Law and Order: Ghana

I had to come home early from the day's adventures on Wednesday, but I didn't quite make it on my own. I got to experience that awkward moment when you have to pull over your motorcycle to throw up in a gutter and collapse. Good memories. Some nice passersby helped me into the shade and bought me some water and helped me call Joseph (One of Doris' "children", actually her nephew, who doesn't speak English, but was the only one I knew in town who wasn't at the police station doing much more important things and could drive a moto) and tell him where I was so he could drive me home.

In other news, Doris got arrested.

We had three on Doris' moto (not allowed) because mine was out of gas, so we were going to fill a gas can to bring back to the office (where my moto was stranded) to fill it up.

Now... "overloading" a motorcycle here is kind of like speeding in Canada, in the sense that as long as you're not doing it too obnoxiously, or in the wrong places, you're unlikely to get in any trouble for it. On our way to get gas for the moto, we had to go by a police checkpoint, so there was some risk involved, but we had driven by there with three of us on the moto before (as exemplars of road safety) and had no problems. This time, the officers at the checkpoint, whom I make a point to wave at every time I drive by, signaled for us to pull over. We explained the situation to the officers, and they waved us through. Then at the gas station, the Regional Crime officer drives up in his big shiny white pickup, takes the keys out of Doris's moto, tells her to get off it, and that she's being arrested.

Doris is a very proud individual. She holds herself like she owns the place wherever she is, and she stares down and orders around everyone from waiters to shopkeepers to bankers to district assemblymen like they're school children. Still, in the face of this police official (the highest ranking policeman in the region) Doris quite literally gets down on her knees to beg him to listen to her explanation. In response, he grabbed her wrist and pullws her up to her feet before handing the keys to some underling and getting back in his truck. Both vehicles drove off, leaving us to walk back to the checkpoint, where they confiscated Doris' license too, and all officers around refused to give her a ride back into town, even though she has been instructed to report back to the police station, and they have driven off with her vehicle. At this point, we were about a 15 minute drive down the highway from the police station that she was meant to report to, so clearly too far to walk, especially in 48 degree heat. Luckily, someone she knew happened to be driving by on a moped, and she was able to hitch a ride, meanwhile Marika and I waited for a trotro to take us back to the office with our gallon of petrol.

Apparently, a friend of Doris' posted her 10,000 cedi bail for her. Upon reviving our moto, we met her at the police station where she was presumably dealing with the situation.

In the midst of all this, I was feeling lost, helpless, tired, and not a little bit frustrated. In my mind, we had just been victims of the abuse of police power, and I was being told nothing about what we would do next, or what actions could be taken, or anything. All I was being told was, "Follow me." By Doris, as she walked around the police station, and then hopped on her moto and drove away.

First we drove to a gas station, where she bought gas, and Marika and I sat on my moto, baking in the sun, while she had a seemingly endless conversation (that I gathered from the odd word of English was about her arrest) with a man who was also on a moto getting fuel. I tried to ask her where we were going and what we were doing, but this seemed to aggravate her. She told me, "What you are asking me, unless we sit, it will make me tired. How can I tell you when we are here? Just follow me." Eventually the conversation came to an end, and we made our way to the bank, where we sat down in the air conditioning, and had a chat.

I know that to a large extent it was culture shock, and the fact that my stomach was starting to hurt, that made me so grumpy about the situation, but I was so frustrated with the lack of due process involved in the police action that was taken against us, and the fact that what I considered the "proper channels" for dealing with it (i.e. testifying in court the following day, or pursuing some kind of appeal or legal action about the improper manner or Doris' arrest, the unlawful confiscation of our vehicle) were not available to us. In fact, when I suggested speaking out against the Regional Crime Officer's abuse of power, Doris told me in no uncertain terms that if we did that, she would go to prison.

As a result, I didn't really want to be a part of this process. It was clear to me that there was more that Doris wanted to do, though I couldn't understand what more could be done if she was unwilling to take any of the options I could think of. I'm still not entirely sure why we went to the bank, though Doris obviously did some business there. It's possible that she took out money in case she had to bribe people. It's possible that she had completely unrelated business to do there, I'm not really sure. At this point, I gave up asking questions, because doing so seemed to result more in Doris' anger than my enlightenment.

In retrospect, I'm sure this was a frightening and frustrating situation for Doris to be in, and I'm sure that having to explain the ways of the police world, which would have been common sense to her, to an ignorant yet opinionated white girl in the midst of this situation was more than a little bit aggravating. For example, when she showed me her arrest form that had the space "Arresting Officer" filled as "Regional Crime Officer" with no name or number, I mentioned it as if it were a problem. In my mind, it was. In my mind, the police officers are supposed to be personally identified when they act using state power and authority, so that if there is abuse of that authority, they can be identified and disciplinary action can be taken against them. But to Doris, this was ridiculous, since "When he arrested me, it was in his capacity as Regional Crime Officer, not in his capacity as his name." This was strange, and seemed problematic to me, but I kept my mouth shut. Still, I can't help but feel that it would have been easier for her to just send us home.

Sitting in the bank, Doris (rather aggressively) explained to me that she had been speaking to traffic control officers of every shape and kind at the municipal police station trying to get someone to let her off the hook, or else to take action to lessen her charges. The issue at hand was not whether or not Doris was guilty. She had, obviously, taken three people on a moto. We also couldn't really challenge why we were apprehended when so often this law goes unenforced (although we knew it was because she was carrying two white passengers, not two black ones). The problem with the situation was that instead of just getting a ticket, Doris was actually arrested. And instead of escorting her to the police station, the arresting officer left her stranded on the side of the road. I don't know what the protocol is here for dealing with this particular offense. Honestly, I don't even know if there is a "protocol" or any kind of guide for appropriate disciplinary action for various traffic offenses here. Still, the confiscation of a vehicle seems rather extreme, and the profound lack of respect of the officers was offensive to me.

My helplessness in this situation (and probably the beginnings of my fever) made it difficult for me to accept the stark differences in law enforcement here. I was frustrated and angry because I felt we had been wronged, there was nothing we could do about it, and Doris seemed to be upset with me for not accepting the situation as it was. Marika tried to step in, telling me that, "It's just a different way of doing things," but to me it was just an unjust way of doing things.

Looking back now, I still feel that way to some extent. I really do believe in the protective powers of bureaucracy in the creation of a social contract. I think that it is right for me to know the law, but I also think it is my right to know how I can expect to be punished if I break the law. I think it's important for the regulation of police power that punishments for crimes are not arbitrary. Otherwise, it is too easy for police power to be used unethically to serve personal or political vendettas.

At the time, however, I was not thinking quite so clearly or rationally, so I mostly kept my mouth shut and scowled.

It seemed to me that I could do nothing more to help, and that my presence was just making all parties involved less calm and comfortable, so I suggested that I go home.

I think that in doing so, I may have committed some kind of social faux pas.

Doris' reaction to this suggestion was upsetting. I had to take out my book and pretend to read after she finished her spiel so that I could take some deep breaths and keep my tears at bay.

She seemed very angry, maybe hurt, and generally offended that I would want to go home. It didn't seem to me that I was doing any good as moral support, even if I thought she and I had the kind of relationship that would make me a candidate to provide that, or if she had given any indication that I could see that she wanted moral support. She mocked my claim that I wouldn't be of much use to her there. I guess it's kind of like staying with a sick friend at the hospital: even though you know you're totally useless, it's still not really socially acceptable to leave. "Next time," she told me, "your friend gets arrested, you will know what you do."

So after that I pretty much counted wall tiles and went to my happy place.

After almost an hour of not knowing what was going on or why we were there, Doris said that someone told her that there was a woman in town who was  apparently "free" with the crime officer (he holds her in esteem such that she can influence his opinion, or is politically higher such that she can impose her will on him) so we would go to find her and tell her what happened. I just said okay and followed.

We drove around looking for her for about two hours, all the while my stomach ache was getting worse, and she heard Doris out and agreed to speak for her to try to convince the crime officer to let her off with a warning. On the one hand, this was a really interesting experience, seeing how the criminal justice system is navigated in a place where social networking is more important than bureaucratic protocols, but on the other hand, I was tired and frustrated, and having a bit of a pity party for myself since Doris chewed me out. Looking back, I was being pretty immature, and I wish I could go back and handle it better. But soon my stomach pain eclipsed my indignation, and I was just trying to get through the day so that I could go home. As usual, I was just driving around following Doris and standing next to her, oblivious, as she spoke to people in Frafra.

The lady came to the police station with us to speak to the crime officer, but he was no longer there. At this point, I could no longer go through the motions of being Doris' sidekick. As much as I knew it would seem like I was faking to get out of the days activities, and as guilty as it made me feel (not just because Doris would think I was lying, but also because she clearly wanted me there for some reason and I was letting her down) I had to tell her I was sick and couldn't continue. I was starting to feel nauseous and faint, so after a few dozen apologies, I took my moto and tried to drive home.

As I mentioned before, that didn't work out the best, but I did eventually get home, and after a nasty 12 hours or so, I did also eventually feel better.

I learned later that the crime officer had been at the Regional Police Station (not the municipal one where we had been) just outside of town, so Marika and Doris, and this lady (who was some kind of "Hounourable" political figure) drove there and made their case to the crime officer. Apparently, in the Honourable Lady's version of events, one of the white girls was sick and was being driven to the hospital, and on those grounds, Doris was let off with a warning, her moto was returned to her, and she and Marika and the Honourable went out for drinks and guinea fowl.

They called me and invited me to come, Doris mentioning that "I am free, so you don't have to be sick again," which really hurt my feelings, actually. I refused as politely as I could, reminding them that I was actually sick.

And that was my day.

Full of culture shock and ethical dilemmas and illness: all of the things that they warn you about when you are going to a third world country, or really any country that could be considered another "culture."

What does it mean to be clean?

When you think of something being clean, what does that mean to you? I'm sure you have lots of ideas about it, just like I did. You probably imagine something spotlessly white and shiny.

Does hand sanitizer make your hands clean?

Not according to Doris. At first her skepticism about hand sanitizer seemed like ignorance, and I'll admit, I laughed (although that was largely due to the high pitched exclamatory noises that she likes to make, and the wildly expressive faces she pulls).

But really... what does it mean to be clean? And why am I so attached to my own cultural conceptions of cleanliness?

Hand sanitizer is supposed to clean your hands by killing 99.9% of germs, right? So is that what it means to be clean? To have all the germs killed? I thought so, and tried to explain this to Doris. She had a variety of responses.

"If you pour hand sanitizer on an ant, will it die? Isn't the ant more poisonous than germs?"

"If you go from air conditioned room to air conditioned car to air conditioned room and pour that on your hands, it will make you clean! But if you drive in the dust on a moto and you have grease on your hands and you pour that on your hands, they will still be dirty. Ghana dirt is stronger than Canada dirt!"

But is being sanitary the same as being clean? I can put hand sanitizer on my hands and be fairly sure that subsequently eating with them will not make me sick... but I can also be fairly sure that I will still have dust hiding in the cracks and wrinkles.

This issue came up talking about water too.

"This is borehole water! It is cleaner than the purewaters!" (500mL sachets of filtered and treated drinking water).

I tried to tell Doris that the borehole water may be very clean, and void of chemicals that sometimes give the sachets a bit of a flavour, but that it has bacteria in it that my body's not used to, so it might make me sick.

"It will not make you sick! It is clean. Your purewater will make you sick. When you taste it, it has things in it. It is not just water, not like the this thing."

"Your body will be fine. It can't even hurt solmeias." (Frafra word for strangers/white people. Like the Twi "obruni")

So, giving into peer pressure (since Marika had some) and boss-pressure (?) from Doris, I drank some of the borehole water, and lo and behold, it didn't make me sick.

In my head, the whole time, I was wondering, "Why is this clean? Couldn't it have some kind of contaminants? Could I get a parasite or cholera or something?"

But why am I afraid of whatever contaminants might be in the water from the ground, and from nature, but I have no fear of chemical contaminants that might be in my industrially treated water? Why do I trust one and not the other, when they are both, in their own ways, "clean" and "unclean?"

Why, even after having tasted the borehole water and suffering no adverse effects, am I still buying purewater instead of drinking the borehole water for free?

Clearly I have culturally rooted ideas about what makes things clean for me to eat and drink, and clearly they are pretty deeply embedded. But they are such common-sense assumptions... truths that I never really questioned, that I find I don't entirely know why I think one thing is clean and one thing isn't.

The same can be said for people here, though.

I've tried a few times asking Ghanaians why they sweep the outside, and all I can ever get as an answer is, "so that it will be clean."

Every day, my host sisters get out their brooms (usually early in the morning) and sweep all the leaves and twigs and rocks and berries out of the compound, and sweep the dirt so that it is smooth. While I admit, it is more aesthetically appealing this way, and occasionally bits of rubbish are also swept up in this process, it's hard to see how sweeping twigs off the dirt makes the dirt "clean."

And this practice is not reserved to inside the compound. Whenever we set up meetings at work, or give oven-building, business training, or leadership workshops, under trees that are well outside the compounds (and even too far away to really be considered in the "yard" of the compounds) we must always first sweep all the leaves and sticks and rocks and everything that isn't dirt out from under the tree where the women will be sitting.

So clearly, in this cultural conception of cleanliness, dirt and dust can be made clean, but even sanitized hands are not clean if there is still dirt or dust on them.

Do I disagree?

I don't even know.