African Time
It’s a well worn phrase. Similar, (if you know my Dad especially) to the concept of Caley time. Ghana is another of those countries which that archetypal Civil Servant Sir Humphrey described with his usual wit and wry smile as being a ‘HRRC or Human Resource Rich Country’. He might as easily have said that this is a TRC or Time Rich Country.
Hours are like pennies. To be tossed gaily over the shoulder. To get lost down the back of the sofa. To be spent. Engagements such as church, funerals and public meetings take forever because forever is not that long. Day-long prayathons are not uncommon. These things will last well into the night, the wailing electronically amplified for the whole village to hear. Funerals last three noisy days. The first day is usually Friday, which is the wake-keeping. It is obligatory to crank up the speakers and play 50 cent (note to mum and dad, this is one of those nasty American rappers who talks incessantly of corporate hospitality and oversized diamond encrusted penis enlargers) and the like plus some 2nd rate Ghanaian impersonators all night long. Nobody’s there, mind. But the memory of Mad. (short for Madam but sometimes quite an apt title in and of itself) Nyame Bekyere is best kept to the strains of ‘get rich or die tryin’ booming out the beatbox. The next day is spent just hanging around all day and the last in the church followed by quite a lot of nothing. All the while, nobody with any relation, blood or social, can go to farm or open their shop etc. So you can tell how well-liked or important someone was by how much time they waste.
The way many people will express respect is by coming to your house and sitting with you. This means that sometimes we will literally spend all afternoon sitting on the porch with a succession of mute people just wishing to pass the time of day with us. Time passes slowly as with most people there’s only so much middle ground to occupy. Weather, bit of politics, local gossip, our garden, how the dog doesn’t look like a rat or a cat these days then you get a bit desperate. Sometimes I realise that the ‘conversation’ has really been just one long monologue. Are they interested in the origins of LFC songs and how many different types of tea there are? I somehow doubt it, but then it passes the time of day…
Let’s face it, public meetings are usually a waste of time anywhere. But here especially. Whenever someone expresses an opinion, everybody else has to agree in a new and increasingly meandering way. Don’t get me wrong, its quite interesting in an anthropological sense since it is obviously the way disputes have been resolved for generations. (i.e. boring the other side till they fall asleep and then taking a vote). However, thinking deep thoughts on the peculiarities of Ghanaian rational discourse is all well and good but when you’ve been doing it for the past three hours, hard liquor becomes more and more attractive.
Hours are like pennies. To be tossed gaily over the shoulder. To get lost down the back of the sofa. To be spent. Engagements such as church, funerals and public meetings take forever because forever is not that long. Day-long prayathons are not uncommon. These things will last well into the night, the wailing electronically amplified for the whole village to hear. Funerals last three noisy days. The first day is usually Friday, which is the wake-keeping. It is obligatory to crank up the speakers and play 50 cent (note to mum and dad, this is one of those nasty American rappers who talks incessantly of corporate hospitality and oversized diamond encrusted penis enlargers) and the like plus some 2nd rate Ghanaian impersonators all night long. Nobody’s there, mind. But the memory of Mad. (short for Madam but sometimes quite an apt title in and of itself) Nyame Bekyere is best kept to the strains of ‘get rich or die tryin’ booming out the beatbox. The next day is spent just hanging around all day and the last in the church followed by quite a lot of nothing. All the while, nobody with any relation, blood or social, can go to farm or open their shop etc. So you can tell how well-liked or important someone was by how much time they waste.
The way many people will express respect is by coming to your house and sitting with you. This means that sometimes we will literally spend all afternoon sitting on the porch with a succession of mute people just wishing to pass the time of day with us. Time passes slowly as with most people there’s only so much middle ground to occupy. Weather, bit of politics, local gossip, our garden, how the dog doesn’t look like a rat or a cat these days then you get a bit desperate. Sometimes I realise that the ‘conversation’ has really been just one long monologue. Are they interested in the origins of LFC songs and how many different types of tea there are? I somehow doubt it, but then it passes the time of day…
Let’s face it, public meetings are usually a waste of time anywhere. But here especially. Whenever someone expresses an opinion, everybody else has to agree in a new and increasingly meandering way. Don’t get me wrong, its quite interesting in an anthropological sense since it is obviously the way disputes have been resolved for generations. (i.e. boring the other side till they fall asleep and then taking a vote). However, thinking deep thoughts on the peculiarities of Ghanaian rational discourse is all well and good but when you’ve been doing it for the past three hours, hard liquor becomes more and more attractive.
posted by Luke Chapter 1 at 3:17 pm
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