allegedly spotted tearing down campaign posters for one of the top presidential candidates. I've gone to court twice, however the trial itself hasn't actually started yet. Each time it's been postponed at least a week. Last time it was because they were still seeking another suspect. This week it's because the complainant didn't show up.

But the two visits have meant I've spent more than six total hours sitting in that court room. The first time I stepped in it, I was surprised I was actually in an official court of law. The place was nothing more than a busted down old room tacked onto some health clinic. The room is stepped, and spectators or pending defendants and complainants sit on old wooden benches. The dull-yellow walls were covered in dirt, and the paint was chipping off in wide patches. Overhead, there are four fans, but each time I've been there, only a random pair of them is working. Outside the windows, which are draped with spiderwebs and dust, there is a bustling city street. Hawkers sell their "Peeuureee waataaarrrree!" Babies wail. Horns blare.

I can barely hear the cases themselves. Half the time the defendants and the prosecutor speak in Twi, the local dialect. Today I caught tidbits of a case in which a man grabbed a woman's behind, and her husband -- who is also a military officer -- caught him and had him arrested. It was strange because the police officer who was reading the "facts of the case" also added his own commentary at the end, encouraging the judge to put down a harsh penalty because the accused also happened to be a hawker, who is someone who walks through traffic and sells things off buckets on their head. Despite how rampant hawking is, it's apparently illegal, and the officer wanted to punish him more because of it. The strangest part was that the officer was cut off by the defense attorney, and the officer shared a laugh with the defense attorney like the whole case was a joke in the first place.

The first time I went there, I waited attentively until the case I was following was brought up. But discussion on the case lasted barely two minutes and I had absolutely no clue what happened. Fortunately, it was the last case of the day, and so I was able to follow the prosecutor outside and get all the information from her.

Even after six hours, I'm still not exactly sure what goes on in that case, or why criminal cases require civilian witnesses before they can proceed. Either way, I'm glad I got the chance to witness justice -- it's similarities and it's differences -- in another country.

Stars of the Future

2008-07-27T09:34:00.000-07:00

FOR THE PAST TWO WEEKS, we've been going to Stars of the Future, Ghana's version of American Idol. The crowd is remarkably energetic -- they jump and dance in the aisles and wave signs and banners everywhere. The theme for the first night we went was gospel music. I wasn't exactly excited that night because I had just finished a long day of work, but once I was standing in the aisle and a man handed me a sign and told me to start dancing with it. It said:

BONGO+ADINA
=
BONGOADINA

His name was Bongo; the most beautiful contestant's name is Adina. I danced with it and started jumping, and the man was grabbing my waist and lifting me over his head with each jump. Ghanaians started laughing and pointing, and the next thing I knew I was dancing in the front row near the judges in front of several cameras.

A Ghanaian wedding

2008-07-25T03:49:00.000-07:00

ANOTHER INTERN AT MY WORK, his name is Theo and he's Ghanaian, invited Molly and I to his sister's wedding. We went, and while it wasn't exactly what I expected, it was interesting. It was supposed to start at 10 a.m. ("promptly") but it didn't start until after 11. It lasted until 2 p.m., and there was a lot of dancing and worshiping. It was actually more like church than a wedding. The bride wore white, but many in attendance wore traditional kente cloth or wax fabrics. There was at least 500 people there, including two church choirs and nearly a dozen priests.

It finally hit me that this trip is almost over

2008-07-24T07:39:00.000-07:00

I ONLY HAVE ONE MORE WEEK at the Daily Graphic, but it feels like I just got here. Part of me is looking forward to its conclusion, because reporting here is difficult and sometimes uncomfortable. It takes days to get in contact with the right person, then communicating with them is labored and imprecise. Either way, I'm a little disappointed that I didn't make any significant contributions to the paper. I haven't written any big feature stories or caught any politicians in a lie. But oh well, I leave my best stuff for the states =)

This weekend we're traveling to the Volta region. I actually don't know much about what we'll be doing there, but I know there's a waterfall and a small lake that we get to swim in. Past participants have said it's one of their favorite trips.

After the trip, I'll have one more week at the Graphic and then five more days in Ghana. A few of us are hanging around for a couple extra days after our internships are over, but none of us are certain about what we want to do. On Aug. 6, Molly and I will be on a flight to Amsterdam, and we'll bounce around Europe until Aug. 16. Then it's home, sweet home. Not surprisingly, I'm really missing the place... Oh, I can't wait to see Oregon's fresh rivers and green trees. (And you too, mom.)

I hate slow internet cafes that close early

2008-07-19T14:10:00.000-07:00

I still haven't gotten you everything yet that' s happened, and still no photos from Mole. But I've got you something, and that will have to do for now. Maybe tomorrow, maybe Monday night. See you soon.

Uncle Nick

2008-07-19T14:04:00.000-07:00

This weekend our buddy Nick's sister gave birth to a healthy little girl. Her name is Lilian, although if I ever see I'm going to call her Afua (pronounced, Afia), which is the Ghanaian name for Friday. The day of birth is important in Ghanaian culture, and so people are often named, or nicknamed, based on that day. Kwame Nkruma, Ghana's first president, for instance, is named Kwame because he was born on a Saturday. I am Kwabena because I was born on a Tuesday.

Adinkra stamping

2008-07-19T13:46:00.000-07:00

On our journey to Mole National Park, we stopped in Kumasi for a night. It’s Ghana’s second-larges city, and it’s home to the Asanti King, the adinkra stamping village (more info, here) and a Kente cloth weaving house. Being the insatiable tourists that we are, we visited all three.

Photos coming... Damn slow internet...

Photos coming

2008-07-16T05:30:00.000-07:00

This internet cafe is having trouble loading my photos from the weekend, so hopefully I can get those to you, along with several other posts, within a few days. A lot of exciting stuff has happened!

Mole National Park

2008-07-16T04:59:00.000-07:00

OUR TOUR GUIDE CAME TO a sudden halt, jutting his left hand into the air like a military commander. He carried a rifle on his right shoulder; it was for our protection in case one of the beasts charged at us. He pointed. It was an elephant. We could barely see it through the thick, green leaves, but we stood motionless for at least 15 minutes anyway, gawking at its size – taller than a school bus and at least as wide – and listening to the crunch of branches and leaves as it ate its breakfast.

This was it. We were in Mole, staring at an African elephant. It was exactly what we had hoped for on our safari tour, and it only took us about 10 minutes pushing our way silently through branches in the forest to find one.

Twenty hours earlier, though, we weren’t sure we’d make it here at all. The trek to Mole is said to be a treacherous one, filled with nearly impassible roads and robberies. We left Accra on Thursday for Kumasi, a city about 5 hours to the northwest. We started the nine hour journey from Kumasi to Mole around 6 a.m. on Saturday, July 12. The sun had long risen but it hid with the blue sky behind a layer of clouds.

As we drove through the rolling hills covered with palm trees, corn and tall grass, students in our group started duct taping their valuables to the bottom of their seats. We almost didn’t travel to Mole because we heard there had been robberies along the rural roads, robberies where armed men would surround the bus and forcibly take everything on it. Even though we later learned those robberies were only taking place at night, we still anxiously feared that our bus would break down and we’d be forced to face the consequences. I didn’t do this. Instead, I read Dave Eggers’ “You Shall Know Our Velocity”, periodically lifting my eyes to admire the scenery. The air was cool that day, and at times, I would forget that I wasn’t driving to the Oregon coast back home in the Pacific Northwest. But when I’d peer past the asphalt out on to the forest’s canopy, I’d be reminded where I was. Out the window all I could see was lush green, and the occasional lone local – sometimes even a child – dangling a machete at their side. Tall trees with white bark towered above the low palm trees and bushes, and their white bark was void of anything green until the top, where there would be an explosion of branches and leaves. They looked like green fireworks with a white smoke trail. Every few dozen miles we’d pass the brown straw huts and the red mud houses of a village or two.

Six hours later, our blue bus pulled to the side of the road in community a few miles east of Damongo, another small village about 2 and half hours south of Mole. Children and teenagers and hawkers selling water and nuts and doughnuts and fruit rushed from their homes to our windows. We didn’t know we’d be getting off that bus and onto a Tro Tro during this stop, so we handed some candy and pens to the children. Molly threw a few handfuls of Tootsie Rolls she brought for this exact purpose, but the children sought them viciously, pushing other kids out of the way to get their hands on one. They stuck their hands in the windows and pleaded for our money, our candy and our soccer ball. More children gathered and we started to feel suffocated, filled with conflict and guilt. As with many situations like this one, we wanted to give them our money, our candy and our soccer ball. But we didn’t have enough for all of them, and even if we did, we didn’t want to give the impression that this was how things worked: When a bus full of white people passed through your village it would hemorrhage money. But my conscience fired back: Why shouldn’t I leak some of the Western world’s abundance of wealth on this community? I guess the only thing stopping me was that I only have $0.70 in my bank account.

Moments later, we were told to get off the bus and switch to a different vehicle for the final leg of the journey. Our new bus – which actually was not a bus but a Ford E-350 Tro Tro – would be better at handling the rough road to Mole. I climbed out of the bus and went to the rear to claim my luggage and move it to our new van.

But the luggage wasn’t there.

Perplexed, I checked the van, bobbing my head around to see the spaces below the seats, hoping I’d catch a glimpse. I didn’t.

“Did anyone grab my navy blue suitcase?” I asked. All I got were nos.

“This can’t be for real,” I thought to myself. Before we left the hotel that morning, an employee there insisted on taking my suitcase to our bus. I let him, and forgot to make sure it actually made it on. I recalled seeing another group departing that same morning, and their suitcases were collecting in the lobby. He must have put it there by mistake, I hoped. The bag contained about $150, both mine and Molly’s debit cards, all my Malaria medication, two pairs of shoes and all my clothes for the trip. All I still had with me was my camera, GH$ 8 and a backpack full of books.

Worst case scenario, I can cancel the cards and cut my losses about the money. I successfully brushed it off. There is a good chance, after all, that my suitcase, which was locked shut, was safe and sound.

We took off, all crammed in the Tro Tro, down the dirt road, leaving a trail of red dust in our path. With no room to sprawl out like we did on the bus, we started singing songs we knew, like ones by The Beetles, Journey and even the theme song to The Lion King.

We hadn’t gone even 15 minutes and the Tro Tro stopped. The engine was overheating. We all got out. The owner of the car, Mr. Fatal (foreshadowing?), instructed the driver to see what was wrong.

The 15 of us, including Leslie and Sonny, stood under the burning sun. By now, most of the clouds had cleared. Only a few cars passed us as we stood. This was the worst case scenario we envisioned when we taped our valuables to the bottom of the seats. Good thing I didn’t have much on me to steal. Even still, I was cautious enough to hide my camera’s memory card just in case.

Less than 10 minutes later, we took off again, only to stop once more. The road behind us was dotted with our oil. We nearly emptied it. Mr. Fatal and his driver hitchhiked on a motorcycle to get more. We stood under the sun, and Ken and I took our shirts off. It was hot, and we didn’t want a tan line . Ghanaian children – at least a dozen – gathered around us from a small farm. A grown man was with them, the father of some for sure, and they brought chairs and benches so we could sit in the cool shade of a billowy mango tree. For the next two hours we played hangman in the dirt, the children watched but only once suggested a letter. It was an e, and it unfortunately wasn’t one of the letters needed.

We didn’t mind the wait, and in fact, some of us appreciated it. I know I did. Sitting under that mango tree surrounded by children in their underwear, playing hangman in the dirt, was surreal. It was as if time was sitting there with us, taking the afternoon off. I couldn’t tell if we’d been there for 15 minutes or 15 hours. It’s what I think purgatory must be like.

We finally said goodbye to the children and left the mango tree behind us. Our Tro Tro was fixed, barely. The rear doors somehow stayed partially open and the back two rows got inundated in a thick – and I mean a thick – layer of red dust. It filled the air like a fog, coating our lungs and cementing our nostrils. It’d leave a visible layer of red before I could turn the page of my book. When we arrived at the park, my mouth had filtered so much dust I could chew it.

I was so dirty and hot, but it didn't matter because we were in Mole, the view was amazing and the elephants were just branches away. It felt so refreshing to jump into the murky swimming pool I laughed out loud. (I also learned a short time later that my suitcase was placed on a bus going to Accra, and that when I got home it would be sitting no our doorstep.)

Goodbye 'til Tuesday

2008-07-09T12:42:00.000-07:00

WE'RE HEADING UP NORTH to Kumasi and Mole for a few days. We won't return until late Monday night, so I probably won't be able to get back online until Tuesday. We leave tomorrow at 6:45 a.m. See you next week!

Ghanaian traditional dance

2008-07-09T12:35:00.000-07:00

A DANCING AND DRUMMING group came to our house last weekend. They were really talented, and could perform dozens of dances from tribes all over the country. I didn't know what any of the dances meant, but at the end, the pulled us from our chairs and we all danced to the drumbeat under the crescent African moon.

My first byline! (And photo)

2008-07-09T12:14:00.000-07:00

THE WRITING STYLE HERE IS DIFFERENT, to say the least. The only thing I've been able to cover so far is events and press conferences, much like many of the other reporters. They still haven't let me go cover anything by myself yet, although I think I'm inching closer toward that end. Today I went to an event with the other obroni intern, and when we got back to the office, she had to bail to another story and let me write this one without adding her byline. Within the next few days I should have a story all my own. I must say, checking facts is difficult without a phone or the internet.

THE DAILY GRAPHIC OFFICE is no Oregonian or Register-Guard, but I hear it's a hell of a lot nicer than the other newsrooms where Oregon students are. One girl told me her "office" is nothing more than a 4 by 8 foot hallway with a table and a few computers. Now I feel spoiled, and I hate that feeling. We even get dropped off at our assignments each morning in "the bus," which is actually a new Nissan Patrol. It's a hefty, orange SUV with clean, cushy gray seats. Oddly, though, the ceiling inside the car is scuffed with the red Ghanaian dirt.

Transportation money

2008-07-09T12:04:00.000-07:00

FRIDAY, JULY 4 -- I CAN’T FEEL THE SWEAT on my back until I push through the door to the Daily Graphic newsroom and let the air conditioning rush over me. It’s like opening the door to a refrigerator in an overheated house during the summer – and then stepping inside.

I checked the roster and found my name there for the first time. Apparently, two days earlier, my name had been put on the roster but the editor mistakenly wrote “Ian” instead of “Ryan” and I missed my chance to go out for a story. Today I’d be going out with Emmanuel, a four-year Daily Graphic vet, to the WAEC’s monthly seminar. That’s all I knew. I didn’t even know what the WAEC, which the reporters referred to phonetically, was. Emmanuel was just arriving as I headed to the bus, and the few other reporters in the newsroom greeted him affectionately. Bonney, as everyone calls him, is a stocky Ghanaian who wears his hair short and has the beginnings of a receding hairline. He has a small yet friendly smile that says, “I’m on your side” when he shows it. He told me to ride with the other reporters and he would meet me there.

Unfortunately I didn’t really know where “there” was. Our driver did, though, and after about 20 minutes snaking through clogged streets, he left me at the West African Examination Council headquarters, a set of buildings that, like the police headquarters, strangely resembled an apartment complex. I had no clue where I was going, so I just started asking around. It was like a scavenger hunt, as each person I asked was like a station along the way, each one getting me just one step closer. First there was the security guard who told me to go to the tall, white concrete building. Then at the tall building, a woman, who asked me kindly if I had a problem, told me to go to the other tall building. At the base of the stairs in that building, I was sent to the second floor to the public relations office. From the public relations office I finally made it to the conference room – but not before an accidental detour to the roof.

Like the Graphic office, this room was a refrigerator. Stepping inside, I immediately became aware of the sweat pooling on my clothes. Bonney showed up after a few minutes, and the lecture, which was mostly about the importance of integrating computers into art education, began only a few minutes behind schedule – an accomplishment for Ghanaian events, which typically start late.

The little brown envelope

I would have been surprised if I hadn’t previously been warned, but about half way through the presentation, the public relations director handed out soda and calzones to all the guests – reporters included. I was out of my seat taking pictures, so there was no way I could kindly wave the food away. When I returned to my sit, Bonney motioned for me to take the soda as he and the other reporters already had. I was starving, so I drank the soda and ate the calzone, which was full of beef, onions and I’m not sure what else. I felt guilty, but when in Rome, do as the Romans.

At the conclusion of the lecture, after we had collected the correct spellings of names and grabbed a copy of the presenter’s speech, Bonney tapped me on the shoulder.

“This is for you,” he said, motioning toward the public relations director. Her hand was outstretched, holding a little brown envelope. I was speechless. At U of O, during our Pre-Ghana classes, we were warned about this.

I took the envelope, hoping it wasn’t what I thought it was. Maybe it was just a flyer. I turned around and peeked inside: GH$ 10. Anxiety rushed over me.

Certainly GH$ 10 is more than I’d pay for transportation over here. It could get me a week’s worth of lunch at the Graphic’s cafeteria.

But I knew what I had to do. I turned around and approached the woman, who wore a processed smile that, although welcoming, seemed to say she was doing it more out of necessity than happiness.

“Thank you but, in my culture, accepting this is against my ethics,” I said.

“No no no,” she said in a motherly tone. “This is not like that. Normally, we would pick you up and bring you here, but because we cannot do that, we pay for your transport.”

“I understand that, but, I don’t think I can take it,” I said.

Her expression turned sour, yet she continued to smile. Her eyes started became piercing, as if she was wondering why we obronis thought we were too good for them. She explained again that the money was just for transportation. “Is this still no good for you?”

I glanced at Bonney, who had been watching the whole time. He nodded at me.

“OK,” I finally conceded. “Thank you.”

I followed Bonny to a taxi and we rode back to the Graphic. Meanwhile, the money was burning a hole in my chest. I felt like I had just sold my soul, like I had prostituted myself or stolen from a baby.

I reminded myself that this type of thing is the accepted practice in Ghanaian journalism. At one of our first lectures at the University of Ghana, our speaker explained that agencies would give reporters small amounts of cash to pay for their transportation to and from their event. Originally, agencies would call news rooms and ask for coverage, but the reporter wouldn’t have a way to get there. Some places started picking up the reporter so they could attend. Eventually, the trend became just paying them a few dollars to get there and back.

The less common and more controversial payment (that is, if I’m understanding this correctly) is solay, short for solidarity. People will pay reporters a little extra to have their story told from a certain angle or to make sure it gets a particular placement. There’s no chance in hell I would ever take money like that.

Even still, taking money for transportation felt fundamentally wrong. On my way home, I tried to rationalize it. I’m not coming here to impress my society onto people, I’m coming here to learn about theirs. Accepting the money is like practicing the advice that says you should adjust to the level of your sources. Clearly, the woman thought I was being condescending by trying to avoid accepting the money. If I’m going to be a Ghanaian journalist here, I should do as they do.

BACK AT HOME, I learned that other students in the program weren’t having the same ethical dilemma that I was. To them, free money is the best kind of money, especially when they’re cash-strapped college students. Practically everyone said they took it happily and without remorse. One student even earned GH$ 30 in one week. I decided to stick to my rationale.

On Monday, though, on the walk along the dusty, cracked sidewalks from the Tro stop, I decided the best thing for me to do was to donate the transportation money at the end of my stay. That way, I can practice Ghanaian journalism and make a contribution to the betterment of this society. I haven’t decided where to put the money, however. I’m thinking I’ll donate it to a journalism institute, although I’m also compelled to hand some of it to the dirty Indian children that grab my hand each day on my walk from the Tro stop. They have curly, brown hair, and their eyebrows crinkle as they look up at me, begging. They can’t speak English, so they just hold my arm with one hand, and with the other they motion toward their mouths. Usually I just hand them a few coins, but I have to resist the urge to empty my bank account and feed them for life.

A few days later, when I was offered transportation money for the second time, I accepted it with little hesitation, knowing it would soon be donated to a charitable cause.

Labade beach

2008-07-09T11:48:00.000-07:00

TUESDAY, JULY 2 – I GOT PICK POCKETED. We went in separate groups to Labade beach last week to celebrate Ghana’s Republic Day, a day not too dissimilar from the U.S. 4^th of July. The group that had already arrived told us that when we got there we should try to find the back entrance, which was rumored to cost GH$ 1 instead of the GH$ 5 at the main entrance. Our taxi let us out at the main entrance which was two huge steel doors that were painted red and had the Coca-Cola logo.

We followed a small crowd down the road. All I had was GH$ 6 in my back pocket, and my debit card tucked in the hidden flap pocket on the inside of my brown swim trunks. I wore black Old Navy flip flops. There were nine of us, and we stuck out like tourists. After a few blocks, a 6’ 3’ Ghanaian wearing a white muscle shirt approached us and asked us if we were going inside Labadi beach.

“Yes,” I said. He motioned to his friends and for us to follow. I was skeptical about why we needed his help to get through a door.

We passed some bushes and I immediately understood. To our right, there was a mass of bodies streaming toward a small door made of steel bars that was cut from a huge cement wall. There was a police officer with an AK-47 monitoring the entrance. Over the fence, I could see a swamp that was spotted with small piles of trash, some of it on fire, grey smoke fluttering into the overcast sky.

Our escorts funneled us into a single-file line and started pushing other Ghanaians out of the way. One of them turned to me and told me to watch my stuff because there were pick-pocketers everywhere. They cleared a path and we followed them through the small door. The policeman nodded at us, and I felt reassured that at least getting in this way must be legal.

The pathway was made up of slippery, light brown dirt that had become mud during the heavy rain that fell only about 30 minutes before. My flip flops couldn’t grasp it, so I slid everywhere. The flimsy plastic also acted like a suction cup, so each time I tried to lift my foot I had to pry it off the ground. I paused to soak in my surroundings. There were Ghanaians bustling past me, many of them were covered in mud from falling. There was the swamp to the left and the burning trash. The flood of people. I felt like I was being smuggled across the boarder.

After passing through another fence, this time a wooden one that reminded me of the kind that surround a rodeo, our escorts asked for payment. They wouldn’t take less than GH$ 3 from each of us. I was upset, because I knew they could charge us whatever they wanted. They smuggled us in, and they could probably see to it that we were caught from doing it, if they wanted.

I pulled back the Velcro and plunged my hand into the back pocket of my shorts. There were only a few coins. No cedis. “Damn, I got pick pocketed,” I thought. Molly paid for me and I shared the news with the group. I was just glad I didn’t bring my wallet, and that my debit card was OK in my front pocket.

Inside, the beach was packed. Ghanaians played football on the waterline and the beach. We stayed for a few hours and ate chips (a.k.a. French Fries), until 5 p.m. Everything else about the beach was great, although it was so crowded we decided to leave just as the concert was about to begin.

So I think I ought to officially ban myself from buying stuff

2008-07-08T13:37:00.000-07:00

IT'S NOT THAT I've bought too much, it's just that I've realized how my brain works when it comes to shopping. In Ghana, there are no price tags. Almost everything is bought from little stands on sidewalks, and the price is negotiable.

Several days ago, I stopped to ask a vendor if I could trade him for one of his watches (it's a long story that I'll save for another post). I eventually got him to agree on a trade if I paid him GH$ 2. On the way home, I started to realize that it was a poor deal for me. He still had a watch to sell, and it was like all his others. The only difference was that he had GH$ 2 more in his pocket. When I got home and the watch stopped working, I felt really screwed. (I eventually got my other watch back, with a new battery and all, but like I said, that's another post for another day.)

Most recently, though, I was swindled into buying a belt for GH$ 10 that I should have spent GH$4 on. I've been browsing for belts ever since my favorite belt from home broke the morning before I was to board a plane to Africa. Other vendors had asked for as little as GH$ 3 for some mediocre belts that I didn't like, but the one I ended up purchasing wasn't that much better.

I was in the parking lot looking for a Tro Tro, and I was in the mood to get a deal. I started looking at the belts, and saw an interesting Dolce and Gabbana belt that slid together under a metallic clasp. It's hard to desribe, but it was unlike any other belt I'd seen before. I knew I wanted it.

The vendor didn't seem to understand English too well, so he wrote the price on a piece of paper. GH$ 120. I laughed. "No way," I told him. "That's way too much."

I told him I only wanted to pay GH$5. Eventually I got him to agree on $10, but when I gave him the money he seemed surprised. I think he thought we agreed on a lower price, and as I walked away, I started to get angry at myself. "Did I really spend GH$ 10 for a fake D&G belt that I could have gotten $4 for?" Yes I had. I started steaming inside as I looked at the belt and started picking out the flaws. When it comes to buying things, my mission seems to just be striking a deal, even if it's not necessarily in my best interest.

But the following day, as I thought back on my disdainful purchasing ability, I realized how selfish I was. $10 is much less than I'd pay for any belt in the U.S., and at least here, I'm pretty sure my money was going directly to that man and maybe his family, if he has one. At least it wasn't going to fill the pockets of a big CEO. With a few extra bucks, maybe that guy could buy his daughter a nicer pair of shoes, or maybe even some school supplies. Ah, yes. How the world can change when you give a few hours to cool and look at it from a different perspective.

"If you could change one thing about Ghana, what would it be?"

2008-07-05T09:03:00.000-07:00

Molly has Fridays off, so yesterday she walked up to the nearby junior high school to see if she could talk to their students. She told them a little history about the U.S. and let them ask questions.

She wrote a really interesting blog post, which you can read by clicking here.

Ghana's biggest newspaper doesn't have internet for everyone

2008-07-05T08:44:00.000-07:00

WHEN I HEARD the news that I couldn't get online all the time at work, my heart sank. It's baffling. Apparently, everyone used to have access, but too many people were just wasting time playing games and watching videos, so the editors shut it off to only the senior reporters. If I want to get on, I have to persuade the vets to let me use their code, which is something I don't have the guts to do, especially because I just want to check my e-mail and update my blog. I've heard it's really hard to get a senior reporter to share their code with you, anyway. Another reporter there said he needed to get to an internet cafe to get information for a story. It's nuts.

The lack of regular connection makes updating my blog challenging. I've been getting home around 7 p.m., and the sun has already set. We only leave the house on foot at night when we're in groups, so in order to make the 20 minute trek up the road I need other people to come with me.

The cafe also closes at 9 p.m. (despite having an ironic sign out front that says, "Open 24 x 7"). Once I get home, relax for a few minutes, eat dinner, and try to write something on my computer, there's only a few minutes left before the cafe closes. When we came on Thursday, the internet was down.

I'm not going to let it stop me, though. I'm resilient. I'm going to keep my blog up to date if it kills me.

July 4

2008-07-05T08:42:00.000-07:00

THE FOURTH OF JULY also happens to be Molly and my anniversary -- but unlike previous years, this one was much less romantic. We traded a few silly gifts we picked up at the market. I got her a phone card, handkerchief and a crappy beaded necklace that bled its color onto her neck (but cut me some slack, I didn’t think it would be so bad when I bought it). We ate spaghetti and bread before catching a taxi and heading over to the NYU house to hang out with other Americans. Our taxi driver said he knew exactly where the American Hostel is, the place where the 17 Americans from New York University live. We hear the house has a big screen TV, air conditioning and wireless internet. The kids don’t take public transportation like we do. Instead, they have a few drivers who wait outside their house and take them wherever they want to go. Silly obronis. I'm glad we immerse ourselves in the culture.

But our taxi driver dropped us off at the U.S. Embassy, not their house. We finally made it to a restaurant that we knew was near their house, but learned they went to an Irish pub in Osu. We met them there, the place was called Ryan’s Irish Pub, and it was just like an American restaurant, including sticky wooden tables and a wall covered with baseball caps. There were no fireworks, hot dogs or potato salad, but there were a lot of great people to share the night with.

What I love about America

2008-07-05T08:38:00.000-07:00

IN GHANA, JULY 4 IS JUST ANOTHER DAY. At the Graphic, it was a better day for me. I got to go on an assignment, and I think I’ll get two bylines in tomorrow’s paper. Both are shared bylines, but I’m eager to see my name in print. At the end of the day things got even better when Rosemary gave me the green light to start a feature story about the only children’s hospital in Ghana. It’s a place that sees roughly 75,000 children annually but doesn’t have the resources to provide adequate care for many of them. In some cases, children who need surgery must be transported to another hospital and brought back, a journey that is highly taxing on their young and fragile bodies.

I left the office in a good mood, and on the Tro ride home, I talked with a 20-year-old Ghanaian woman who goes to school downtown. We chatted the whole way about Ghana and my impressions. I asked her what she loved about Ghana. She had a hard time answering. She finally settled on the Ghanaian people and culture, but she insisted that there wasn’t much else to love about Ghana. There are inadequate garbage facilities, so trash accumulates on the streets. There are open sewers running alongside the roads. There is mass poverty.

I have been looking past those things. I see them, but what I also see is a culture where people really love each other. They love each other because they are Ghanaian. Their togetherness is inspiring. For Ghanaians, it’s normal. I’ve asked several people what they love about Ghana, and most of them said the same thing as the woman on the Tro.

For some reason I was caught off guard when she asked me what I love about America. I drew a blank. Our access to internet? My cushy home? Our huge shopping malls? It was all so superficial. I couldn’t say family because family isn’t unique to the U.S.

“I don’t really know,” I said. “It’s home, I guess.”

I was unsettled by my inability to answer. All I could think about was how Ghanaians are all so happy despite their economic and infrastructural problems.

When I got back to the house, I posed the question to our group. Molly said education and welfare, and a flood of American pride washed over me. There's so much opportunity in the U.S. Everyone in the U.S. has access to education. We have a social security program that provides money to senior citizens. We take care of each other here, too, but unlike Ghana, it’s less personal and more structured.

Three days, zero stories

2008-07-05T08:29:00.000-07:00

FOR THE THIRD DAY IN A ROW, I’m sitting in the chilly Daily Graphic office with nothing to do. The air-conditioned office is a welcomed reprieve from the sweaty streets of Accra, but I’m eager to sink my teeth into a story. Yesterday I waited for an hour to meet with Sammy, the Graphic’s top news editor. Just as he arrived, Leah, the other obroni here (from Canada on another work-abroad program) invited me to tag along to the police headquarters to interview peace keepers who’ve had recent missions to war-torn countries. I agreed, and Sammy said we’d meet when I return. We carpooled there with Mary, a large yet graceful woman who covers the police beat. She dropped us off on her way to the clinic; she wasn’t feeling well. She suspects she’s coming down with malaria, something Ghanaians just live with. To them, getting malaria each year is like coming down with the flu, only more painful. Doc told us it’s like getting pounded on the head with a sledgehammer. Fortunately, each bout of malaria is less painful than the previous one.

The Ghanaian police headquarters is a large, square building that resembles an apartment complex. We checked in with the main office and headed up to see the public relations manager. He wasn’t in. We eventually found the Peace Keeping office and set up an interview with Selina, a woman who served in Liberia one year after their nearly 18-year civil war ended. It was 11:45, and our interview wasn’t until 1:30 or 2, so we walked up the street to Osu, a neighborhood loaded with Western –style restaurants. We ate at Frankie’s, and I devoured the best hamburger I’ve had in a while.

We arrived at the station at 1:45 and waited until 2:15 to speak with Selina. After we finished, we spoke with a recruiter and another woman who served in Darfur.

But our excursion took all day. I made it back to the office around 5 p.m., which is when the reporters usually go home for the day. Sammy said we’d meet tomorrow.

Tomorrow

BUT HERE TOMORROW IS, and Sammy just strolled in, wearing a bright-yellow Ghanaian shirt and dark pants. It’s 10:30, and I already missed my chance to tag along with other reporters. The Grahpic has a driver who leaves at 9 a.m. and takes reporters to their assignments. I approached Sammy just as he sat in his chair, which is in the center of the office.

“Are you ready for our meeting?” I asked.

He told me to talk to Rosemary, the deputy news editor who I had already spoken with. She didn’t have anything for me to do, and neither of them had time to hear my story ideas. Instead, I sat in a chair and waited.

AROUND 2 P.M. my day turned the corner. Jasmine, a young reporter here who is working to fulfill her mandated year of national service, a program all Ghanaians must complete after graduation. Jasmine and I went to the Ministry of Health to cover a $475,000 equipment donation from USAID. The U.S. Army helped facilitate the gift, so when I arrived there, I was surprised to see a uniformed soldier. I’ve never been so happy to see one. The soldier was Major Tong Vang, and we chatted for a bit about the U.S. Embassy, a huge complex that all the Ghanaians say is really overboard. He told me our group couldn’t attend Friday’s Fourth of July celebration there because it was by invitation only. We could go there another time, but we had to know someone who could get us a pass. The only way to get a pass was to have a friend inside. I took his phone number and he said he could help us go visit.

My first day of work

2008-07-01T13:47:00.000-07:00

IT FELT LIKE the first day of kindergarten, only this time I wasn’t balling my eyes out. The 13 of us left our house in two separate vehicles, nine in one, four in the other. I was in the van of nine, and Leslie and Sonny dropped us off one by one at our internships, which in Ghana are known as attachments.

I was the fourth student let off. Watching the first three and seeing their nervous faces, I felt like a parent saying goodbye to their five-year-old on their first day of school. When it was my turn to go, it was me who felt like the child.

Surprisingly, though, I wasn’t that nervous. I’m getting better at understanding the thick Ghanaian accent, and more importantly, I’m getting better at telling them when I don’t understand. I am the only intern from UO working at a paper large enough to have a human resource department, so that’s where I started out. I was given a red badge that says “INTERN” and a short lecture about the history of the paper. The Daily Graphic has the largest circulation in Ghana, with about 700,000 papers distributed daily, said Richmond, the Ghanaian with a thick accent who gave me my lesson. He told me that it was founded in 1950 by a British man named C.C. King. It was bought by the Ghanaian government in the 1960s after Ghana earned its independence in 1957.

Following my tutorial, which was significantly less involved than the orientation I received at The Oregonian, I was led up to the newsroom. The news editor was out sick for the day, so I was to report to Rosemary, the deputy news editor. But Rosemary was in a meeting, so I just sat in a chair, curiously watching the Graphic reporters and page designers bustle around me. There weren’t many reporters in the room because they had all left to go cover stories.

I talked with Edward, a friendly reporter next to me. He chatted with me a bit about where I was from before having to stop the conversation and focus on his story, which he was writing on deadline.

I waited in the leather computer chair and analyzed the room. Wooden desks with a pinkish finish sat on a cream-colored tile floor. Air conditioning units stuck out of the walls near the ceiling. All the reporters used Apple computers, and almost all the Apples were the old iMacs and eMacs from the ‘90s and early 2000s. I saw only two phones. I couldn’t tell how many reporters worked there, but I knew there weren’t enough computers for all of them, considering the newsroom itself was maybe the size of the Emerald’s, which is a few thousand square feet.

As I sat there, only one person came up and said hello. His name was Sam, and I’m not sure what he does there.

Another obroni!

AROUND NOON, a flood of reporters came in the door, including one obroni. Her name is Leah and she’s from Vancouver, B.C. She’s worked at the Graphic since the start of June, and her last day is on August 1, same day as me. She's one of a handful of interns, and she and I are the only non-Ghanaians.

It was good to talk to someone and not have to translate their accent. She taught me the ropes: Arrive before 9 a.m. and I can get on the roster to have a story assigned to me; only senior reporters get internet access, so I need to do all my research in person and I have to ask all the background questions; if I have my own story idea, the editors will encourage me to pursue it.

Sounds great. Even though the Graphic is owned by the government, there is no oversight from parliament or the president. Now I just have to come up with something interesting. Working without sufficient phones will be tough, and no Internet? Holy smokes, this is going to be a real lesson in hitting the streets the old-fashioned way. Once this experience is over, I’ll be able to relate to the veterans in U.S. newsrooms.

We chatted for a bit before she had to leave to work on her story. She pointed me toward the canteen, which is a cafeteria for employees, which serves cheap chicken, fish and rice. As I left the canteen, I bumped into William, a 35-year-old Ghanaian who has worked at the Graphic for 10 years, but also lived in Chicago for a while.

When I returned, Edward walked me around the newsroom and introduced me to the staff. This time they were much friendlier, and many of them were fascinated by my name. Ryan? They had trouble pronouncing it, and Edward explained it was because no one had ever heard a name like that before. I didn’t even try my last name on ‘em.

Edward dropped me off with William, the reporter who I met earlier when leaving the Canteen. I sat and talked with him for the rest of the afternoon. He told me about his wife and child, and how he’s studying to become a social worker, and after a few years of that he wants to do pro bono work as a lawyer. He’s an art reporter, but he also covers general news. He told me about the story he just wrote, “Gay prostitutes invade Accra.” Interesting. In Ghana, it’s illegal to solicit yourself for sex, and it’s also illegal to be homosexual. Naturally, the combination of the two makes for an interesting piece in Ghana.

Getting home

Around 4:30, William offered to drive me to the Circle, the largest Tro Tro stop in Ghana, and the one I need to find to get home. But first we had to fill up his 14-year-old car with petro and visit the “Dream House,” a place where the Miss Ghana contestants live during the filming of the show. He is helping judge the 22 contestants.

On the drive, William told me about his health care: It’s all free. Many jobs, especially in the government, offer free health care, and the national health care program they have has a GH$ 7.5 annual premium. The problem is, not enough people are covered by the program, and there aren’t enough doctors to help everyone in need. Nevertheless, they’re still ahead of the U.S.

Around 6 p.m., just after the sun had set, William dropped me off at the Circle, a junction packed with honking cars. Just when I thought the cars couldn’t be any closer together as they crawled through traffic, I noticed hundreds of people were slipping in between them. William warned me about pick pocketers as I got out of the car. He told me to find someone who could help direct me to a Tro Tro to Medina.

I stepped out of the car onto the bustling and darkening street. I walked confidently through pedestrian traffic and passed small vendors on the sidewalk. Earlier in the day, William told me he was surprised that I had only been in Ghana for 10 days. He said I carried myself as though I had been here for months. For some reason, I felt that way. Even still, his comment gave me confidence.

Eventually I made it to a stop and asked a man where to find the station to Medina. He was well dressed in a plaid button up and khaki slacks, and he was texting on a Blackberry. He was one of only a few Ghanaians I’ve seen wearing glasses.

“I am going there,” he said, his voice had a high pitch. “You can follow me.”

I followed him across the busy road, stopping to climb over the median and wait for more traffic. He walked into a row of vendors, their stations covered in blue tarp. Naked florescent light bulbs illuminated the rows of vendors, casting stark blue-and-white shadows.

The market was crowded, and the ground was pocked with pot-holes and puddles. I watched the man’s feet and tried to keep up, even though I was fascinated with everything around me. I couldn’t look around, though, because in Ghana there are pot holes everywhere, and if you’re near the roads, there are uncovered cement gutters that can be as deep as three feet – certainly not something I want to fall into.

We emerged from the market into a large parking lot filled with rows of Tro Tros. The ground was half asphalt half dirt, and there was garbage everywhere. I followed my guide as he approached a few Tro Tros and asked if they were headed to Medina. When he found one, he nodded at me. We climbed aboard the van, and I settled into the second isle from the back, my knees pressed up against the seats in front of me.

We crawled through heavy traffic and I paid my fare, 50 Pesewas, the Ghanaian equivalent of 50 American cents. There were at least 12 people sitting close together on the seats in front of me, and as we drove, I could only see the silhouettes of their heads against the windshield, which was lit up by headlights and lamp posts. At one point in my 45 minute journey, our driver took the Tro Tro on a back road – if you can call it that – to avoid traffic. Tall grass and corn crowded the Tro Tro along the street, which was really nothing more than a very rough dirt passageway. The silhouetted heads bounced like bobble head dolls. Each bump sent dull aches through my back, which was still sore from falling off a horse two days ago. Nevertheless, all I could think about was how this was such an amazing day.

When I got home, we shared our experiences. Mine didn't compare to the intensity of Molly's, which I'll tell you about another day.

So I fell off a horse today…

2008-06-29T12:42:00.000-07:00

I'D NEVER RIDDEN A HORSE BEFORE, so I thought an Africa beach would be the best place to have my first ride. For only GH$ 5 I could ride for 30 minutes, so Molly and I threw in 2.5 a piece and split the time.

Molly rode horses a lot during adolescence. She and a friend would trot around her yard and gossip. Me, on the other hand, I was a complete newbie.

Molly and I took turns walking down the beach. She rode around some rocks, onto some grass and palm trees before traversing a short but steep slope back down onto the beach. We traded places, and I was going to ride the horse slowly back to our starting point. I had already ridden her a few minutes before, so I wasn’t worried.

But about 10 seconds after I got on the second time, the horse got spooked. She took off sprinting.

“Whoa! Whoa!” I tugged slowly at the reins but she didn’t heed.

My mind raced back to the early warnings Molly and Logan gave before I got on: Don’t pull too hard or she’ll buck you. Don’t let her run at all or you might get tossed. As the horse barreled ahead, you can imagine my worry. It only got worse when I analyzed what was coming.

The steep ledge. Palm trees. Old wooden boats. Lots of rocks.

I thought about getting thrown over the horse’s head. I thought about Christopher Reeves. As the horse veered toward the steep ledge, I decided to bail. I whipped my leg over the horse and tumbled off, plowing into the sand like a meteor. I landed on my right side, scraping my arm and back. The crash knocked the wind out of me, and since then I've been hobbling around like Grandma Lois after back surgery. Fortunately, I don't think I have any serious injuries.

I looked up and saw the horse, about 80 yards ahead, standing near some palm trees up on the ledge. Good thing I got off, otherwise things might have been worse. Or maybe I’m wrong; perhaps I could have avoided this soreness today by just pulling a little harder on those reins. I’ll never know, but at least I have something to look back on and chuckle about. When I got back to the resort, Logan told us the horse was actually a 6-year-old racehorse, who had placed 1st once and second twice in its racing days.

Hmm. I thought it would be romantic... I suppose it was. Molly did rub my back afterward -- with Iodine, nonetheless.

Only GH$1 to touch the croc? I’ll keep my hands, thanks

2008-06-29T12:31:00.000-07:00

ON THE WAY HOME from the canopy walk, we stopped at Hann’s Restaurant for lunch. The food was unfortunately mediocre, but the entertainment, if you could call it that, was one of a kind.

Just as we sat down to eat, we noticed there was a crocodile sitting near the water by our tables. There was a small barrier and bridge over to the grassy area where crocodiles were, so we walked over to have a closer look. We stood and took pictures and screamed when it moved.

Just as we were sitting down again to enjoy our sodas, one of the waitresses came over with a stick and a clump of chicken. We learned from her that we could touch the croc for only GH$ 1. No thanks.

Molly and Ken were all about it, though. Much braver than I. They each paid their cede and petted the reptile’s tail. I stood back and took pictures. I didn’t want that to be the last dollar I ever spend.

Just as we returned to our table,a tour bus full of elementary and high school Ghanaians unloaded in the parking lot. The children, naturally curious about the crocodiles just as we were, passed our table and massed together on the patch of grass near the crocs. The woman who charged us to pet the crocodiles left and returned with a stick and a clump of chicken. She fed the croc until it slithered into the pond.

Just as the children, which there must have been about 40 of, started to relax, a second crocodile pounced from the water onto the grass behind them. They creamed and ran frantically to the safety behind the barrier. Some jumped onto a nearby table and clutched one another.

Eventually, though, they lost interest and made their way to their tables. Fortunately there were no injuries for today.

The canopy walk

2008-06-29T12:27:00.000-07:00

ON SATURDAY, we woke up early and drove to the Kakum rain forest to visit their canopy walk. We hiked a few hundred yards in the moist climate before reaching a wooden structure that resembled a tree house. From there, we stepped out onto the bridges. They were made of rope and steel cables, and the only thing to stand on was a thin wooden plank that left enough room for only one person to pass. I clutched onto the ropes for security, even though the netting never came down lower than my waist. I spit over the ledge and watched it fall. It seemed to go on for miles. The view from the bridges, which were about 120 feet high, was amazing. I could only see a portion of the nearly 400 square kilometer forest, but from what I could see, the place was pristine.

The park was built in 1994. It only cost our entire group of 15 GH$ 66 to attend (which is remarkably cheaper than something similar would cost in the U.S.).

See our photos, here.

Welcome to paradise

2008-06-29T12:14:00.000-07:00

LESLIE SURPRISED US by booking rooms at the Coconut Grove hotel, a beautiful resort that sits right on the coastline. The place was beautiful (and surprisingly cheap). There was a pool, golf course and a restaurant that had a much bigger menu than what we’re used to in Accra. It was an odd feeling first arriving at that place. On the one hand, we were flattered and excited. On the other, we felt guilty. We had just toured a slave castle where we saw how human beings were kept in conditions worse than cattle. Now we were preparing to spend a weekend living like kings.

We were able to put it past us, though. A sign carved into the wall at the Cape Coast castle helped me do that. It read:

Our weekend at the resort was spectacular. We swam in the ocean and slept in air conditioned rooms. We learned that Will Smith and current Ghanaian President J.A. Kuffor had both stayed here. Each night we hung out in the restaurant and on swings by the beach. We looked up and saw a different set of stars than in the Northwest.

Cape Coast and Elmina Slave Castles

2008-06-29T11:53:00.000-07:00

OUR FIRST STOP on our weekend tour was at Cape Coast Slave Castle. I was wrong before, because I thought the Elmina Slave Castle was in Cape Coast, but apparently they are two separate places, one built by the British and the other by the Portuguese. We visited both. The first was the former British Castle in Cape Coast, and on Sunday we saw the Elmina Castle, which was made by the Portuguese and later controlled by the Dutch and eventually the British.

But regardless of who built them, they were equally deplorable. They are places where millions of slaves passed through. Our tour guide explained how women were raped, and both sexes were forced to wade in dungeons filled with their own feces. When the British castle was excavated in 1974, there was nearly 3 feet of compacted feces that the slaves were standing on.

I felt sick with guilt walking through it, and it's an experience I think everyone living in America should have. Slavery is one of the worst things humans have ever done to one another, and the effects of the injustice is still being felt in the U.S. to this day.

I don't know what else to say about it, though, other than that I am ashamed of our past. I think the engraving near the exit of the tour says it best:

"In everlasting memory of the anguish of our ancestors. May those who died rest in peace. May those who return find their roots. May humanity never again perpetrate such injustice against humanity. We. The living. Vow to uphold this."

'Pen?'

2008-06-29T11:40:00.000-07:00

AT A RESTAURANT alongside a rural highway, a pre-teen girl ran up to our bus and smiled.

“Pen?” She asked. Like most children here, she was beautiful. The children have big eyes and innocent smiles, and when they look at me my heart melts. I want to give them everything.

As her brothers and sisters looked on curiously from afar, Nick reached into his bag and handed her a Bic. She ran to her family and showed it to them. As a sign of appreciation, she looked back at us and danced.

We stopped at a restaurant for a quick bathroom break. We’ve been driving to Cape Coast for nearly two hours, and much of it has been spent barreling down this rural highway, which is lined with green shrubs and tall grass.

As we pulled from the back toward the highway, the kids starting running after s and waving, calling out for more pens. We were told before we came to Ghana to bring extra pens because most children here don’t have school supplies.

On this weekend trip, I only brought one. But I couldn’t resist. I pulled it from my bag and handed it out the window. The oldest girl, the one who asked for the first pen, snatched it off the ground, causing her younger brother to start crying. They continued chasing us until we pulled onto the highway. But when I looked back, I saw the girl handing it over to the teary-eyed boy. I smiled. It reminded me of my sister and me when we were young.

The nima school and the girl in pink

2008-06-29T11:34:00.000-07:00

YESTERDAY WE CLIMBED from bed early to visit a school in Nima, a poor Muslim community in the greater Accra area. Leslie told us there are an estimated 60,000 kids in Nima, and only about 30 percent are in school. At the one we saw today, there were only about 100 children. Several others hung anxiously around the doors. Their parents are unable to afford the GH$ 90 it costs to pay for school there each year.

To get to the school, we wound through a maze of narrow avenues created between shanty walls. We walked into the school. There were cement floors and holes in the ceiling, but it didn’t seem out of place. For Ghana, it felt like a nice place.

The children, who were from kindergarten to 12-year-olds, prepared dances and poems to present to us. As we watched, a small girl, who couldn’t have been older than 5, approached me nervously. She wore a pink shirt, and it contrasted greatly with the purple and green uniforms all the others wore. She didn’t come closer until I patted the empty seat next to me. I later learned that she didn’t attend the school because she couldn’t afford it. Instead, she waited there, perhaps hoping that one day someone would come to help her.

Today was her day.

After the dancing and the poems, and after we took pictures, Leslie, Molly and a few others set bags of donations on a table in the center of the room. The small girl left me and started clinginig to Jessica. She held her as everyone danced until it was time to leave. Jessica set her down and walked away, but the girl followed. She followed us all the way out to the street, and when Jessica pointed for her to leave with her friend, the girl started crying. Jessica turned to Leslie and told her the situation. Leslie made a cash donation to the school earlier in the day, and when she heard about the girl in pink, she told the principle that she wanted her money to pay for the girl’s education.

Before leaving, our group stood together outside the bus, feeling privileged and deeply moved by what we had seen. These children were so happy, and dancing with them while their teacher played the drums was like a scene from a movie. We shared our experiences; my personal favorite was that the children asked Scot, a tall student in our group who is half white and half black, if he was Barack Obama.

Soccer at the school

2008-06-29T11:22:00.000-07:00

THIS AFTERNOON WE WALKED up the road to an elementary school to play soccer (which is called football here, obviously).

As soon as we arrivied at the school, kids amassed onto the field, wanting to play with us. A new and inflated football is hard to come by around here, so when some obronis come by with one the kids can’t say no to a game. We split up teams and starting and hit the field, which was all reddish-brown dirt. For goals, there were no nets or posts; they were marked with broken cinder blocks.

The kids were talented. They weaved in and out of defenders. They bounced the ball off their knees and chests.

Ken, Nick and Sheena played with them for the full two hours, but I stepped out early to take pictures. The kids were so happy, and not just happy to see us, but happy to be alive. Even when I’ve gone to playgrounds in the U.S., I’ve never seen this level of energy and excitement. They hammed for the camera and climbed on our backs. I’m no good at football, but I love playing with children. I wanted to get every second on camera.

The game was close, and at the end had to be determined by penalty shots. When it finally ended, about 20 kids followed us nearly to our house, asking if they could come inside. But the road split and we parted ways before we made it home. We’re definitely going back again.

And I thought I was an investigative reporter...

2008-06-29T11:20:00.000-07:00

THE WALK FROM OUR HOUSE TO THE UNIVERSITY OF GHANA campus is short and laborious, but it comes with a great reward – our lecture room is air conditioned. We went there on Tuesday and Wednesday for lectures about Ghana’s media history, advertising and broadcast journalism.

A late addition to the lecture list, however, was Anas Amereyaw. Anas is one of only a handful of investigative reporters in Ghana, and he’s clearly the best. He’s been named Ghana’s Investigative Journalist of the Year each year the award has been offered, he’s Ghana’s current Journalist of the Year and he’s won nearly a dozen international awards for his work. Anas is the editor of the Crusading Guide, a mid-sized publication that comes out on Mondays, Thursdays and Fridays. Molly will be working at his paper, and he told her she’ll be able to get her hands dirty.

He was a nice change of pace from some of the other lecturers, who, although interesting, couldn’t exactly keep everyone’s attention for the full 90 minutes. Anas was as good a story-teller as his is reporter. Of all the war stories I’ve heard investigative reporters tell about their experiences digging for stories, none can even hold a candle to Anas.

He told us how he went undercover and got a job as a janitor at a brothel that was suspected of using child prostitutes. The police had arrested the suspect several times, but never had enough evidence for a conviction. Anas went undercover and brought a hidden camera to capture the evidence and close the illegal brothel permanently. He even orchestrated a ploy to shut the power down so someone could install brighter lights so he could get clearer footage.

When he was in Thailand accepting an award, he stumbled across a story that rocked Ghana. He was strolling on the beach when he encountered some Ghanaians who were there attending a funeral. The men told them their Ghanaian friend had been stabbed to death with a fork in prison, and Anas soon learned that there were many Ghanaians in this prison being tortured. Unfortunately he didn’t have access to the prison without his passport, which had been taken by airport officials when he arrived. Instead, Anas convinced a priest to let him wear his robes and sneak into the prison to speak with the Ghanaians. He got their story and the Ghanaian government got the prisoners transferred to Ghana.

And this is just a snippet of his accomplishments.

One of the things I found most interesting about Anas’ presentation is that he practices so many of the journalistic doctrines that are rare even in the U.S.

“What can I do that will be much different from what others have done?” He says, adding that most of the journalists just cover politics and write only what the politicians say. Anas does everything he can to get to the real truth.

“It’s the most important weapon we have,” he says. “We are an integral part of the development of this country.”

See you in a few days

2008-06-26T10:07:00.000-07:00

I ONLY HAVE a few minutes of internet here, so I'll be brief. In the past few days I've done a tremendous amount: I went to a school and played soccer, another school and Molly made donations and gone to a garden.

I uploaded a few new photos, but I'll have to post my writings next week. This weekend we're going to Cape Coast to visit the biggest former slave castle in Ghana. It's going to be quite an experience.

Making dinner

2008-06-25T07:47:00.000-07:00

THE HOTTEST ROOM IN THE HOUSE gets even warmer each evening. Leslie said that the UO groups that come to Ghana each year vary drastically on whether they go out to eat or cook for themselves. Clearly, we’re a cookin’ group. Most people buy noodles and spaghetti sauce, so the stove is a busy place. It's fun though, everyone bustling around each other to find their ingredients. Several nights this past week we've gone to various restaurants, which are always a welcome change considering much of my diet at our house consists of granola bars, mac and cheese and peanut butter and jelly sandwiches.

We've made it a priority of ours to discover new holes-in-the-wall for us to get food. Two days ago we found a bar, called Wazzu (unfortunate name, I know) just across the street. There are no lights and most of the plastic deck chairs are broken, but the people are nice and the beer is cheap.

Downtown Accra, and Nima, Ghana

2008-06-25T07:46:00.000-07:00

NEVER IN MY LIFE have I been so amazed at my surroundings. Every thing I saw was indescribable. There were people everywhere, keeping shops, chopping bananas, selling from baskets on their heads. There were so many colors: reddish brown dirt, black asphalt, yellow flags and billboards, green fruit, blue plastic baskets. We saw children running and playing. We saw babies strapped to their mother’s backs as they worked. We saw disabled people begging for help on the streets.

One of the blind men came up to Molly’s window at a stop light.

“Please help.” We could barely make out what he was saying. Molly glanced at me, looking emotional. She was slightly afraid but mostly sympathetic.

“I can’t just do nothing,” she said, shuffling through her pocket until she found a coin GH$ 1. By the time she got her fingers on it, though, it was too late. Our bus already started pulling through the intersection.

Throughout the rest of our journey, we didn’t see many more disabled people. We drove through downtown Accra and saw the stadium, parliamentary and the ocean. We learned that in 1998, President Bill Clinton came and spoke to Ghanaians in a huge square known as the Black Star Square near the parliament, and it was the first time a standing U.S. president had ever spoken in Africa. Everywhere we went, especially in Nima, we waved at Ghanaians and they waved and smiled back. The children would chase our bus excitedly yelling, “Obroni! Obroni!”

Dr. Williams stood in the isle way as we drove and told us about Ghana, its past, its problems and its prosperities. He told us how many educated people leave Ghana for wealthier lives in Europe. Even though a Ghanaian doctor or professor makes roughly GH$ 1,000 per month and the per capita annual income is GH$ 400, those professions don’t make enough to keep them in Ghana. Unfortunately, the exodus of educated Ghanaians is hurting the country, Williams said. A Ghanaian must pay between GH$ 200 to GH$ 400 per year to attend college, and part of their education is subsidized by the government. When those educated doctors leave the country and work in England, it’s essentially a third-world country subsidizing physician’s education for the richest in the world, he told us. It’s a vicious cycle that leaves hospitals ghastly understaffed.

Although there is poverty, people do make a good living here. There are Lexuses and BMWs on the road, and I’ve seen many nice houses surrounded by barbed wire. Almost all the Ghanaians I’ve seen in a professional setting are extremely well dressed. Better than many people I see in Portland. They’re fashion sense is great. They were clean-pressed button-up shirts, nice slacks and spotless shoes. Many of the clothes they wear are designer brands.

I’m not sure which professions allow this type of buying power, or whether the prices are just so low in some places that they’re able to afford it. I’m determined to find out.

The University, the bathroom and the most amazing drive of my life

2008-06-25T07:40:00.000-07:00

THE DUSTY WHITE BUS, equipped with aging seats and a cracked windshield, groaned to a stop on a dirt road inside the University of Ghana campus. We had just wound our way through roughly a mile of campus roads, framed with palm trees and bushes, before coming to a clearing at the top of the hill. To our right, the view took my breath away.

Leslie instructed our driver, Steven, to stop the bus so we could get out. I exploded out the front door onto a patch of grass.

“Wow,” I said under my breath. In front of me were miles upon miles of Accra. What we were seeing was only a portion of one of the suburbs, Dr. Williams told us. Although the clouds and smog made it difficult to see, I could tell the city extended beyond the horizon. Smoke from a small garbage fire billowed into the sky. We snapped a few photos and climbed back on the bus.

Touring the University of Ghana’s campus was an impressive adventure. There are all the departments you would expect to find in any major state university in America: archeology, mathematics, chemistry, psychology, communication studies and more. Each department had its own building, many of which were built with impressive, block-like architecture. The buildings looked like they were made with stucco.

After our tour, we went inside the U of G bookstore, where Molly bought a few children’s books and postcards. I flipped through the pages of book that taught Twi, the native language, before finding my way to a restroom. And lemme tell ya, that was an adventure. The nearest facility was a little more than a block away from the bookstore at the ICT center, an air conditioned building full of computer labs, offices and classrooms. I asked the guard where to find the toilet. He handed me a key and pointed down a short hallway.

“To the left,” he said.

I entered the restroom but couldn’t find any toilet paper. I returned to the guard.

“T-roll?” I asked.

It took me a few moments to understand him, but eventually I figured that he wanted me to ask the professor administering an exam.

“Oh well,” I thought. Everybody poops. They did write a book about it, after all.

Fortunately, the professor saw me coming and approached me before I had to enter the classroom.

“T-roll? Mepowacho (please)” I said.

“Ah,” he smiled. “Come wit me.”

I followed him up three flights of stairs to his office, which he kept locked and tidy. He pulled a roll from his desk drawer and handed me a key to a different restroom across the hall.

“Medahsay (Thank you)” I said.

Feeling better, I returned to the stone steps in front of the bookstore where everyone was waiting to get on the bus.

The bus belongs to the Aya Center, which is an institute within the University of Ghana that administers international programs, I think. It’s slightly aging, but it’s a great piece of transportation for the 13 of us. There are two individual leather-padded chairs on each side of the isle, and each one of us could have our own set. Our driver has been working with the program for several years and has been in no accidents, Leslie said.

From what I saw of him today, she is right. He is a good driver. Traffic in Ghana is intense, and he navigated it very well for a bus that size. He drove us to a nearby suburb where we were given a buffet of plantains, fish, chicken, rice and steamed vegetables. I stuffed myself and enjoyed and orange Fanta from a glass bottle.

After eating, we headed back on the bus for a tour of part of Accra and Nima, a poorer and more Muslim community nearby.

Is that sweat or are you just excited to see me?

2008-06-25T07:38:00.000-07:00

THE AIR IS SO HOT AND SO MOIST that the paint is rubbing off my laptop. I don’t mind losing the paint, though, because it adds an endearing quality to the computer; it shows that it’s been a few places. My body, on the other hand, isn’t taking so kindly to the warm weather.

I feel great for the most part, but the sweat, oh my, the sweat. The first day we went on a walk in the afternoon, and although I sweat heavily, it felt good; I carried that natural and euphoric feeling you get when you sit in a sauna for a while.

But imagine never leaving that sauna.

Rather than getting more used to the weather, it seems as though my body is getting more upset with it. It’s not that I’m uncomfortable or don’t feel well – because I feel great – it’s just that people literally ask me if I’ve dumped a bucket of water on my face after a brisk walk outside. Perhaps the increased sweating is a sign that I’m getting used to the climate, and this is my body’s way of dealing with things. But I hope not. I hope the sweating subsides. Otherwise, I’m just going to have to get used to looking like I just finished a game of full-court basketball.

Right now, as I sit on my gray jersey bed sheets, the white window curtain tickling at my back, my sweat is starting to fade. I just returned to the house after spending much of the day at the University of Ghana and the Pizza Inn, a nearby pizza parlor that has a buy-one-get-one-free deal on Tuesdays. Ten of us split eight. It was just as delicious as when I ate it on Friday, although on Friday I didn’t pull a small piece of shredded metal from a slice of Hawaiian… hmm… at least I caught it in my mouth, not my small intestine. I hate to imagine what that would have done to my insides.

On the walk home we stopped at the Bush Canteen, a local market that sells cell phone accessories, food and clothes, among other random items. Molly and I wanted to return there so we could get new batteries for the watches we bought on Friday. They charged us – ahh! I just checked my watch and it stopped working again! What a debacle. Anyway, the charged us GH$ 4 for two new batteries. I guess I’ll be going back there again tomorrow to try and trade for a new one. I specifically didn’t buy new batteries for the watch I have at home because I figured there would be good deals on watches here in Ghana. I was right, considering I paid only GH$ 4 for this one; unfortunately it didn’t occur to me that actually getting it to work would be this much hassle.

Ladies and gentlemen, meet ‘Doc’

2008-06-25T07:23:00.000-07:00

IN AN ATTEMPT to acquaint you with some of the new people in my life, let me tell you about Dr. Michael Williams. “Doc,” as he’s affectionately known among his students, is a 60-ish-year-old professor at the University of Ghana. He hasn’t told us his age, but he’s lived in Ghana for about 20 years and he moved here when he was 39. He has some curly gray hair spotting his short hair, and circular glasses. Each time I’ve seen him he’s worn a traditional Ghanaian gown, usually in earth tones. Doc was born and raised in Washington D.C., and attended college in the U.S. When Leslie moved to Ghana in the 90s they were neighbors, and have stayed close friends ever since. Doc works at the Aya Center, which administers study abroad programs. He’s helping us get situated, and when Leslie leaves in a few weeks, he’ll be our primary teacher.

GH$ 6 for these seats? You bet!

2008-06-23T10:45:00.000-07:00

THE STREET OUTSIDE the stadium was crammed with people. There were people selling Ghanaian apparel on blankets near the entrance. There were women selling bags of water out of baskets on their heads and their children strapped to their backs.

We followed Sonny to steal turn-gates and he told us to form a single-file line. In a small tunnel, a young boy tried to sneak in behind Molly, but he was caught by the ticket taker. The ticket taker was not amused. He shouted at him angrily and smacked his head.

Once through the gate, we were patted down by military men. They let us through with no trouble, and we paused to take photos with a family that was painted head to toe in the colors of Ghana’s flag.

We made our way to our section, but our seats were taken. No problem. We walked down a few rows and sat – all 14 of us – in the third row. They were great seats, and it’s surprising we were able to sit there, considering many of the stairways were stuffed with fans.

The energy in the stadium rivals that of Autzen. It wasn’t quite as loud, but when the Black Stars (the team is named after the black star in the center of the Ghanaian flag) scored a goal, their celebrations were identical to when Dixon would run one in. People hugged one another. They jumped. They ran around. They blasted eardrum-piercing blow horns.

But the energy also sparked three fights in our section, most of them over seating. Fists flew in only one fight, and in the others, the people sitting in nearby seats quickly calmed the men down.

The game was a blast. The Black Stars won 2-0. Tomorrow we have to be up at 8:30 for a few lectures at the house and the University of Ghana. Well I’d love to write more, but most of my group is sitting around the living room sharing stories. See you soon.

The Tro Tro

2008-06-23T10:43:00.000-07:00

STEPPING ONTO the dilapidated van, which had been gutted to fit about four benches, unleashed a cocktail of emotions: a little excitement, a little fear and a lot of uncertainty.

The Tro Tro is the transportation of choice – I take that back – transportation of necessity – for most Ghanaians. Yes, there are some Lexuses and BMW’s, but most of the cars on the road are these 15-person vans, and most of the time their stuffed with travelers. Many of the vans have cracked windshields, rusting floors and peeling leather seats. The sliding door is sometimes left open when it’s not full so that a Tro Tro worker can call to pedestrians to see if they need a ride.

This afternoon we took our first Tro Tro ride. Sonny, Dr. Williams’ assistant, got tickets to the Ghana Black Stars football game today. He arrived at our house around 3:30 p.m. and walked with us out to the main road.

From there, and after about three attempts, Sonny flagged an empty Tro Tro that could carry all 14 of us. I was the first to climb in. I maneuvered the small isle on the left of the seats and plopped down in the back row next to the window. The leather seats cracked beneath me, exposing cream-colored foam. My knees pressed against the seats in front of me. The seats were comfortable enough, but the Tro Tro’s have no seat belts. This is where my fear shot in: I’ve already seen two accidents (neither of which was deadly, however). Traffic is crazy here. People are always passing each other, and intersections remind me of elementary school kids playing red rover red rover.

We made it to the football stadium safely, but our driver cut off a group of motorcyclists in a large round-about, and seconds later we heard repeated loud bangs that sounded like gun shots.

Josh ducked. My eyes darted everywhere.

“Were those gunshots?!” Everyone questioned. Sonny and our driver said the motorcycles were backfiring. Molly thought they did it on purpose in order to say “Fuck you!” to our driver. Our driver agreed with her.

But Scot insists he saw one of the motorcycle’s passengers raise a gun-shaped object into the air before the noise.

I can’t know for sure because I didn’t see it, but I don’t think it was gunfire. Ghana is not that barbaric. People here are too friendly. I did notice that there was a police officer posted on the side of the road where we heard the noises. I would hope the police would stop someone from firing a gun into the air. Nevertheless, we were fine. At lunch the next day, Dr. Williams and Leslie said it had to have been backfire.

About 20 minutes later, I stepped off the Tro Tro in front of the Ghanaian stadium, which probably holds about 30,000 to 40,000 fans. Whew; it’s just one incredible experience to another.

“When I say Barack, you say Obama!”

2008-06-22T13:50:00.000-07:00

For the third night in a row, our group went to the Chez Afrique, the restaurant Dr. Williams’ wife owns. The place has great food, and the neighboring store has cheap liquor. The band that played last night liked to get the crowd involved by starting chants.

“When I say ah, you say ae! Ah!”

“Ae!”

Over and over.

Our favorite, though, was when he said, “When I say Barack you say Obama! Barack!”

“Obama!”

There were three Obroni groups there, one from Louisiana, one from California and us from Oregon. When the Obama chant started, the Americans roared.

The market

2008-06-22T13:49:00.000-07:00

YESTERDAY WE WENT to another market that was closer to downtown Accra. This place is also much like Portland’s Saturday Market, although the shop owners are much pushier. Apparently the shops are completely illegal, under-the-table type stuff. Nevertheless, the art work and sculptures were amazing. But all the shops had nearly identical painting styles and wood carvings. I asked the owners if they made them, and each one said yes. It’s hard to believe, though, because their shelves were so stocked with identical carvings that they looked like they were produced in a factory. I asked a teenage boy who was working in one of the shops how long it took to create one.

“About five days,” he said.

“Five days?” I thought. I couldn’t believe I was going to bargain him down from a GH$ 10 asking price. I can’t know for sure, but I would guess that all of their income comes from these shops – and for few hours we were there, I only saw a few other patrons. With the small amount they make from the passing Obronis, I can understand why they are so forceful about getting us to look at their shops. Walking down the dirt isles, shop owners would approached me and say, “My friend! My brother! Come! I must show you my store.”

It was hard to say no.

They would pull masks off the walls and put them in my hands. They would pluck paintings from piles and dangle them.

I decided not to buy anything. I’ll see lots of shops, and I’ll have plenty of time to go back. I did, however, buy a Ghana soccer jersey. The team, the Ghana Black Stars, plays this afternoon – and yes, we managed to get tickets =)

The handy man

2008-06-22T13:48:00.000-07:00

SAMUEL, one of our guards, came in just now and brought a handy man with him to fix the toilet. The handyman is wearing blue sweat pants, a grey “Toronto, Canada” shirt and no shoes. I’ve never seen a handyman like this before.

I don’t mean to scare you, but…

2008-06-22T13:45:00.000-07:00

The girl who told me that there was nearly no violent crime in Accra must not have read the papers (but don’t worry, I’ll protect your identity). It’s either that, or she was specifically referring to the area of Accra where we live, East Legon, which is one of the two wealthiest areas in the country.

It only took a few moments reading yesterday’s Daily Graphic to see that crime isn’t all that uncommon.

Here’s a sample of the headlines:

“Laborer attempts raping woman, 80”

“Suspected armed robber gunned down”

“Parent’s pay GH$ 25,000 ransom for girl’s release”

Let me remind you not to be worried (especially you, mom =)). So far we’ve walked nearly every where, including at night, and everyone is very friendly, much friendlier than in the U.S. But I think they are friendlier only because we are Obronis and they are excited to see us -- and I'm excited to see them.

“Welcome to Africa”

2008-06-22T13:44:00.000-07:00

I was already drenched in sweat when it happened. I had just finished eating (a well rounded chicken hot dog and oatmeal, I might add) when everything went dark.

Before I could say, ‘Who cut the lights?” I realized – the power went out.

“Welcome to Africa,” Leslie said. She had just picked up our final two group members from the airport. The two, Scot and Josh, had only been here maybe 10 minutes before loosing power.

No power? Shit. Mind my bounced to all the food I had stored in the refrigerator: orange juice, hot dogs, water. It bounced again to all the things I would never be able to keep: chicken, marinara sauce, milk.

I navigated the dark hallway to my room and felt my way to my flashlight, which I had sitting on my floor. Thank goodness I brought it. It was a last-minute grab, too.

But before I could get used to the dark house, the power sputtered back on. Whew. I just wonder how often that will happen? My laptop was plugged in when it occurred, but it’s operating just fine.

Talk about a deadline

2008-06-21T06:19:00.000-07:00

I ONLY HAVE a few more minutes of internet time until I get booted. There is so much more I have to share; Molly and I have already taken more than 200 photos.

But for now, this will have to do. I'll be searching for a new program to upload photos, because I've nearly hit my free limit on Flickr.

Well, enjoy for now. Be sure to check out the slideshow on the right. Hopefully in a few days you'll get a new slew of posts.

Am I really here?

2008-06-21T06:13:00.000-07:00

11:32 AM. The clock on my computer still shows Oregon time. It’s funny to see it, though, because my new watch (which randomly started working again, by the way) tells me it is 6:30 in the evening. The sun has already set. It’s amazing how much cooler it gets here when the sun goes away. Even last night, when I was stilled shocked by the heat and humidity, I awoke mid-slumber and had to curl up under my bed sheet because I was cold. I brought I large comforter, but I doubt I’ll use it. I almost didn’t bring the thin bed sheet I used last night, but I’m glad I did. Otherwise I would either be overwhelmingly hot or completely exposed.
The temperature today is heading in that same direction. When we went out today, visiting the A and C mall, (insert link) and the Bush Canteen it was fantastically hot. Sweat gushed from my pours. But now, I’m sitting outside and it’s completely dark. It’s nice out, although I think I’m going to relocate because, despite caking myself in 40 percent DEET insect repellant, I’m quite wary of the hordes of mosquitoes that I expect will emerge. I’ve only seen a few now, but each time I feel an itch I become paranoid that I was bitten. Hopefully that Doxicyclin keeps me safe.

Obroni!

2008-06-21T06:08:00.000-07:00

WALKING UNDER the hottest sun I’ve ever felt, I got my first “Obroni!” The small children – no older than six – ran up to the seven of us Americans and curiously called to us: “Obroni!”
“Hello!” We called back. I pulled my camera from my pocket. “Can I take your picture?”
As soon as I finished asking, the kids ran away screaming. I guess not. It’s OK, though, because we got their picture later (photo to come).
But the moment was the first of many. Today, our group, which is still lacking seven of us, walked about a mile to have lunch at a fast food shop called “Bonjour.” Bonjour has two restaurants, one is a pizza place and the other is called the “Chicken Inn.”
I stuffed myself with at least four slices of cheese pizza – and the left over pile of Leslie’s rice. It was the first time I was able to eat today, other than the Cliff Bar and packet of 5-year-old Carnation Instant Breakfast (which I had to mix with water).
After eating, we crossed the street and went to the Bush Canteen, local market with lots of small shops. It reminded me of Portland’s Saturday Market, although this place was smaller and it carried more essential items, such as toothbrushes and beauty supplies. My favorite thing about that place is all the children there. They are so excited to see you, and each time they do, they call out, “Obroni,” (pronounced O – broo – nee) which in Ghana means white person. The children are so curious about you, and it feels good to receive that kind of attention. After this happened a few times, I felt a little empty when a few young kids walked by and acted as though we didn’t exist.
But the brief emptiness was replaced by fascination. Everything here is different, yet also very similar to the U.S. We went to a mall with a grocery store, including an electronics shop and ATM machines.
One thing that is quite unusual is the goats and chicken that are running around everywhere.
At the market, I found a table where a man sold watches – something I desperately needed, considering my cell phone no longer works and I didn’t have another way to tell time. I bought this one, (photo to come) but unfortunately the battery died only 45 minutes after I bought it. I’m planning to go see him again today to get a new one.
Well, I’m out of time for now. People are heading out and I need to go meet that watch seller again. Hopefully I can get this posted sometime today.

DAY 2

2008-06-21T06:07:00.000-07:00

OF ALL the amenities in the United States, the one I currently miss the most is an internet connection. And it’s not because I have some Web site I’m obsessed with, rather I want to write in my blog. The system I’ve established is writing on my computer and loading my writing and photos onto a flash drive and hopping on a computer at an internet café. But I use the word established loosely; I haven’t actually done this yet. I have only typed on my computer.
Traveling here was no problem, and I’ve adjusted remarkably well to the time zone. I’m not jet lagged whatsoever, and I was able to sleep perfectly well last night. I credit that to our flight leaving at 4 p.m. from Oregon and arriving at 11 a.m. in Amsterdam, their time. The flight allowed me to adjust myself to thinking I was arriving in the morning, rather than 1 a.m. Oregon time.

The ride home

2008-06-21T06:06:00.000-07:00

DR. WILLIAMS' ASSISTANT, Sonny, helped us stuff Leslie’s station wagon with luggage. And I mean stuff. The trunk and one of the back seats was filled with luggage. I had my backpack on my lap. The manual engine struggled to start the weighted car as Molly and I clung to each other in the back seat – and no, it wasn’t exactly a love cling – there were no seatbelts.
Then it got worse.
We turned off the main road onto a dark suburban street, revealing that we had no headlights. Leslie assumed they weren’t working after trying a few switches unsuccessfully. We peered nervously from the back seat into a dark abyss ahead. Leslie would occasionally drift onto the tiny gravel shoulder before correcting to the opposite side of the road. She drove about 25 miles per hour, and for the first several blocks, this method of shoulder to swerve worked well. Then Elon, sitting in the front seat, noticed we were heading strait toward a barrier that framed a round-about intersection.
Fortunately the car has good brakes.

We made it

2008-06-21T06:03:00.000-07:00

THE FLIGHT from Oregon to Amsterdam went by surprisingly fast. Our flight had movie screens on the back of each headrest, and so after playing a few games of computerized trivia against my passenger mates, I was able to take full advantage of the system and watch “After the Sunset,” “Horton hears a Who” and “The Negotiator.” (insert links for the movies). Fortunately, the timing of our flight buffered us against any jet lag. We left Oregon at 4 p.m. and arrived in Amsterdam at 11 a.m. their time. When I stepped off the plane – and ever since then – I’ve felt perfectly aligned with the local time.
Walking off the air plane and up the terminal in Amsterdam was like hitting a wall of body odor and cigarettes. The airport itself wasn’t that bad, but it certainly wasn’t as open or as organized as PDX. One of the things that immediately struck me about that airport is that you had no idea about where anyone was from. I would see a white person, who appeared as though they were American, and they would open their mouths to expose Dutch. The Netherlands also carries some interesting warning labels on their cigarettes,(insert link) some that I do not think would go over well in the U.S.
Molly and I hung out in the airport for a while before wading through a line of more than a hundred people to get on our flight to Accra. She and I were one of about 10 Obronis, and I began to really feel as though I was in another place.
Although I tried not to, I slept during most of the flight to Accra. I wanted to stay awake to watch “American Gangster” and “The Bucket List,” but my eyes wouldn’t allow it. Around 7 p.m. we landed in Accra and climbed out of the plane on a metal staircase covered with a plastic ceiling. Emerging from the chilly airplane was like stepping into a hot bathroom after someone has taken a shower. The air stuck to me. Sweating was futile; all it did was collect on my skin and clothes.
It took us more than an hour to get through immigration and collect our bags. Leaving the airport was an incredible experience. We stepped out of a wide hallway and into a large open area where hundreds of Ghanaians stood behind a hip-level barricade as they waited for guests. People from the airport were funneled into a walkway between the metal barricades and met with a swarm of people. After only a few moments, Elon (insert link), another member of our group, spotted us and brought us to Leslie, our program director. But just as we were warned during our Ghana preparation class, several men tried to approach us and help us with our bags, which we could already easily handle. These men were not trying to help because they were chavanists, or because they worked for the airport. Instead, they were just citizens trying to earn a few bucks. The followed us to the car and pestered us for payment. They were hard to understand, but I repeated that we didn’t need any help. I tried to offer them some change but they refused and said we should pay them about $5.

Internet, finally

2008-06-21T04:58:00.000-07:00

Well I'm here in the internet cafe, and getting online and on a computer with a working USB drive has been quite the adventure. This place is nice enough; it's in the A&C mall, and it has one brick wall and one bright yellow one. If I didn't know better, I'd think I was in the U.S.

It cost me GH$ 2 (one Ghanaian dollar equals one U.S) for a cab ride over here. Hopefully I'll get regular internet access this week when we're on campus for school and when I start work at the Daily Graphic next week.

More to come momentarily...

Oops

2008-06-18T14:57:00.000-07:00

My bags were stuffed, zipped and ready to go. I was about to load them into the car when it dawned on me that I should make a few more copies of my passport.
What a bad decision.
I made the copies and tucked them away, but -- I hate to admit it -- I left my passport sitting on the bathroom counter. Unfortunately for me, my mom, dad and girlfriend, I didn't realize it until airport personnel asked to see it before we could check in.
But don't worry, as you noticed from the photo, I got it (thanks to the heroics of my mother and father). It only took a few swear words and about 45 minutes.
Well, I'm about to board the plane. It's a nine-and-a-half hour flight. Eek. See you on the other side.

Twi

2008-06-17T23:42:00.000-07:00

Most Ghanaians speak Twi (pronounced Chwee) as well as English. My girlfriend, Molly Bedford, is coming to Ghana with the same program as myself. She had an interesting post today about the language:

(in the parenthesis is how I would phonetically pronounce it)

Akwaaba - Welcome
Me da ase (Ma da say) - Thank you
Ete Sen? (Ete Sang?) - How are you?
Eye - I am fine
Ye fre wo sen? (Ya fre wo sen?) - What is your name?
Maa Kye (Ma Che) - Good morning
Maa ha - Good afternoon
Maa dwo (module) - Good night
Ende (Andey) - Today
Baako - One
Te sew - I want to pay less (I specifically asked this one in class ;) )
ensue - bottled water
Obroni - white person
Obibini - black person

Preconceived notions

2008-06-14T21:15:00.000-07:00

In the days leading up to my departure for Ghana, (which is now four days away) I've paid close attention to how people perceive the country I'll be living in. When I tell people where I'm going, all they understand is that I'm going to Africa, a place they know to be war-torn and wrought with famine. Corruption, they think. Violence. War. Disease. AIDS. The chances must be great that I'll be in danger's cross hairs.

The truth is that Ghana isn't really like that. Friends of mine who have lived there during the summer have said in six week's time they heard of only one stabbing in Accra, Ghana's largest urbanized city of roughly three million. One stabbing. We're lucky if we have only one stabbing a week in the state of Oregon, which has roughly the same size population.

This afternoon, my mom, who was half joking, said I ought to enjoy the bowl of ice cream I was eating because they don't have ice cream in Ghana -- or water, or electricity. She was kidding, but there was also a hint of uncertainty. But she's not the only person to make that suggestion. Others have taken it a step further, saying that because Ghana is lacking so much of what we're used to every day, that must make it less safe. And although it's true that Ghana is lacking American amenities, it's funny how many people extrapolate that into thinking Ghana is unsafe. Most of the world lives more like Ghanaians than Americans. The U.S. is enormous, but many of us are living on an island.

I'm not afraid of going, but I must admit that I really don't know what to expect there. I know my life will change. The only way to truly know anything is to experience it yourself.

If anything, I know I'm going to be sweaty. The temperature there right now is 86 degrees, and the average is, well, not available.

Goodbye room, we hardly knew ye

2008-06-14T21:08:00.000-07:00

It's amazing how much life we can bring to a room just by keeping our things there. Moving in is like CPR. Moving out is, well, the opposite. Right now I'm sitting on the edge of my bed, still grimy from a hard day of packing, and I keep glancing up at the bare walls around me, thinking about the memories I created while living here the past two years. Being in a room without anything in it is unsettling. It feels like the room is pulling at you. It's cold. But just two days ago, this room had a personality; it breathed with me.

I leave for Ghana in less than two weeks.

2008-06-06T19:51:00.000-07:00

This is just a test to see how photos upload to Blogger. I might have to use something faster, like Flicker. Stay tuned. This blog is about to light up. I will be writing about all of my experiences and posting them to this blog. Internet connection is slow, so hopefully I'll be able to get all the videos and pictures up that I take.

music video class project

2008-03-02T21:41:00.000-08:00

Ahh, covering crime in the suburbs (part 2)

2007-07-25T23:05:00.000-07:00

Report: Stolen vehicle
report description: Reporting party called to report his gold 2000 Nissan frontier stolen, then remembred he parked it downtown.

_______________________

Report: Noise complaint

report description: A bunch of teenie boppers at location being very loud

and later....

report: suspicious circumstances

report description: reporting party walked by location, stopped to tie his shoe, and resident flipped out, hit a fence post against a tree and broke it, officer contacted residented, case number pulled for officer.

Ahh, covering crime in the suburbs

2007-07-25T23:04:00.000-07:00

call type: theft
report description: theft of 2 cans of sodapop two nights ago from reporting party's vehicle.

More vingettes

2007-07-25T23:01:00.000-07:00

As the hot sun baked the Plymouth minivan in the parking lot outside Fry's Electronics, the two young girls, ages four and two, began to squirm inside.

Officer Robert Carrillo tried to get them to open the door, but the four-year-old, strapped in a child seat, couldn't reach the door, police said.

Officers couldn't find their parents. They paged the loudspeaker inside the store. No luck.

Carrillo's partner, Officer Jon Campbell, called paramedics and the fire department. Nearly 20 minutes had past, and the only solution to free the girls was to break in.

Fire fighters arrived, and just before they made the call to pry the door open with a large crow bar, the father came out of the store, arms full of computer equipment.

The burrito debacle

2007-07-01T23:38:00.000-07:00

The greatest piece of sound ever...

2007-07-01T23:18:00.000-07:00

I bet you can't listen to this fewer than 10 times.

From the most philosophical 3rd grader in America to two dead bodies

2007-07-01T22:16:00.000-07:00

That juxtaposition sounded less inappropriate in my head.

Nonetheless, those were the two stories I worked on for The Oregonian on Tuesday. Around 11:30 a.m. I was just leaving a calm interview at the Lake Oswego home of 9-year-old Wesley Wells, who was just recently named the most philosophical 3rd grader in America, when my editor called and told me police had found two dead bodies in the Willamette River not too far from where I had done my interview.

Outside in my hot car I glanced over a dusty map to find Old River road, where some kayakers found the bodies. I drove there but didn't find police, only a KOIN TV news van. Fortunately KOIN reporters pointed me to some neighbors who had witnessed the discovery.

For the next hour, I knocked on the doors of fancy LO houses in 85 degree heat to just one interview and a phone number.

Here's the story: Identities sought for bodies in Willamette

...and the follow up: Bodies found in Willamette ID'd

It's amazing how much work can go into such a short amount of story.

I am official a blogger (in my own mind)

2007-06-07T14:39:00.000-07:00

I've been blogging for a while now, but I finally feel like a blogger. I'm returning to the Emerald next year as a news reporter, and I plan to keep my own blog about the stories that I write. I want to do video, slideshows and audio on my blog also, so that it will be the ultimate training ground/portfolio builder for an aspiring journalist.

Conferences, classes and readings have solidified what a blog should be: specific, lively, in-depth and to the point. It will be interesting, though, for a news reporter to keep a blog. I'll have to be mindful not to insert opinion into my blog that will corrupt my unbiased reporting. Instead, I'll have my blog be an extension to the print version. I'll talk about my story, post additional photos and video I'll gather during my reporting.

I am convinced that the future of journalism is a mergence of technologies, and I hope to be proficient at many skills.

The changing landscape of the media

2007-06-05T13:47:00.000-07:00

Philip Meyer is right about journalism being a science.

I've learned a thing about objectivity this year, and I think Philip Meyer hit the nail on the head in his column, "Journalism must evolve — and quickly." He said that journalism needs to be more like science. How they reach a conclusion based on objective measures of the world. And that's really what journalism's goal should be: To reach conclusions based on objective evaluations and reportings of what's happening.

Reading his column was an epiphany for me in a way. I had realized a few weeks ago that objectivity was more of a method than a goal when discussing the issue with classmates. I still didn't fully grasp what I was saying, though, until I read this column and compared reporting to science.

Writing about domestic abuse

2007-05-31T09:52:00.000-07:00

A few weeks ago I went to the courthouse in search of a story for my reporting 2 class. We were supposed to just cover a sentencing, but I discovered something more meaningful.

There was a man being sentenced to 6 and 1/2 years in prison for beating and sodomizing his wife during a three-hour long attack. His wife was there and she stood up and gave a speech. Poised and unafraid, she told him she has moved past the incident and she hopes he will better himself while in jail.

The couple has one 5-year-old child and another that's just months from birth.

After the sentencing ended, I chased the woman out of the courtroom and said, "Hi, my name is Ryan Knutson, I'm writing a story about this sentencing and I'd like to tell your story."

She agreed, and we talked for close to 40 minutes. I learned she was a UO student and that the attack made her want to dedicate a portion of her life to preventing domestic abuse.

I decided to use the incident as a leaping pad to tell a larger story about domestic abuse.

After writing the story, I called the woman back to verify facts and details. It was akward to ask her about the night she was beaten; I didn't want to force her to relive it, but I needed to get the facts correct to accurately tell her story.

The night before publication, I asked her if she wanted to use her name, and initially she said she didn't feel comfortable. I conceded, because typically newspapers do not publish the names of victims.

But about 10 minutes after we hung up, she called back and said she changed her mind. She thought that if she did stand up with her name that more people would feel empowered, and it would be easier for them to contact her if they wanted to share their stories.

She was right. When the story ran in the Emerald, I had multiple people contact me and say they had experienced similar trauma, and that they wished to get ahold of the source in the story.

It was a moving experience. I felt as though I had touched a number of readers by telling her story. By writing the story I also learned a lot about domestic abuse, and hopefully it's something I'll never have to experience either first hand or with family.

This I believe

2007-05-24T21:25:00.000-07:00

I never gave up.

From elementary school to high school, I always wanted to play on the varsity basketball team at Aloha High School.

I played on all the teams leading up to my freshman year in high school, but once we hit the big time, it turned out I was too short and too skinny. Coaches cut me from the freshman team and invited me to play on the 'B' team, which played in a rec league at the local basketball center.

At that time I thought the coaches simply made a mistake, and I would prove them wrong next year. So I did. I worked hard, practiced a lot and made the JV2 team my sophomore year. I started sometimes, and was a leader.

I tried out for the Junior Varsity team my junior year, expecting to be selected after playing a stellar year on Junior Varsity 2. At the end of tryouts, though, my expectations were shattered. It turned out — after going through a growth spurt — that I was still too skinny and now too slow to make the team.

My once easily attainable goal vanished. But there was still hope. The coach gave me a choice. He said he knew I was a hard worker and that I loved the Aloha program, and thus he wanted to give me the choice: stay on the team as a bench-warmer, or take the cut and go my separate way.

I labored over the decision, but soon I could only think of one concept: Perseverance. If I wanted to make varsity, as my goal had always been, I couldn't quit the team. I had to stay on and prove my worth.

So that's what I did.

I sacrificed my year of playing time by riding pine. But it was my attitude, not my aptitude, that determined my altitude. I used practices to prove myself, and never let go of my goal. I cheered loudest in games. I dove on the floor at practice. I showed up early; I left late. I was the emotional leader.

When my senior year rolled around, my hard work paid off. I made the team, and ended up seeing playing time. At the end of the season, with 10 seconds left in a big game with playoff implications, I was called in to rectify a 3-point deficit. I was the best three point shooter, and the coach wanted to give me my chance. I got the shot and hit a game-tying three at the buzzer.

Through all this, I believed that hard-work and perseverance through defeat would take me to my goals. My belief proved correct, and it changed who I am ever since.

Gabcast! Begin as you mean to go on #1

Blogging between the lines

2007-05-23T00:02:00.000-07:00

A blog I've admired for some time and have longed to replicate is the news is a conversation blog for the Spokesman Review newspaper.
This blog is a behind the scenes look at newsroom decision making, and I think it's a fantastic step in the right direction for newsroom transparency. A newspaper has a powerful influence on its community, and, in a way, it's a form over government in that it reflects public opinion and as we all know, Thomas Jefferson once said, "If I had to choose between government without newspapers or newspapers without government, I would unhesitatingly choose the latter."
The effort at The Spokesman to make readers feel more involved in their newspaper is outstanding. It makes readers feel more connected to their paper, and feel more of a connection.
It's also interesting.
Members of the news have interesting decisions to make, and they are key players in society. What gets published in the newspaper has a huge impact on the politics of a community, and thus the decisions about what is to be published should be clear to readers.
The blog involves readers in news decisions and broadens their understanding of why newspapers do what they do. In a mid-sized community such as Spokane, they likely serve a large presence in the community.
Recently there was a shooting in Moscow, Idaho, which is an area the Spokesman covers. I'm sure reader interest was peaked during that time as the wrote about covering that event.

Ruhl lecture

2007-05-13T20:07:00.000-07:00

Note: I published version of this in the Oregon Daily Emerald. My reflection follows

–––––––––––––––

Race is hard.
"It's the great conundrum of human existence,” Miami Herald columnist Leonard Pitts Jr. said Thursday during the School of Journalism and Communication’s 31st annual Ruhl Lecture.
Race is hard for the black person who has been oppressed, hated and marginalized in his or her life, he said.
Race is hard for the white person who will be called a racist no matter what he or she does, he said.
He said diversity is often used as a “distasteful catchphrase that we are to aspire to if we wish to consider ourselves enlightened.” It is not necessarily something Americans embrace without feeling pressure to behave in a politically correct manner.
Nevertheless, he said, it is important.
“Diversity is like broccoli,” he said. Seeking it is “not only moral and right, but also practical and right.”
Pitts urged journalists to listen to the stories people have to tell. He proposed that the job of journalists is to tell stories, dispel stereotypes and dismiss fear. Pitts said journalists need to accept the responsibility that comes with the authority; and by doing so, create respected morals.
The media have a greater responsibility to tell everyone’s story, but they haven’t done that very well, he said.
Pitts used www.yforum.com, a site where people can anonymously ask race-related questions that may be offensive or obvious, as evidence of the media’s inadequate telling of non-whites’ stories.
Pitts said despite many of the odd questions on the site such as, “Is it true that black people have an extra muscle in their calves?” the most telling question about American society is among the first posts the site ever received: It asked what an African-American household was like on a typical night.
People have a desire to break down their ignorance and learn about each other, but they’re too afraid to ask, he said.
“What does this tell you about the job the media has done (in telling peoples’ stories)?” he asked.

–––––––––––––––

Pitt's lecture moved me. His lecture was incredibly pertinent to this campus right now because there has been an ongoing discussion about racism on this campus. What was especially meaningful to me was to hear him say how race is difficult for white people because they will be called racist despite how they really act or feel. I feel like I have been victim of this just because I am a member of the media.
This raises another issue: There is institutionalized racism in the media. I can't really identify it because I don't really understand it. I don't make judgements about people based on their race. I don't think I am better than any other race.
But Pitts is right. We need to have conversations. We need to learn about one another. Once I know someone's story, I no longer see them as a white person or a black person, I'll see them as a father, mother, chocoholic or Lakers fan.

Should NBC have shown Cho's "multimedia manifesto?"

2007-04-28T11:00:00.000-07:00

Probably not.

That was the consensus of about 40 journalism students and professors at the University of Oregon on April 24. The video and the images were an assault on the American people, and their use on 24-hour cable news programs was especially offensive because they were played repeatedly for days.

But the journalists also agreed that there was probably no news organization in the country that wouldn't have shown at least a small portion of the video. Many felt the video answered the question about why Cho would have done such an awful thing.

Graduate student Hilary Lake was working on a research project at NBC when the package came in. She said she and most others at NBC didn't learn about the package until they saw the segment on NBC Nightly News. She said she was appalled by the video. She said several scheduled guests on the Today Show, who were victims of the shooting, canceled their appearances.

Juliann Newton, a visual arts professor, said the a very short clip of the video should have been used, not the nearly two minutes.

I said NBC should have just described the video on the air and put the video on its Web site. That way if people -- myself included -- could see the video for themselves if they are curious.

Others agreed.

The conversation shifted to the use of the images Cho sent to NBC. Mark Furman, an adjunct professor, brought slides of many front pages from papers across the nation. Many displayed large photos of Cho pointing a gun directly at the camera.

A GTF from South Korea said he thought using the gun photos was appropriate because it helped everyone experience the same thing as the victims. With that kind of emotive response, more people will understand the horror and do more to prevent it in the future, he said.

It was an interesting perspective that I never thought of.

Nevertheless, there's no way I would have put that on the front page of the Emerald. Neither did the Guard. Instead, they ran the mug shots of 30 of the 32 victims. The Guard thoughtfully remembered the school shootings at Thurston, and didn't want the community to feel that violence again by using the Cho photos. It was a smart call.

If the Va. Tech shootings happened at UO, and the shooter sent the Emerald a box of photos and a video. I would have put the video on our Web site after turning it over to authorities. We would have mentioned the video in print, but we absolutely would not have run the images of Cho holding guns on the front page.

Covering tremendous tragedy is difficult. But it's where the role of journalism is so important. The media frenzy that occurred on the Va. Tech campus didn't help the grieving process, but people across the country needed to know what was going on. The media have a responsibility to be sensitive to a hurting public. Using the photos of Cho was insensitive, and it contributed to the public's distrust of the news media. Many publications around the country were caught up in the sensalitionistic story-telling aspect, thinking thier designs and photos would sell papers.

Only one paper in the country really got it right the next day: The Collegiate Times, the campus newspaper at Va. Tech.

Their day-after coverage was a photo of people holding hands, and the word "HEARTACHE" was the headline. It was what the campus needed. No one on that campus needed to see a photo of the horror all over again, they needed to begin grieving.

LeBlanc recast

2007-04-26T22:55:00.000-07:00

Don't conduct journalism in a hurry. Use failure as success. Listen to your sources.

That's what Adrian Nicole LeBlanc preached last Thursday to a group of about 70 people at the University of Oregon.

And of her roughly hour-long speech on immersion journalism, that's about all the useful information I could glean from it. Our professor warned us about speakers who ramble, and LeBlanc was a good example of just that. I don't want to blame her, though, because her luggage was lost on her flight and she forgot her lecture notes before the speech. Nevertheless, LeBlanc made it clear that she didn't follow any stiff ethical guidelines about journalism because she was never taught them. She just musters up some courage and starts talking to people.

In her case, though, she talked to the same people for 12 years while working on her book, "Random Family: Love, Drugs, Trouble and Coming of Age in the Bronx."

She spoke a lot about ego, and said personal judgements can lead reporters to make incorrect assumptions. She suggested using those assumptions to ask questions.

She told of a time when she learned a source washed the clothes and shoes of her ex-boyfriend while he went on a date to the movies with his new girlfriend. LeBlanc thought the boyfriend was walking all over the ex-girlfriend, and that her loyalty to him was piteous. After asking the ex-girlfriend about it later, she told LeBlanc that she saw her washing her ex-boyfriends clothes as an act of pride and competition.

"Judgement can get in the way of the most mundane interaction," she said. "Know where your ego gets elbowed and then use it."

Rewrite reflection

2007-04-26T12:18:00.000-07:00

I don't feel comfortable rewriting news stories for a blog. Maybe I'm too stiff. Maybe I'm too serious. Actually, I'm almost certain the pounding stresses of 60+ hours per week at the paper, pages of reading and reporting assignments are turning me into a burned-out robot.

Nevertheless, as I started writing the first recast, it became easier. But switching formats is difficult. I'm used to writing reports, or at least creative feature stories. There is too much opinion in blogging, which is something I'm not comfortable expressing. There is also voice. Well, I don't really know how to write with voice. Maybe I do, but I don't think I've identified what my voice sounds like. How could I accomplish that? Maybe by writing for a blog more often.

Perhaps I just have some personal angst about blogging in general, especially after the Outings readings where he said that the Watergate scandal could have been solved more quickly if Woodward and Bernstein had blogged about some of their unconfirmed findings.

Or perhaps I just have some personal angst about the fact that it's after midnight on a Thursday during spring term, and I haven't had a day off since spring break, and that working 7 days per week has been my schedule for about 40 weeks.

Oh dear, and now I'm off topic. The great trap of online blogging.

I suppose the moral of the story is that I think I can get used to the blogging thing, but I maintain that a blog is better served as an extension of a reporter's beat than a place for personal rants... Oh wait, what did I just do a minute ago?

I guess this assignment can teach me something, and hopefully I'll learn through these assignments to create a voice, manage it and use blogging for a constructive and interesting purpose.

Reading reflections

2007-04-24T13:08:00.000-07:00

I don't necessarily agree with Steve Outing's stance that the truth can be found more quickly if blogs are used because more people will verify the information and point the blogger in new directions. (Click here to read the posting).

Putting up stories on blogs that are not complete and don't have all the facts verified is dangerous and irresponsible journalism (if it's journalism at all).

Journalists cannot rely on the public to verify their information. That simply won't happen. The chances of the right person reading your blog and knowing the answer is unlikely, and it's even more unlikely that if that person does happen to read the blog and notice the error they will do something about it. The ultimate outcome of this is inaccurate information will permeate and people will be armed with false information, which is more dangerous than not having any information at all.

I don't think newspapers should become partisan as Outing mentions, but I do agree with him that newspapers can be better about making corrections more prominent. A front page placement might not be a bad idea.

In Outing's second blog (found here), he mentions that bloggers can use an editor, which is something I agree with. I think bloggers get carried away with the ease of publishing and correcting mistakes after the fact that they forget that they really are publishing something that is available to the world. If the blog is a part of a newspaper site, the information will be taken seriously by its readers, and so if there is any improper grammar, incorrect information or just poor writing, the paper's reputation will be damaged.

Reporting is also something that bloggers should do. Relying on other people's reporting to publish information creates a huge window for misinterpretation. Bloggers can't stretch interpretation of an article or misconstrue the facts because too many people are too credulous about what they read online.

The first post for Power Journalism

2007-04-23T22:53:00.000-07:00

This blog used to be my blog for Reporting 1, FYI.

Being a blogger is something I am becoming more comfortable with. I would really enjoy having a blog as a reporter, because I think there are a lot of interesting things that I gather during the reporting process that don't make it into the story. I think that is a good use for a blog for reporters; it can be like the spill-over for their stories.

As far as being a blogger for Power Journalism, that's a little more difficult. It's an easy way, I suppose, to reflect on assignments and such, but for the most part, writing a personal blog isn't something I really enjoy. I usually want to write about stuff that I don't feel comfortable publishing because it's online, or I just flat-out don't have anything to write about. Blogs need to have a purpose and a point, and if this blog were one that I carried on as a reporter to talk about my stories, then I think it would serve that purpose.

Associated Collegiate Press conference

2007-03-12T01:10:00.000-07:00

This weekend, nine people from the Emerald went to the Associated Collegiate Press conference up in Portland, Ore. The event began Thursday afternoon and ended Sunday morning.

Now, I know I am privileged to even be able to go to these conferences, but man, was it not a good use of our travel budget.

Almost all of the colleges there were community colleges, and the journalists from those schools asked such basic, almost boneheaded questions I became fearful for the future of journalism. I heard many variations of this question:
"So, how can we write things in the paper that are critical of the administration without making them angry (and some added, "and having them not cut our funding?")

The problem is, is that for these little dependant weeklies, they probably have never had a story that was critical of the administration, and if they did they were afraid to publish it because of retribution. I wanted to stand up during these questions and say, "Just publish the damn thing! If they cut your funding, put it on the front page! The college won't get away with censoring campus media."

There were also questions such as,
"So our college newspaper doesn't have a Web site, should we think about getting one?"

The speakers, who were mostly from small-town newspapers with circulations that were only a few 10 thousands higher than that of the Emerald, would answer.

I did take a few skills from it, though. For example, there were a few nuances of the Google advanced search that I wasn't aware of, and there were some good sessions about using a blog to improve your reporting, editorial writing and covering people at the margins.

The keynote speakers were also phenomenal. Macarana Hernandez from the Dallas Morning News (who was plagiarized by Jason Blair) spoke, as did Pulitzer prize winner Nigel Jaquiss, editor of the Spokesman Review Steve Smith and nationally syndicated columnist Dan Savage.

Savage said some interesting things. He said he thought all media should be openly biased. He said Fox news, The Wall Street Journal and most blogs are, and that is why they are so successful. He said journalists shouldn't make readers work to learn what the paper's bias is, because all papers have bias regardless of what they say.

Kurt Eichenwald

2007-03-11T23:54:00.000-07:00

A column in the Oregon Daily Emerald written by Tyler Graf, the opinion editor of the paper, was recently linked to on Romenesko. Tyler wrote about Kurt Eichenwald, a reporter for the New York Times who wrote an investigative piece on child porn on the Internet. Kurt became a character in his own article when he tried to help the main source of his story, an 18-year-old boy who had run a pornographic web cam of himself since he was about 13, get help from the authorities.

For Kurt's story, the UO School of Journalism and Communication honored him last year with the Payne award, which is apparently all about ethics in reporter. After having read the story, the UO made an interesting choice by giving him this award, considering Kurt stretches the ethical boundaries of journalism by working so hard to help this young man.

The story resulted in the prosecution of a man who had been molesting the kid, whose name was Justin Berry. Kurt testified in the trial, and it recently came to light that Kurt had paid Justin $2,000 before he began reporting on the story in order to help him.

Now, despite the disapproval of many J-school faculty, Dean Tim Gleason said he doesn't plan on even considering rescinding the award.

Some professors said if the school doesn't even discuss it, it calls into question the integrity of the award itself. I agree. Although I believe the story was not ethically sound in a journalistic sense of objectivity, I do believe it was morally sound.

I do not oppose Kurt being involved in his own story to help someone, but I do think the UO should reconsider its award and what it stands for. If they believe this is what they want it to represent — journalism that is not objective because the writer is a character in his or her source's story — that's fine. But if they don't, then they are devaluing the award and what it stands for.

vignette #2

2007-03-06T23:32:00.000-08:00

A man stumbled down West Broadway, approaching Willamette Street. He stopped, and turned his roughly 5' 8" frame the other direction and asked me if I had a closet, garage or basement he could sleep in for the next ten hours.

The man, who wore wore khaki pants rolled up to his ankles, dark shoes and a black hoodie sweatshirt, carried a large, camo colored backpack. He stuck his hand in the front pocket of his sweatshirt and pulled out a small pill.

"Do you want a breath mint?" He asked.

He asked me if I had ever done drugs. I said no, and the man, who was slurring his words, replied "me neither."

The man called himself Jude, "ya know, like the free love Jude."

He walked to the intersection of West Broadway and Willamette and stopped at the corner. I asked him about his life story.

Fidgeting, he responded by saying he was going to Portland with his brother to see his mother.

He turned and began to cross the street. "Well good luck," I called out to him.

He stopped. "You believe in luck?"

"Sure," I said.

"Ain't no such thing as luck," he replied. He pulled down a black handkerchief from around his neck and exposed a tattoo that said, "Bad Luck." He said he believed in destiny.

He told me that I would leave our conversation, keep on walking and then something would happen as a result of me standing on the corner with him.

He told me he knows there is no such thing as good luck because he's never seen it. He wouldn't say more.

I asked him how old he was and he told me to guess. It took me three tries. He is 30. He only needed one try to correctly guess my age, though. When he guessed correctly, he confidently said, "yeah, I knew that, I knew that."

A brunette approached us from across the street. She appeared to be somewhere in her 20s. She carried a backpack.

Jude looked at her as she passed in between us.

"Do you want a breath mint?" He asked her. She quickly and quietly said no.

"How about some candy? Some gum? Some drugs? What about weed?" He quickly fired off offerings.

"Do you want a breath mint?" He asked me again.

"Are those really breath mints?" I questioned him.

He told me they were, and that he wasn't evil like that. He said he didn't want to hurt anybody, and that he was all about love.

I prodded him for more answers about his past.

He told me he was from Orange County, and he is traveling with his brother. I asked where his brother was, and he said he didn't know.

"I lost him last night," he said.

And with that, Jude had enough of the conversation, and decided he needed to move on. He asked me once more if I had a place for him to sleep. We shook hands, and parted ways.

vignette #1

2007-03-06T22:45:00.000-08:00

It was quiet in downtown Eugene on Tuesday night.

On the corner of 10th Avenue and Olive Street, which is about 10 feet from Eugene's central bus station, there were no buses. Lights from the calm city-block-sized station cast an eerie glow on surrounding streets.

The silence didn't last long, however, as it was slowly defeated by the growing cry of sirens in the distance. A few high-school-aged kids, who were loitering in front of the Eugene City Library, slowly dispersed after one of them shouted, "Oh shit, cops!"

The sirens grew louder before peaking and fading off into the distance.

Realizing their good fortune, two of the youth rode slowly on their bicycles toward the bus station.

One of the teens shouted to the others, who had walked the opposite direction down the block, that the bus would arrive in 20 minutes. The the teens exchanged playful jabs.

"I'm a shark!" One male shouted.

"No I'm a shark!" The other guy, closer to the bus station, shouted back.

"Suck my dick!" The first one replied.

"Fuck you!" The second guy shouted.

The exchange ended, and the void left behind the sirens and their shouting was filled with dance music escaping the walls of Luckey's Bar.

Mark Cuban

2007-03-03T23:29:00.000-08:00

I have no idea how to mimic someone's blog, but I'm going to give outspoken Dallas Maverick's owner Marc Cuban's blog a shot. Here we go:

It's something I get asked all the time: "So are you going to be editor for the next two years?"

It seems obvious why people would think this question bothers me, I mean, it's like asking someone if they want to live in a cardboard box, have no social life, be stressed out all the time and not do any actual reporting.

OK, so I don't think the Marc Cuban blog is going to work... He's not distinct enough.

Romenesko

2007-03-02T00:29:00.000-08:00

Romenesko linked to a good post about how real journalism that lives inside newspapers will probably never die:

THURSDAY, MARCH 1, 2007

"It's the journalism, not the newsprint, that matters"
Mother Jones
While our democratic culture could survive the loss of the daily newspaper as we know it, it would be endangered without the kinds of reporting that it provides, writes Eric Klinenberg. "Even in the online era, more than 60% of Americans say they read a local newspaper daily or several times a week. And with good reason: Few of the cable channels and websites that newspaper chains claim as competitors actually provide original news and information. Cable networks do virtually no local reporting of their own, and while bloggers do a good job exposing journalistic lapses, they generally aren't doing the muckraking, beat reporting, and pavement pounding that generate news." || ALSO: Dean Baquet talks to Sridhar Pappu. || Kevin Drum on the mainstream media. || Our shrinking media universe.
Posted at 4:17:07 PM
E-mail this item | QuickLink this item: A119222

It's a really good thing that people are bringing up conversations like this about journalism. Newspaper readership is on a huge decline, but the appetite for news isn't. There is a lot of truth to this post, also. On blogs and TV, reporters don't do the in-depth beat work the drives the industry. Hopefully newspapers themselves will survive intact, but if the medium changes to online reporting that would be OK.

2007-02-26T11:43:00.000-08:00

Ok, let's see if this picture stuff works...

This new blogging thing

2007-02-26T11:35:00.000-08:00

I'm still getting used to the whole blogging thing. It's hard for me to write in them without being completely personal, which isn't a bad thing for a private blog, but it might be if I'm blogging for a publication, such as the Emerald.

I'm trying to figure out a way to blog as the editor in chief of the newspaper on www.dailyemerald.com. I mean, I know how to do it technically; there is a blog set up on our site that I can write posts in, but the problem is that I don't really know what to write about. The previous editor wrote about what would be going into the next day's issue, but that tradition only maintained for about one month. Perhaps I could write about my media reflections in the same way I do for the journal. Hopefully through this assignment I will be able to come up with a model for my future blogging. I would love to write about all the stories I am writing about in the paper to provide background angles as to how I started the assignment, but I currently just don't have the time. Maybe I can work it into some portion of my routine.

Mission Statement

2007-02-26T11:33:00.000-08:00

The purpose of this blog is to enlighten, entertain and engage readers of college age and older about the goings on of campus issues and issues I personally care about.