Just as with Bush’s now famous announcement, it’ll never be finished because as soon as you stop, it changes. But the illusion is nice.
On Thursday I completed the census of the internet cafes in Northern Ghana. 100,000 square km (not 300,000 as I proudly announced initially, which would cover some of Burkina and most of Togo as well), and 66 commercial internet cafes. This doesn’t include the ones that charge customers but are run by nonprofits, since I am studying only private enterprises. So 66 of them, all interviewed, catalogued, recorded etc. The last day was a huge anticlimax, as I went out to Sandema, then back to Navrongo and found that both the cafes I was looking for were nonprofit. Then to Bolga, where another turned out to be run by the Catholic church. Finally, walking back to my hotel, I found a last one that had been hiding, and tracked down the owner for an interview.
At this point, I found I couldn’t walk any more. Quite literally. So I sat down, drank a lot of coke, and tried again. This time it worked ok, and I managed to get back to Doris’ house. This is the second time I have worked through a bout of malaria, and I am starting to realise that one probably shouldn’t. The problem is I usually get malaria in a place where I don’t want to take a week off and rest (or can’t – in this case there was no electricity, so resting involved lying in a room that was too hot to breathe in, getting bitten by more mosquitoes). The only way is to do the work and go somewhere more central to recover. So yesterday I left for Tamale, where it rained last night and is now cool and breezy. I slept for 10 hours, and am now feeling a bit better. I am basically ok, except that if I try to do anything radical like button my shirt or pick up a glass of water, I go all floppy. So I am having to take it easy.
Doris, her friend Rose, the kids and I went out to celebrate and say goodbye on Thursday night. Here are the kids and me, taking our own photo:
Eva, Marshall, Cynthia
and Rose and Doris:
Rose and Doris
We were at a tilapia restaurant just outside Bolga. Most useful things in the North, such as decent hotels and restaurants, are built several kilometres outside town, to ensure that you can’t get to them unless you have a car and know that they are there. It’s a great strategy for avoiding chance visits by people from outside the area, who might actually patronise them. The tourist information centre, similarly, is always some distance outside town. It’s as if they are getting ready for some tsunami of urbanisation where the periphery will suddenly become the centre of town, someone will build a functioning public transport system and there will be an invasion of cartographers to map the whole thing. It would be nice, but I can’t see it happening during my stay.
The restaurant was worth visiting just for the cryptic sign over the entrance to the toilets (also for the fact that it had toilets, which no other establishment in Bolga does):
what about the rest of us?
I was sorry to leave Bolga, but it’ll be easier to get over the malarial exhaustion in Tamale, and I got Hannah a nice Bolga-basket (their speciality there), so all the important things were achieved.
Bolga was interesting. It’s both quite remote, and a hub for transport and trade. So everyone comes there. It’s very Catholic – there is a cathedral at nearby Navrongo. On my way through town on the last day, I met a nice young monk who took me to the (nonprofit) internet cafe, passing the local graveyard. He stopped, gestured to show me, and said, as if explaining something I would not have thought of myself, ‘In case of death.’ So it’s good to know they’ve thought about it:
in case of death
There was also some great livestock relaxing on the streets of Bolga:
napping in Bolga
This is what I plan to do for the weekend.
Filed under: May, The North | Tags: Bawku, crime, internet cafe, migration, Research
Off to the dodgy bits today – Bawku, Garu, and the far east of northern Ghana, towards Togo. Bawku has had a tribal conflict going on for a long time – depending how you reckon it, either from the eighteenth century when the Mamprusi came south to settle the Kusasis’ land and the Kusasi were never compensated, or from the 2000s when they started to kill each other in the streets with homemade pistols and AK’s and G3’s of unknown origin. I spent the day talking with the locals about this, and they all assured me that every household in the area is armed. This does not lead to peaceful behaviour in an area plagued by vendettas.
While I was in Accra earlier this year, there was fighting and people died. One man was stoned to death in the market. News permeates the rest of the country when something happens up here, but does not stick because the North and South are so divided – people in the South tend to think of the North as backward and the dispute as a little crazy. I found out when I got there that while I was away in England during the last few weeks, violence broke out again and ten people were killed. Bawku itself is under a military curfew, so I didn’t plan to stay the night.
Getting off the 6am bus from Bolgatanga to Bawku, I met Jacob, an electoral commission official who works in Garu, the next town down the line. As we walked to the Garu bus together, he told me that during the 2008 election, which was a tough one and exposed a lot of social fault lines in the North in particular, the ruling party had expected to win. When the votes were counted and he announced that the opposition had won, a crowd gathered to come and take the ballot boxes. He had to sleep in the polling station with the army guarding it, while the town rioted outside with automatic weapons. ‘This is a tough place,’ he said wearily.
This is my second brush with a country making the transition to democracy, and again I am surprised and impressed at how, in a place where citizenship can sometimes be an unrewarding and difficult process, some people step up to make the process work, even at the risk of their lives. As Jacob and I drove around, I discovered he has a minimum of three jobs to make ends meet because the government does not pay him a living wage, but as an electoral commissioner, he is rock solid.
Garu has an internet café. It consists of a single computer in the local priest’s office, running off a GPRS modem. The place is pristine, possibly the nicest café I have been to yet. Unfortunately the profits go to the church, so unless I can swing an interview with the Pope, I can’t count it as one of my target population. Nonetheless, Garu was worth the trip.
I also met Dan, who works at MTN (the mobile phone network) in Garu. The phone companies post their younger employees in the remotest places, then after a couple of years they can ask for a transfer. Dan is the most bored person I have ever met. Garu does not have a bookstore, he has no internet connection at the office, and he didn’t even speak the language when he arrived. Plus people keep shooting each other. Overall, not a great first job. He is hoping to study banking when he gets out – I promised to send him books if I could to break the tedium.
Then back to Bawku, where in the town’s only internet café I met Bernard, a young man who studied a masters in diplomacy at Amsterdam and was hoping to come back and apply his knowledge to his hometown’s problem. However, Ghana appears to have rejected him. He has been applying for jobs for a year, and cannot get so much as an internship either with his own government or with foreign NGOs. He is baffled. He thinks the only way to go is to take a PhD and work internationally instead, so we talked about options in Europe and the US. He wants to research ways to resolve the Bawku conflict.
It is bizarre that the Ghanaian authorities are not using him. In a town where people get burned and stoned to death at regular intervals, where people look at strangers as if they are spies, and the children don’t play in the streets any more, there is a trained diplomat who grew up there and wants to help provide a solution. He is smart, he is multi-lingual and multi-cultural. He could probably actually have some kind of impact. And he can’t even get a job making tea. In Ghana, if you don’t come from a powerful family who can place you, a job is hard to get. Most good jobs are sinecures, given to people who are not qualified but know somebody. Meanwhile someone like Bernard stands on the sidelines, waiting and applying to colleges abroad.
Back from Bawku to Zebilla, where there is a small café teetering on the edge of disaster in a town where there are not quite enough literate people to support it. It’s a lottery – will it create a customer base before it goes bust?
Outside Zebilla on the way back to Bolgatanga, a small handpainted sign by the side of the road says:
NO WATER
NO LIGHTS
NO VOTE.
Possibly the most reasonable political discourse I have heard since coming here.
The country is beautiful at this time, as the rains are starting. Everything goes bright green, in contrast to the red roads and sand. There are kids selling shea fruit by the side of the road. The fruit look like gooseberries, taste like shea butter and make your fingers smell sweet for a day after you eat them.
Zebilla to Bolga
A long procession of guineafowl make their way across a rice field, looking very important.
A sign by the side of the road with a huge photograph of elephants: ‘Northeast Migration Corridor: all animals have the right of movement.’ The animals are migrating to find food and rear their young, and some international organisation has paid for a big sign to state their right to do so. I am tempted to go to the Libyan coast where the small boats set sail for Europe, and post a huge sign stipulating that people have the right to do the same thing.
I finished my day at the internet café in Bolga where my online survey is supposed to be happening, but mysteriously has not been showing any results. Mystery solved: it seems the manager was worried that if people took the survey, I would have to spend money paying for the free time online that I offer them in return. I explained that this was the point, and she was amazed. Now, hopefully, there will be responses.
It’s Sunday, and I’m in Bolga, and I seem to have malaria again. Yesterday was a hell of a day. My ‘assistant’ (found when the person Doris suggested went to Kumasi) turned out to be an illiterate mechanic’s assistant with no English, who didn’t know what an internet cafe was. I realised this when we drove straight past the first one, which had a huge sign saying ‘internet cafe’. So I paid him off and did my first interview of the day.
On our way to do the interview, in the prospective interviewee’s car, a small child ran out in front of us and he hit her. It happened in slow motion – I saw her, he didn’t, I shouted ‘stop’, he didn’t, she went down. He was only doing 10 miles an hour, but that’s enough to kill someone.
Amazingly, she wasn’t badly hurt, just bumped (what are small children made of? rubber?) so the people watching didn’t have to beat or burn my new friend alive. This is what usually happens up here when you hit someone and get out of your car to see if they are ok. People will lynch you on principle. So the general understanding in Ghana (shared by the police) is that you should hit and run, then report the accident to the police and come to the hospital later to see if the person is ok, and to pay for treatment if needed. The problem with visitors who are not Ghanaian is that when we see a toddler get hit by a car, we tend to exit the car to see if they are alive. This made the driver nervous, but in the end she seemed to be ok and we were able to take Lazaritu (her name) and her mother to the hospital.
Ghanaian hospitals are just something else. I had no illusions about them – my idea of a good hospital here is one without visible rats or sewage kicking around. But the triage people (i.e. the administrators who check if you can pay or not) sent this little girl to the back of the queue because her mother was poor and they were uninsured. If a 3-year-old hit by a car doesn’t constitute an emergency, what does? My new friend waved some money and sorted it out, and they admitted her for observation.
Somehow everyone survived the day, and when we returned later to check on her, Lazaritu was being discharged, apparently fine. My interviewee, who speaks a different language from the mother (there are 8 to choose from here in a 100km radius, and no common dialect) and could therefore not communicate with her at all, brought a friend who spoke Frafra and could talk to her. She told him that the child was ‘very stubborn’ and had run out in front of a car just the month before. I wanted to suggest tying little Lazaritu with string to her mother’s waist, but was overruled.
I continued interviewing. By 4pm I was weak, thirsty, hot and dizzy, and fell into a drainage ditch. I was just attributing this to heatstroke, when I remembered that I did this last time and turned out to have malaria. So instead of going home for Sunday and the public holiday on Monday, I went to find a clinic for a test. It was lucky I did, since they were all closed until Tuesday and kept telling me to come back then. In areas where there are not a lot of non-Africans, people tend not to know that 3 days of malaria is more than enough to kill someone who doesn’t have any immunity. You can die in 24 hours (though I seem not to get that kind – not to tempt fate).
Interestingly, none of the clinics suggested that I go to the main hospital. They seemed to consider this the same as waiting till Tuesday for their services, and they were probably right. Plus, one would undoubtedly come out of the hospital having caught something worse than whatever sent one there in the first place. Finally, at the last clinic in town, a doctor was standing behind the receptionist who sent me away. As my cab pulled away, the receptionist ran back out and said ‘doctor says you wait small, he will call lab tech.’ So they got a very nice bloke called Martin to come back from whatever he was doing on Saturday night, take some blood, and tell me that yes, I did indeed have malaria again.
They should send hypochondriacs here for aversion therapy. Being ill has absolutely no attractions. You wait forever, clinics and hospitals are full of things you wish you hadn’t seen, and the medicine is strong enough to kill a horse.
There’s also the social side – as I was sitting waiting for the doctor, trying not to throw up, a man came and shook my hand, seeming to be the doctor. We talked, and it turned out he wasn’t, he was a random hospital employee who thought he would see if I wanted to marry him and take him to England, give him my phone number and be his email buddy. This happens here, on average, five to ten times a day, so one gets used to deflecting people. But this guy was persistent and loud, and it took four explanations that I was sick, I felt bad, and I didn’t want to go out with him, until he understood. Finally he believed me. Then he was offended. I lay down at this point and pretended to be dead.
So all in all, a bit of a day. Back to zero on the accident-free-days chart. This morning the kids here in the compound have ceased to make benign muppet noises and are intead banging saucepans as loud as they can outside my window, pretending to have a funeral. This too will end…
To Bolgatanga, fleeing the internet survey Latif and I have been running in Tamale. It turns out a whole hour online is too much to offer people – I got 111 responses in just a few hours. People often buy time online here in increments of 10 minutes. So next time I will offer half an hour instead, and see what happens. Survey Monkey, the service I am using to do the online research, is brillant though, I recommend it. You can see the results in real time, analyse them, cross-reference them, and see the IP addresses so you know where your results came from. And it loads easily, which is important in Ghana where connections are slow. However, in this case it was too efficient. I left it alone for a few hours and it became a monster. More thought needs to go into this…
I am in Bolgatanga now, staying at Doris’ house. Doris is great – she goes shopping on her motorbike in Bolga market’s tiny alleyways, shouting hello to people as she roars by.
doris shopping
Her compound, where I am staying, has lots of very polite children who make a sound exactly like muppets, and white chickens dyed pink running around.
doris' pink chickens
Bolga is interesting – the Upper East region is quite Catholic, so suddenly I am seeing pigs running around everywhere, along with the cows and goats. We came back tonight to find a family of piglets wandering around the compound, as people were trying to sleep out in the yard. To misquote George Bush, it turns out it is possible for humans and piglets to coexist peacefully.
kids at the compound
At a bar in Bolga, I was reminded again how normal it is for children to work here. They sell water and food, work on farms and plantations, in shops, everywhere in fact. The Ghanaian census counts the working population as everyone over the age of 6. Sometimes it’s disturbing, but usually it is just normality. This evening, quite small children (around 10 or so) were serving drinks in the bar where Doris and I went. One little girl served a table near us, where four large men were sitting. One of them put his hand on her back as she put his drink down, and though the gesture was momentary, it was one of the nastiest things I have seen since I came here. It explained perfectly why, although child work is not always exploitative, it’s dangerous to accept it as normal.
Back in Tamale, and finding it benign. Friends had suggested that my penguin (if you are on facebook you will know him) might be suffering from PTSD (Penguin Traumatic Stress Disorder) given what happened last time I was here, but he is showing no ill effects. It’s good to be getting back on track, research-wise. I am replacing the interviews I lost, and I now have friends here who seem worried that I will fall into a ditch or be beset by bandits, and are being very sweet. So I am here all week, waiting to meet Prince from Damongo, whose interview is now the property of two thieves. Then to the Upper East region at the weekend.
Today I went out to the University of Development Studies’ Dungu campus, where the school of public health is. Visits to UDS involve long hikes from building to building across what appears to be empty savannah, usually at midday (I get there early, but there is a lot of waiting to see people). I am going to the UDS campuses to find and copy theses to do with migration, for a Sussex project that isn’t part of my PhD.
Copying theses makes librarians here nervous – there is a sense that independent research should remain safely hidden in the library, in case people should read it and benefit from the information therein. These are development studies theses, offering information on why people go hungry, or get sick, and what might be done to mitigate it. So it makes sense not to let anyone see them…
In this case, I had to convince the librarian that he should let me copy one of these precious theses. This was tough – I had to go to the dean of the campus and present my credentials, which took a couple of hours’ wait. He was very nice, and sent me back down to the library with the assistant-to-the-assistant-registrar, who talked in hushed tones with the librarian, causing him to stomp around scowling and finally let me sign the thesis out for copying. Then the assistant-to-the-assistant-registrar took me to a corner and, again in hushed tones, explained that the librarian was affronted and felt this was all wrong and the rules were being bent. So I should provide him with ‘fanta money’ (as in, cash to buy fanta, i.e. a bribe), to mollify him.
I responded loudly that I would hate to worry the librarian, and all three of us should go straight back to the dean so that I could apologise for my request. I was bundled out of the library at high speed, and the thesis was photocopied for me. Phew.
As if to celebrate, Tamale provided me with two fabulous travel images coming back to town. A goat on a bike, and the best truck slogan yet: 
Filed under: Uncategorized | Tags: Accra
They don’t really do birthdays in Ghana. If you ask a Ghanaian when they were born (something I do a lot), they genuinely have trouble remembering. So having a birthday here, particularly a not-so-impressive one like 36, doesn’t raise much excitement. The neighbourhood celebrated by beating up a thief at 2am outside our window, which was nice.
Auntie came in this morning, as Hannah and I were breakfasting, with a look on her face as if something important was about to be said. I figured she might know it was my birthday. Then she whipped out a pair of pants and threw them down emphatically on my breakfast. They turned out to be Hannah’s, but fortunately were clean. She had found them hanging up on the balcony where we dry our washing, and figured Hannah might need them.
I spent a stimulating day writing about migrant social protection regimes, with occasional breaks to pant and drink water, then Hannah came home and cooked a sort of English comfort-food-with-Ghanaian-ingredients dinner, which was really nice. Suffice it to say that it ended with candles stuck in small plastic whales on top of pineapple fritters, with fan milk. I don’t have the energy to party, so this was the perfect solution. And now I can’t move.
After the last month, if I were one of those people who minded getting a year older, which fortunately I’m not, I wouldn’t. It feels like an achievement to be 36 – now all I have to do is make it to 37 in one piece. And I have everything I wanted for my birthday: health (mostly), reduced financial catastrophes, and a replacement penguin. So thanks to all who participated in getting me this far – I hope it will be worth the effort.
accident-free days
I am back in Accra, and officially on 20 accident-free days. Hannah has outpaced me and is currently on 40. Impressive. (The row of zeroes on my side of the chart, as previously explained, denote the days I spent being too nauseous to stand up, which meant they didn’t officially count as days of any kind.) Also impressive was Hannah’s first tortilla, which she cooked today with me stepping in every now and again to add massive amounts of salt.
Hannah's first tortilla
Auntie hates seeing the salt go in the pan, but likes the tortilla when it’s done. She can’t figure out where the salt goes. We think it may be magic.
Accra is less hot, since it’s now the rainy season, but much wetter even when it’s not raining. The air is wet. Ick.
I am recuperating and getting ready to go back to Tamale on Sunday. Then to the Upper East region on Tuesday, probably, to go and do my survey in Bolgatanga, Bawku, possibly Garu, and Navrongo. More buses… my favourite. But it’s nice to be in our room in Accra, and not to be sick.
My achievement for today has been to get a new modem, one that works this time. Tigo’s GPRS proved useless at normal times of day – as with the internet cafes, you can only get online at times when few people were trying to connect, ideally between 4 and 6.30am. But fortunately my GPRS modem was stolen – it was the only thing I was happy to lose. Now I am using a bright shiny 3G modem from HSDPA, which cost me 100 cedis less than the useless Tigo effort. I got a regular sim card from Zain, whose new network has the most chance of actually allowing one more than a dial-up speed for data transfer, and for 25 cedis a month I am able to actually connect and do normal things such as check my email. So Linnet 1, Ghana 0. At least for today.
Filed under: April
…and into London. I was flown back for treatment on Thursday night, having finally accepted that the Ghanaian medical establishment just could not figure out what was going on. Vetoing Lister Hospital, the home of all chaos and confusion, I sought out the nurse at the British High Commission. She found me a doctor who was prepared to both test me for things and talk to me (something I hadn’t found so far on my travels through the Ghanaian hospital system). 900 cedis later he confirmed all the stuff we already knew: I’ve kicked the malaria, I still have a kidney infection, and there is some mystery virus that is also making me feel like crap and making it harder to get over the other things. This mystery ailment, apparently, could only be identified by tests that had to be analysed in South Africa, which would take some time. This was the point at which my resolve started to flag and I asked whether they could be done more efficiently in England. The doctor said yes, for sure. So I called the insurers and told them I’d go. Everyone seemed relieved – the consulate (who are lovely), the insurers, and the doctor. So a flight was booked for Thursday night.
However, this entailed getting my passport back from the hungry maw of the Ghana Immigration Service, where it was waiting to be stamped so I could stay for the rest of my research. Hannah, the goddess of administration, went over there to start the process. When I arrived I found her outside the gates at a scribe’s stall, because the emergency passport-return service involves getting a highly formal request letter stating that I need my papers back urgently. Then they start thinking about where they put your passport.
The image I have is that somewhere in the bowels of the Ghana immigration service is a vast subterranean chamber where a specially trained immigration officer has created a massive house of cards, formed of foreigners’ passports. He spends his days figuring out how to remove those requested and add in the newly submitted without the whole edifice collapsing. This is the only possible explanation for the amount of time, doubt and obscurity that are expended on any request.
Since the passport was evidently at the centre of this structure, and the officials seemed to be settling in for the long haul, I called the vice-consul, who had unwisely offered her cellphone number in case of crisis. She kindly pulled some strings, so that in the end it only took four hours for an official to cross the courtyard, ask his colleague for my passport, and bring it to me. Not a fun four hours, though, since the Ghana immigration service becomes ruder and more aggressive the sicker you are, as if it can sense weakness.
Finally, passport in hand, I set off to find a bag and various other necessities before flying out. This was when I discovered the secret to bargaining in Osu – something that had previously caused massive annoyance and over-spending. You just have to be in pain, feverish, and in an incredibly bad mood. I ended up marching up to vendors and offering them half the price they asked, then telling them I was getting on a plane in a couple of hours and did they want my money or not? ‘No, it’s not what it says on the label. It’s a piece of Chinese crap that will fall apart after one use. Now give it to me for 20 cedis.’ They were so shocked they just gave me things for the price I asked. Only problem is, now I have to get sick whenever I need to buy things.
Flew out on BA at midnight, a car met me at Heathrow (Sussex medical insurance just rocks), and took me to the Hospital for Tropical Diseases. On the sign-in form was a list of symptoms – I ticked all of them, then started in the ‘other’ box. Then I sat down on the floor and put my head between my knees. This was nothing out of the ordinary for me at this point, but since everyone else was there for the vaccination clinic, it did rather stand out. Unfortunately they have a protocol to guard against viral haemorragic epidemics that involves special treatment for people who come in from Africa with certain symptoms, and I wound up getting isolated for a few hours while they checked I didn’t have ebola. This did not add to the day.
They finally let me out for tests on the understanding that I would promise not to start bleeding out of my eyes, and we ascertained that there was nothing terrible going on – I have a mixture of bacterial, parasitic and viral things that are making it hard to get my immune system back on track, and the mystery virus remains a mystery virus. However, they did more tests (I have officially run out of veins – next time it’s my toes, but they said darkly that they ‘don’t do that to outpatients’), and hopefully there will be an answer soon. To add insult to injury, I now have a garden-variety cold as well.
On the bright side, London has never looked so beautiful. It’s spring, and coming in on the Hammersmith Flyover on Friday morning I was amazed by its perfection. ‘But it’s the Hammersmith Flyover,’ said my driver, perplexed. I tried to explain what central Accra looks like in the dry season, but couldn’t quite get it across.
So I’m staying in bed until everything stops hurting, the fever goes away, and I can walk around again, and watching English television. This is my plan, and I’m sticking to it. By the way, I have a new English mobile number, which replaces my old one – 07981 270715.
At dinner last night, I said something foolish. I asked Auntie (with whom we are staying), whether she thought the power cuts were lessening, since they seemed shorter and more infrequent than when I was here last year. Instantly, the lights went out.
When the lights go out, you can hear a collective sigh go around the neighbourhood. We went out on the balcony, and couldn’t see anyone who had light, even the president (his palace is on the horizon, a beacon of bizarrely awful taste, and usually lit up like Blackpool). After about half an hour, the lights came back on in a Mexican wave across Accra, and as far as Adabraka you could hear people clapping and cheering as if the BlackStars had just scored a goal. “The children,” Auntie explained. “They don’t like the dark.” I asked who did? We agreed that only thieves like the dark.
So we all settled down to our evening pursuits, and within twenty minutes, off the lights went again. This time, the collective ‘oh’ was louder. I took a shower, cleaned my teeth with what turned out to be someone else’s toothbrush, and came out to find Auntie sitting reading the bible by candlelight, humming a hymn. She is nearly 80, and almost nothing fazes her now.
Sleeping without a fan in Accra is one of the more unpleasant experiences you can have, on the scale of harmless annoyance. It’s well above 30 degrees at night here, and the humidity is high, so when the air stops moving it’s not pretty. I woke around 5 with all the liquid missing from my body, and drank all the clean water I could find for a while afterwards. But today the power is back on, there are clouds in the sky, and perhaps we will get rain.
A rat will not be the first one to enter a hole and then leave its tail outside.
Don’t let me show you sheep and you show me their footprints.
An in-law’s funeral will not be celebrated with a dog.
Just finish killing your donkey.
Because the testicle is calm, it stays in the underwear; if it is under stress, it will come out.
Even a short man cannot disappear from sight in a groundnut farm.
We have buried the small child of a Fulani.
The sheep from Gambaga does not know how to move forward, but it knows how to move backward.
The ficus tree that is cool will gather bats.
Take this and stop looking at me.
The anus that is known cannot hide.
The one carrying a monkey does not go in the direction of the yam mounds of the dog.
It is the fool’s penis that is stepped on twice.
