Sylvia's Journal

I woke up from a dream about a nursing conference where I was in charge of a session that had a clever name and was about emotions. I remember walking to the session and leafing through the booklet that went with it. It was very fancy with glossy pages but I did not recognize it and it had nothing to do with what I had planned to do during my session. The booklet I had in my hand seemed prepared for a lecture whereas I had planned a series of conversations in pairs and small groups. I had counted on these conversations to produce the content of the session.

The dream was probably triggered by my reading an article last night about introducing participatory community planning events in Indonesia that, according to the author, went quickly off the tracks. It also represents the reality I usually have to deal with when we first launch a leadership development program. Often people expect the expert to lecture people into changing. Gently bending such expectations into a different direction is what I usually need to do in the beginning. There is sometimes resistance to this because the activity of bending, both for the bender and the bendee is not without effort. Lecturers, especially if they have been lecturing for a long time, require little effort or preparation; listeners to such lectures require little effort or preparation, only the presence of their bodies in the room. What I am proposing requires lots of work, from beginning to end.

Yesterday I slept in and found Cabul had indeed arrived as planned. Mamadou had picked him up and dropped himoff at the hotel. We had our cornflakes together in an otherwise empty dining room. Susan Wright from USAID stopped by the hotel to welcome us and painted us a more detailed picture of the context and cast of characters we will be meeting soon. Later, Moussa and Cire, Mamadou’s sons, who look like they are in their late twenties but are actually still in school, one under 20, picked us up in their father’s SUV and drove us through empty streets (it’s Sunday) to Mamadou’s house. Mamadou and his wife Zahara live in a sort of palace. The two crowns on the big black gate prove this. It is owned by a Northern Nigerian Chief who lives next door in a 15-room palace with the same crowns on the gate. Inside the house is majestic. Another couple, Ivorian/Senegalese joined us for an enormous lunch spread, including meshwi (a recognizable lamb) and chickens, looking puny next to the lamb, a large salad and atieke, a couscous-like substance made from manioc. Lunch was completed by fresh paw-paw, mango and pineapple, a real treat for us coming from a northern winter. Cabul got a large dose of French which was the primary language of all present, except the two of us. Sometimes we switched to English and Cabul could participate for a while, then back to French.

On our way home we drove around looking for a simcard for Cabul’s cellphone. The preferred place for this and a carton full of water bottles is the Shell station. The little stores at gas stations are common here too and have become the local convenience stores. Not much in terms of staples but lots for people craving sweet or salty snacks. Apparently, these bad eating habits are on the minister of health’s screen: a retired military by the (first) name of Courage (names are destiny). He believes in wholesome living, good eating habits and much exercise. He reminds me of Dr. Kellogg and his movement in the New York mountains at the turn of the (previous) century. There are some other priorities here that have to do with more basic health problems such as women and children dying during or right after delivery and the scorch of malaria, killing small children in droves.

The remainder of the day Cabul tried to stay up and adjust to the new time zone and I contacted various people I knew and did not know to say I had arrived in Ghana.

We had a delicious local meal in the, once again, empty dining room and withdrew too our rooms around 9 PM for another good night sleep.