ReedNews Update April Edition

The Reeds are experiencing the unpredictability of a Michigan Spring for the first time in four years. It feels familiar and new—kind of like it always has. We had a perfect weekend, with low humidity, sunny skies and warm temps, and Monday comes with much cooler, wetter, cloudier weather. The four of us continue to do our thing and our things, with all of us mastering different aspects of adjustment to new school, new jobs, old climates, while at the same time never straying far from the fact that any week now, we’ll get the news that will give us a departure date for Ghana. Here’s some of the latest from each of us:

Noah: Our fourteen year old is making friends and doing very well in school. We are enjoying his exceptionally subtle sense of humor and fun, and because he is rather quiet, I tend to forget how smart and wise he is. Renita and I have been noticing for about a year that his speech seemed more nasally that it used to be, and after months of debating, we took him to a doctor, who referred him to a specialist, who diagnosed him with velopharyngeal inefficiency/incompetence (VPI) for short. This is a disorder of the soft palate which prevents the throat from closing off during speech, causing too much air to enter the nose. We were all glad to know what the problem is, but the remedy may require surgery.

Hannah: She’s a straight A student with a full plate of activities. She’s now on the soccer team, loves hanging out with several best friends, and yes, is getting calls from boys. I’m watching the circling males like a giant eagle, looking for my next meal. (Click on pic at right to see a close-up of her hamming it with her friends)She just landed a summer job as a counselor at a gig called Camp Tall Turf. So that means most likely she’ll stay in Michigan for a while after we leave for Africa. And if she stays, Noah will probably stay too. BTW, our lovely first born turns sweet sixteen on Saturday. We are even now preparing for a week of festivities.

Renita: The fact that she’s 5000 miles and more away has not stopped her from making headway in Cote d’Ivoire, Liberia, Ghana and Nigeria. Each week has her writing hundreds of emails, attending several meetings, and sometimes traveling to exotic places like Sioux Center Iowa to talk development shop with interested business and/or church leaders. She even has time to share African life with local church kids.(left) She continues to wait on the Immigration people to give her a date for her citizenship interview, and then hopefully the swearing-in service would follow very quickly. She thinks we’ll be outa here by June, I’m betting on August.

Yers Trooly: Those who know me will be surprised to hear that I’m learning French, and those who know me would be even more surprised to read that I'm actually getting it. Comprenez 'vous? Renita is learning as well, but far ahead of me. I certainly cannot converse with a French-speaking person, but I’m slowly catching on. Like Renita, I’m also involved in a fair amount of other work-related activities, which for me means writing, studying and some public-type speaking. I’ll be conducting an adult education series on Justice for Madison Square Church, and last Sunday, we spoke at Mayfair Church. Speaking on justice themes is good practice for me, and I’m always honing my philosophy of justice. God help me if I ever stop honing.

Mostly though, my most challenging work is happening inside my head, as I battle with the impatience that comes with wanting to be in Africa, to be working more closely with the folks there who are doing such great and inspiring work. I know I'm supposed to be here, because, well, because I am here. That struggle is draining, and may be one reason why I’ve been feeling sad of late. But a good struggle it is. There is purpose here, and that is enough to keep my mind and heart fully engaged.

Renita, working the French program Rosetta Stone.

Valuing Low

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For a week or so I've been feeling rather melancholy. I'd say it's a sadness bordering on painful much of the time. I get this way every now and then, and being a psychotherapist, I know I could call it depression if I was in a clinical mood. But I'm not in a clinical mood. To label this as "depression" is to pathologize it, to turn it into something merely to be prevented or cured. And yes, initially, when this thing hits, I get grumpy and restless, short tempered and impatient. I don't like the way I feel and I want to feel better. I want to be cured. But when I realize the sadness and emptiness is not going away just yet, I settle into it. I look for truth and meaning in it. I come to value "being here now". There is something important here. There is spiritual and emotional reality here. Being low quiets me down, brings me into the present, and gets me more in touch with the painful side of being human. Inevitably, I see it as a gift.

So folks, Yers Trooly has the Blues. It really is the reason I haven't posted to the blog this week. I wanted to-- I was thinking of the few of you who check in on us, but I could not muster the energy to make something up for you. I didn't want to fake it.

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Yesterday, I drove out to Lake Michigan, which is one of the most important places in the world to me. This particular place has a well known lighthouse, and it's deep red color seemed to pierce the grayness of the day-- and my inner ache. It's boldness and audacity pleased me. It couldn't care less about my darkness, it was just going to be there, red, in my face. Later, I found myself out on a pier marveling as I watched the loons and a duck I have never seen before diving for fish in the frigid waters. I felt privileged to be in their presence. Later still, I talked to God as I walked the beach, and, as is typical, He had no word for me. He just listened, and I imagined and thought I could sense an infinite smile. I walked the beach, breathed the cold air, and allowed myself to weep a bit as I considered the world I've come to know. "So beautiful" I thought. "So much pain."

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And then it was time to drive back to Grand Rapids and home. I'd like to say the trip cured my blues, but they are still here, keeping me honest. However, I did find the energy to simply be real. Which I figured is as worthy of posting as anything I could make up. So thanks for sticking with me.

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By the way, I took some pictures while on my walk. Here are a few.

Hey-- who can tell me what kind of duck this is? (Update: thanks to friend Ron Boes who knows a male Long-Tailed duck (Clangula hyemalis) when he sees one.)

From Renita

The Scent of Jesus: Lessons from a Dog

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As many of you know, we had security issues in Liberia that caused us to build a high wall around our house and get some dogs to sound the alarm. Within these walls were two gates that opened only from the inside. When people came to visit us (multiple times times each day), they knocked on the gate, the dogs barked and growled, and one of us would go to see who was there. If one of us went outside the gate, someone else would have to close the gate behind us, and then we would have to knock on the gate to get back in.

One day, upon returning from a community meeting, I realized that when I knocked on the gate for someone to let me in, the dogs did not bark. I assumed that I was probably talking to someone next door on my way to the gate and the dogs must have heard my voice. The next day, I intentionally was quiet on my way to the gate and knocked. Again, silence, except for the whining of Nikki who knew it was me and couldn't wait for me to come in (her whining, I knew, was an indication that her tail was wagging her entire body as she waited to greet me). So, I then deduced that they must recognize the way I knock. I wondered if I could fool them into barking at me. Time for an experiment.

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The next day I snuck up to the gate and pounded on it very hard. Nothing-- except Nikki whining with excitement. The next day I knocked very gently, halfway down the gate, as if I was one of the many children who knock. Nothing-- except, well you get the point. Try as I might, I could not fool Nikki or Max into sounding the alarm when I tried to disguise my approach.

How did they know it was me? It seems clear to me now that in the few seconds it took for me to arrive at the gate, they were able to pick up my scent. Within a couple of seconds. Even though I didn't use a consistent shampoo brand, soap, or perfume. Even though I perspired more days than than others. The dogs recognized my scent from the other side of a gated wall. I find that amazing.

Last week I spent four days on a silent retreat – it’s one of those times that I have no other role than being a child of God. I’m not a wife, mother, daughter, employee, sister, church member, etc. I use that time to crawl up in God’s lap and enjoy Him. During my retreat, I read the book, Hearing God by Dallas Willard. The book talked about learning to recognize the voice of God in our daily lives, and as I reflected on this, I remembered our dogs and how they not only learned my voice, but learned my scent. If two tick-bitten mutts in Liberia could discover the scent of a Canadian in seconds, how much more should I be able to pick up the presence, the voice, the scent of my Lord and Savior, in whose image I am created? So, how did these dogs do this? Did they work some formula? Set out to study my scent? Practice? No, the obvious reason is that they were around me every day. They learned my scent.

I want to learn more than the voice of Jesus; I want to be close enough to pick up His scent.

In the quiet of my retreat, I smiled at the lessons Nikki and Max had for me. I also reflected on the pure joy that our dogs expressed whenever we returned home. Anyone who has owned a dog knows this. It didn’t matter whether we had been gone all day and they had been tied up or whether we had been gone for five minutes. They were always excited to meet and greet us, almost knocking us over with their affection. Henry Scougal, in 1677 wrote in The Life of God in the Soul of Man, that “the worth and excellency of a soul is to be measured by the object of its love.” If the object of my love is Jesus, how do I greet Him? To be honest, it’s often with a long and tired face, hung up on the burdens of the world, the heaviness of the yoke I have taken on. I want that to change. I want to recognize His scent before He gets to the gate, and knock Him over with delight the moment I can get to Him.

In short, I want to be more like my dog.

The Silent Treatment

This will be a very quiet week, by design. Renita is off to a center called The Hermitage. The center is little more than a collection of humble buildings nestled in the hills and moraines of southern Michigan near Three Rivers. She is taking time out of her hectic schedule to do something unusual but completely necessary. Its called a silent retreat. From Monday morning until Friday morning, she will not utter more than a handful of words, and except for meals, she will remain in solitude. She will spend the time in reflection, meditation and quiet conversation with God. Mostly she will simply listen.

Renita and I have both participated in silent retreats during our marriage, and we try to build quiet into different parts of our lives. This is the first opportunity for either of us to actually go someplace in four years. I've learned to take advantage of her absence by quieting down a bit myself. The kids are in school until 3:30, so I have the day to use in different ways than I normally would.

I believe most people would benefit from intentionally seeking extended periods of quiet. Most people are pretty noisy, I think by nature. By noisy, I don't necessarily mean verbally, but rather noisy internally, as if our minds have no "Off" switch. There is a steady stream in the mind, asking, "Now what is there to do?" or "What's next?" For some of us, quiet is unacceptable, and for others, it is downright terrifying. Most of us literally do not know how to quiet down for more than a few moments at a time, and even if we did, we'd choose not to.

Among my greatest mentors of silence are the Desert Fathers. The Fathers-- and Mothers-- were groups of Christians who lived in the 4th and 5th centuries in the deserts of Egypt. They are remembered today for their extreme asceticism and their remarkable words. Some of their sayings are like Zen Koans, beyond rational analysis or critique, at once inaccessible and yet immediate and powerful. Other sayings speak directly to the heart and mind, and refresh the soul. They spoke about holiness, sacrifice, true spirituality, love-- and the deep wisdom found in silence. Here are two of the thousands of their sayings, and two of my favorites:

A certain brother went to Abba Moses in Scete and asked him to speak a word. The elder said to him, “Go and sit ‎in your cell, and your cell will teach you everything.”‎

Abba Theophilus, the archbishop, came to Scetis one day. The brethren who were assembled said to Abba Pambo, 'Say something to the Archbishop, so that he may be edified.' The old man said to them, 'If he is not edified by my silence, he will not be edified by my speech.'

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After her retreat, Renita is immediately back to the noise-- she leaves from the center to spend the weekend in Iowa speaking to groups for Partners Worldwide. She returns Sunday. I know that we will have stories to tell each other, and wisdom to share-- news from the silence.

The Hermitage. If you were not looking for it, you'd never know it was there.

Early Spring in Michigan on the grounds of the center. The leafless trees wait, the garden boxes wait. A nice place to walk.

A quiet place to hear a Voice.

Renita as I left her in her room. I miss you already, but this parting is very good. Seeya Sunday.

If you would like to connect with The Hermitage yourself, you can visit them online at
http://www.hermitagecommunity.org/main/

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West African Cotton:

Stephen's Request

I mentioned before that my work is ramping up in intensity, even if I have to wait to get to West Africa to enjoy all of it. Take last week for instance. The Team Leader for CRWRC West Africa, Mary Crickmore, asked me to write a short article for other team members that they could send to their North American constituents. She asked me to write about the international justice issues surrounding US cotton subsidies. Well, I didn’t know anything about the international justice issues surrounding US cotton subsidies. They don't grow cotton in Liberia, and I don’t subscribe to The Fabric of Our Lives magazine. So I did some homework.

I discovered that US cotton subsidies are a huge justice issue in West Africa—and even in the US. It seems that they benefit the few-- primarily large corporate farms and their wealthy owners-- at the expense of growers everywhere. The top 10% of US cotton-subsidy recipients receive almost 80% of the money (over $3 billion a year), leaving most US cotton growers out of the equation. And that lopsided US equation has a devistating impact in West Africa. For American cotton farmers (whose average net worth is about $800,000) the subsidies could be the difference between growing cotton and growing something else, or between farming and pursuing a different line of work, if they can't compete without taxpayer support. For African farmers who earn something like $800 a year, the subsidies can be the difference between eating and starving.

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So I wrote the article, which Mary read and shortened. What follows is our joint effort.

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Stephen Traore is a cotton farmer in the Fana district of Mali. He works hard to feed his family of 15 children and grandchildren. He also takes the time to time serve as a lay leader in his local Evangelical congregation and the local district of over 23 churches. When CRWRC staff visited Stephen’s farm, he asked us to translate and transmit this message to the church in the US:

“I greet American people, I thank American people. I am very happy that you are asking about our difficulties in Africa. You can help us improve the price of cotton, so that we and the American people can be neighbors, so that we can send our children to school. Today, there are many difficulties in Africa, because of the low price of cotton, especially in my village. It’s been two years and now and we still have not gotten the money we are supposed to get for the cotton. We are very happy for your visit. Please take our message to your people in America. That is all. In the name of God, we thank you.”

Stephen (in blue) and Paul Traore in their cotton field.

Let us explain why Stephen is concerned. He and all the hard working farmers like him in the cotton growing areas of Mali are negatively affected by globalization,and in particular US farm policy. They grow grain which they eat, plus cotton to sell for cash so they can buy fish, meat and vegetables, clothing and shoes, and pay school fees. The depressed price of cotton means their families are hungrier, and provisions are scarcer.

This is how US policy has impact across the ocean: the US government pays US corporate cotton growers for their cotton regardless of the demand. Ostensibly, these subsidies exist to protect American farmers from competitive markets, but in reality subsidies encourage growers to grow as much cotton as possible, much more than the US market can use. The surplus cotton gets dumped onto world markets, which drive prices down everywhere—including West Africa.

As he showed CRWRC staff his farm, Stephen said, “Yes, I have heard of the politics of cotton in Mali, Burkina Faso, China, and USA. The village was told by the company that buys the cotton to only have small or medium cotton fields since the price is low and not all may be bought. In the past I have had 12 or more acres of cotton planted but am down to 9 acres this year. Others have also reduced or have stopped growing cotton altogether.” We asked, “If the cotton prices were better, what would be the first thing that you would do or buy?” Stephen’s answer was immediate and simple. “Food. Meat.”

Both Democrat and Republicans leaders have supported ending cotton subsidies, and President Obama’s proposed budget sets new limits on direct payments to cotton producers. But the National Cotton Council of America (NCC) is lobbying hard to maintain the subsidies. The NCC succeeded in getting cotton subsidies restored in the Food, Conservation, and Energy Act of 2008. The time could not be better for you to act and make a difference. Write or email your US Senate and House Representatives and tell them you support the limits on payments to cotton producers. Encourage them to push for legislation that is fair for everyone. Our tax support of American agro-business should not do harm to Africans struggling to feed their families.

Stephen and a few of the family members whose lives depend upon fair cotton trade.

Get on Schedule, Reed
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Ok, my goal is put out a blog at least once a week. In the past, my deadline was at least every Monday, but after switching blogs, its has slipped to Thursdays, or Fridays or even Saturdays. Posting has been a challenge because we are in this transition period, and I'm guessing most of you do not tune in to follow us around Grand Rapids. Ah, but glory be, we've started working on some cool stuff and I'm coming up with topics worthy you, my brilliant and insightful readers.

So beginning Monday, I'm back on schedule. Expect a post weekly or more as things develop. Thanks for your loyalty and patience.

Yers Trooly

Candidate for a Coffee Table Book

Cooking Hut Love

If you paid real close attention to our Reeds in Liberia blog, or better yet, if you have spent time in rural Liberia, you know something about West African villages, and something about community huts. In almost every village, there are at least two huts used by anybody and everybody. The most famous is the palaver hut, which is an open structure used for talking, hanging out, and especially for meetings. The hut is often a place where neighbors or family members come to lay disputes before community leaders or chiefs in order to reach resolution. The palaver hut has become something of a metaphor for peacebuilding, because out of chaos and noise (palaver), comes resolution and peace.

Less famous, but probably much more popular, is the cooking hut. If the palaver hut is the symbol of desire for harmony, the humble cooking hut is the place to where, since childhood, the West African villager has looked with undying hope. Hope that Grandmother or Aunt or Mother will soon arrive and begin pounding palm nuts or cassava, hope that steam will soon rise from the rice on the coal pot, hope that a hungry belly will once again feel full. But more than a metaphor, it is a real place it is where real people get together everyday, cook what they have and make it taste great, and share it with whoever is around. It is the center of human life in West Africa.

So, whenever I visited a village, if I could, I took pictures of the community huts. Every one is different, a unique jewel in hidden places. I think a book of pictures palaver huts or cooking huts and their people is a great idea, but for now, I offer you a sampler: Cooking huts I have known and loved.

We start with a couple of huts in Johnson Town. The one above has a foot high mud "wall" or lip of sorts, mostly to provide protection from the rain during the wet season. Its late morning, so the hut stands empty.

The second Johnson Town hut was nicely shaded. If you look close, you see the fat gray peafowl on the left.

Kakata. The Anderson and Zar clan gather for a meal. A very open, very basic cooking hut just outside of town. You can tell this is close to town, with amenities like clotheslines and chairs.

Note the way the area surrounding this Koon Town hut has been washed away by the rains. The pathway has dropped about a foot.

In some part of Liberia, the mud walls are crafted to look rounded and almost soft. This one is a cooking hut with a small room that served as a home.
Cooking huts become a bustle of activity in the early afternoon. Mothers with babes, dogs with tongues hanging, and little kids wondering, "What are you looking at?" Renita in the background. This is at Bong Mines.

It is interesting to note the social pecking order. Table cloth-honored guests in the hut with the men, women and young people wait "outside" for turn to eat.

On the way from Rivercess. A nice October day.

Outside of Buchanan. The village is expanding a bit, so a new, temporary hut is in action on the left.

The Children Waiting. In Todee, there are several huts in close proximity. It is not time to eat, but the kids are bored (no school here) and hungry, so here they wait.

...and wait...

...and wait.

Eventually someone shows up. This is one of my favorite cooking huts. Its in Koon Town.

Same hut, better angle. There is something so real, so close to the earth here. Renita likes this image so much, she uses it as her desktop picture. Keeps things in perspective.

In Gbaye's Town. A heavy layer of palm branches and ditches protect from the wet season, but here in the dry season, everything is dusty.

Even in communities with zinc roofs over solid houses, there is a cooking hut in the back, or at least an attached open "kitchen." Since the method of cooking is charcoal, outdoor cooking is the only way to go. This one has a great roof and a nice, cooked-in look.

I don't know, but there is something evocative about an empty cooking hut. One of my favorites, from Kakata.

...And the winner is--- Gbaye's Town cooking hut! Love this shot. You can just tell by looking, this is where the action is every morning and afternoon. This is the hearth of Liberia.

Confession

Failing Henry

It was early in the morning for us, maybe 7:30am. We were slowly rousing our sleepy selves, filling the shower bags, putting on a pot of water for some Nescafe', and sweltering as usual in mid 70F dew points and air temps in the low 80's. So when the banging came, we reacted as we had been conditioned of late-- with a whine and a grumble. "Too early!" I shouted out the window, but I was kidding myself if I thought that would make any difference. On the other side of the steel door in the glass shard-covered eight foot wall, I could hear the shouted response-- which, muffled by the barrier and in Liberian English, was unintelligible to us. His continued banging and calling could only mean that the only way this guy was leaving was if I went out there, unlocked the padlock, worked the rusty latch back and forth, back and forth, until it came free and I opened the door. Mumbling something about, "It never ends..", barefoot in my boxers, I went to the gate and muscled it open.

Standing before me was a small, middle aged man, about 5'6", slight of build (not unusual by Liberian standards), with that same urgent, pleading look we had seen in the gateway many times before...

... the 80-90 year old woman, Sarah, who periodically rapped on the door to beg for food... ("Oh papa O, Oh, papa O," she called in thanks when we filled her bags...)

...the guys with the spray pumps on their backs, offering to kill all the fire ants in our yard for $35.00, begging that we hire them...

... the mothers who had heard we had helped some kids go to school, and would we please help their children...

... the children of all ages who were hungry and wanted some food...

... the women who had heard about loans for businesses and hoped we could give them one...

... the seventeen year old girl, frantic that it was 9:30pm, and her 6 year old brother was missing, last seen at the lagoon-- do we have any flashlights? (We searched the lagoon together and found only his flip-flops on the beach. His body surfaced the next day)...

... the boys and girls with infected hands, feet, ankles, faces...

... the young couple, who brought their sick infant to us because she wasn't eating...

So, the man standing at our door that morning was just another in a long line of desperate-looking people with yet another request. He handed me a note. He was delivering a message from a man we knew as Henry. Henry, with his wife Mary, had been the manager of an orphanage down the road, one that he could not run properly. The children were unclothed, undernourished and getting very sick. We helped him close the orphanage and reunite children with families or get them better care. So I read Henry's note. It said "Dear Mr. Reed, please help. I am very sick. I cannot move my legs or feel my hands. Please come and help me."

It was not what I wanted to read right then. It was another poor man in with another need who wanted me to come and spend my morning doing something other than I had planned. I looked at the man who gave me the note. I shook my head. I said to him, "There is nothing I can do. I am not a doctor. Tell Henry he needs to see a doctor." The man at the gate was insistent. "I will take you to him. Please come." Annoyed that he was pushing, I settled the matter. "No, I said. I mean it. It makes no sense for me to go there. I do not know you. And I cannot help." We looked at each other for a second or two more, then he took a step back, with a confused and disappointed look on his face. I closed the gate, and got back into the morning.

Two days later, Henry died.

Too late, I found out where he lived and drove to his house. Too late, I visited his family and told them I was sorry for their loss, and sorry that I did not visit him when he asked me to. Maybe I could have helped. Maybe I couldn't have helped. But I could have been there. Too late. I imagined myself as the rich man who passed the Samaritan in need on the road. I had blown it, and while I didn't exactly believe that I could somehow have saved Henry, I knew I had reason to feel guilty. I was guilty. I had I missed-- by choice-- an opportunity to simply be Jesus to a terrified man facing his own death. I was overwhelmed by my capacity for cold, cruel ugliness.

That was as bad as it got in Liberia for me. I would see more sickness and death in the coming months and years until we left. Hundreds more would come to the gate. Every single story, even if a lie, would be a legitimate cry for help by someone who was just trying figure out how to ease the burden of crushing poverty. We still said no to some, yes to others. We tried to make decisions based on compassionate and responsible criteria. We sometimes asked people to work or in some way "pay back" or "show results" for what they were seeking. And sometimes we just gave because, after all, how does one say no to an 80 year old hungry Liberian woman? For her, life has said no so often, I just did not have the authority to say it again. But I think it was the death of Henry, more than anything else, that taught me when to say yes and when to say no, and mostly, to make sure I was listening to Jesus when I said it. I don't want to be on the wrong side of "no" ever again.

Henry died in early spring, 2006. He was in his forties. He never got a diagnosis. His wife Mary died two months later from a sudden, unexplained liver failure. The couple that knew they couldn't care for a group of orphans left the world four of their own.

Ghana 101

Ghana History, Part Four: Ghana Today

Since the mid 90's, Ghana has achieved a certain political stability that has allowed the country to once again focus on develop- ment and economic growth. It ranks as one of the most stable, safe countries in Africa, and is enjoying a boom in the tourist industry. Ghana is sometimes called "Africa in One Country" or something like that, implying that much of the best of the continent can be found there. There is grassland, savannah, tropical rainforests, great beaches, lakes, and marvelous wildlife. It is a smart first stop if one wishes to learn about Africa.

On the other hand Ghana is not quite a tropical paradise. Well off by West Africa standards, it ranks 142 out of 179 in the Human Development Index, published annually by the United Nations-- meaning that out of 179 nations, 141 are doing better than Ghana with life expectancy, literacy, educational attainment and per capita GDP. By comparison, our old home, Liberia, ranks 176 and other West African neighbors also score lower-- Niger 174, Burkina Faso 173, and Mali 168.
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According to the CIA, Ghana has roughly twice the per capita output of the poorest countries in West Africa. Yet Ghana remains heavily dependent on international financial and technical assistance. The domestic economy continues to revolve around agriculture, which accounts for about 35% of GDP and employs about 55% of the work force, mainly small landholders. Ghana signed a Millennium Challenge Corporation (MCC) Compact in 2006, which aims to assist in transforming Ghana's agricultural sector.

The administration of John Kufuor achieved some success in stabilizing the macroeconomy, helped initially by high gold and cocoa prices, through the introduction of tighter monetary, fiscal and exchange rate policies. Ghana’s economic prospects were given a further boost with the announcement in June 2007 of significant oil finds off the coast.

Ghana’s current IMF agreed 3-year Poverty Reduction Strategy (PRS) finished in October 2006. Loans attached to it amounted to around US$258 million. The government has stated its intention to sign up to the IMF's policy support instrument and implement its own growth and poverty reduction strategy. In July 2004 Ghana reached Heavily Indebted Poor Countries (HIPC) completion point. Ghana’s debt has been massively reduced as a result of this. Sound macro-economic management along with high prices for gold and cocoa helped sustain GDP growth in 2008. Only time will tell what the recent election of John Atta Mills will bring.

So Ghana remains a study in contrasts. It is an emerging African nation, and perhaps that sums up Ghana best. It is on the move, but it is moving in one of the poorest regions of the poorest continent on Earth. It is weak or unknown in most Western minds, but a model of economic power and strength in West Africa. Many people in Ghana need assistance regarding basic necessities, yet they remain remarkably resilient and resourceful. The nations today remains an example of how far Africa has come in fifty years, and a hopeful vision of the future for her neighbors.

Washing laundry by hand-- still the method of the majority, usually costs a day or two a week-- or more, depending on the size of the family.

Clean water is an issue through Africa-- and Ghana.

Accra street market. Its a day by day effort.

Yet another school in the interior. No supplies. A blackboard, some chalk, a few kids, and a teacher under a palm branch roof.



Kids in uniform, free from class.

The city of Takoradi. Clothes hanging on walls to dry.



"I see you! Do you see me?"