Jamestown

Because the wearing Buduburam outing slid from Friday afternoon into the evening, and additionally standing obligations mandated my presence in Accra on Sunday afternoon, the plan to tend to the Get-Me-The-Hell-Outta-Accra itch was a full-day trip to a distant (but reachable) body of water on Saturday. However, after oversleeping and indulging in a long, lazy morning, the plans were vetoed. In an attempt to find some purpose to the day, we decided to venture into what guidebooks classify as the historic area of Accra. This decision was despite discouragement from one of the Ghanaian NYU residence co-habitants, who said nothing of redeeming historic value or interest to tourists remained in the area - as I do not identify as a tourist, I felt encouraged to dismiss her warning. We hopped in a cab, vaguely asked to go to the district of Jamestown, and were off, without any sense of what we’d encounter.

Historically, Jamestown is where the 17th century colonial British James Fort stood, and is well known for its lighthouse post, where first stood the Jamesfort Light and now stands Accra Light. In the late 19th century the area underwent sufficient development, and over the course of the 20th century fell into shambles, despite supposed governmental commitment to improvements. It’s currently a heavily populated fishing port with serious health, sanitation, and poverty issues towards which little action has been taken.

Dropped off by the taxi outside the old fort, we stepped into a strange atmosphere that lingered throughout our time in the district. The intensely impoverished scene almost sparkled with a curious splendor in its decrepitude. We walked to the barred wall overlooking the ocean, and withdrew our cameras to capture the exquisite and unsettling panorama, only to be immediately assaulted by a few young men (everyone here considers physical contact between strangers acceptable – but I can’t accept it, not from strange men at least) condemning us for taking photographs. It was the first time I really encountered this adamant insistence to put away a camera; usually, people just seek to be paid something in exchange for a photo-op. A few other men came over, presumably coming to our defense, and after a heated discussion (incomprehensible, in a native dialect), we were given permission (rather, stern encouragement) to snap our shots. The fort housed a small museum, which we were ushered into by the same men who had originally protested our tourist-presence, but once inside we declined going further because of the ridiculous fees demanded. Instead we walked along the street spanning the coastline, packed with shops and vacant, deteriorated buildings in which scores of families set up living quarters. Though desperate to take pictures of our gritty discovery, we restrained ourselves.

At the now dysfunctional lighthouse, we also passed on an over-priced tour, making our way down to the beach. However, it was not the most inviting shore to stroll upon – first of all, it felt essentially like walking in someone’s backyard, for the make-shift homes butted right into the trash-strewn sand. A petrified puppy being pecked at by a cruel chicken proved unbearable to observe, and we high-tailed it out of there. But trying to avoid the less-than with-it, probably intoxicated, God-praising old man who seemed to have taken it upon himself to tour us around, we got trapped in the middle of a football game spanning the stone pathway back up to the main road. The teens were amiable, though, and after I promised to join in the match “next time”, a tomboyish girl called for us to be let through. Mostly everywhere in Ghana, children take to foreigners instantly, grinning and waving and goofing around, or at least can be coaxed to do so with a smile and hello. Women, though at first rough and harsh-eyed, sizing up my foreign-white-female-self, will warm up with a nod, smile, and greeting. One woman we passed carrying a stunning baby girl on her back (who I couldn’t help gaping at), spat at me: “Ehhh – Obruni – you like my baby?” to which I gushed back (much to her astonishment, as she burst into surprised laughter) “Yes, I think she’s just beautiful!”.

Back outside the fort, about to catch a cab home, my roommate urged us to come into the abandoned portion of the fort which the supposed grounds-watcher conceded to let us explore, in exchange for a coke or whatever donation we could make. Reluctant but persuaded, the four of us entered. It turned out to be the best decision of the day. Inside the formidable stonewalls, an overgrown courtyard opened before us, and the latticework foundation laid out one mysterious sight after another. Originally used as slave quarters, the plot later functioned as a prison before being shut down in the early 90s when the area was proclaimed of historical significance with intentions (but never executions) to restore it as a landmark. Wandering in silence through the eerie, awesome, haunted labyrinth, I shivered – gratified and grateful to have stumbled into an afternoon riddled with rich cultural relevance.

Buduburam

On the cloudy afternoon of Friday July 17th, I spent four hours in a pocket of the world most people will never experience first-hand. But it’s not quite right to say I feel “lucky”…grateful? moved? touched? Once more, I’m stumbling over words, which I frequently find insufficient to describe my recent experiences. Or maybe I just worry (over-anxious creature that I am) about misusing them, unintentionally miscommunicating, or god forbid accidentally offending someone or being guilty of cultural ignorance.

Okay, back to Friday afternoon. After a bit of a tumultuous and time-consuming trek from tro-tro to dying taxi to traffic, three of us (with two more trailing far behind) arrived on the side of a dusty highway. It was my first time, though fortunately my companions had visited two days before and knew the ropes. A small man wearing a small black backpack, a tight yellow tee shirt, and grinning ear to ear waved his hand wildly as he came bopping over to greet us. Houston, a former child soldier in the Liberian Civil War, now runs an afterschool program for about 50 children at the Buduburam Refugee Camp 27 miles west of Accra. Toting enough peanut butter and jelly sandwiches to fee the kids, we trooped into the densely constructed camp, heading for the schoolhouse. Chickens and goats meandered along the liter-strewn lanes, the stench of sewage and swarms of gnats infused the air, and deep, questioning eyes lapped up our glaringly white skin. But with a nod, smile, and “how are you” the inhabitants clustered around teal, pink, and sunny yellow huts, jamming to “hi-life” (the popular local reggae/pop/rap fusions) stations on the radios, beamed and offered us welcome.

A little background: The refugee camps were opened by the UNHCR in 1990, but with the end of and supposed stabilization after Liberia’s two Civil Wars, in April 2007 all administered services were withdrawn. Many refugees returned to Liberia, but many stayed, and do not want to go back to their country of origin. I can’t imagine what it must feel like, how disempowering, fragile, and infuriating to be moved around at other’s discretion, your own will hardly considered. Ghanaians do not feel kindly towards the Liberian refugees, and the Government of Ghana has told those still living in the camps to “go home”, warned them against protest demonstrations (which caused quite an uproar earlier in March and April this year – see: http://allafrica.com/stories/200804080259.html), or assimilate in a relatively hostile Ghanaian society. 40,000 Liberians have lived there, and currently around 26,000 remain.

On our walk through the camp, Houston told a few children we came across to send word and begin gathering the others in the group to begin “Fun Day” (the agenda every Friday). We stopped by a supply shack, and bought enough bagged water for at least 60 people for just $1.60 – bagged water being the drastically cheaper alternative to bottled water, yet still a luxury for the refugees. It was at first jarring how the girls and boys, strangers to all of us and visa versa, leapt upon us in ecstatic welcome. Grabbing, clinging, rubbing, stroking, pinching…they were all over us, from hellos to goodbyes. Some of the sunniest – and grubbiest – children I’ve seen in a long time, that’s for sure. I was a magnet for the adolescent and pre-adolescent girls, who swarmed around me, admiring (with touch and words) my hair, my fingernails, my face, my clothes. At an early point in the afternoon, while I engaging in some silly dance, the sweet things started chanting “Oh Annie, Oh Annie, Oh Annie” – a complimentary and cute cheer sung ad nauseam for the remainder of our stay. Mostly, the kids were female. First, a few of them sung solos for “the guests”. Then we walked (well, I stumbled, with six girls hanging on to some portion of my body) to a dusty open clearing, where a few potato sack races were followed by a kickball game with the soccer ball we brought them. Simultaneously they posed for and eagerly took photographs with our cameras, giggled and gossiped, and – though it took a few tries – taught me their favorite clapping games. It was the most delightful day I’ve had in ages. I already relish spending time with kids, and the immediate attraction, the instant and uninterrupted bond and fascination between both them and myself was really spectacular. I can’t wait for next Friday: Fun Day, Round II. As worn out as I was by sunset, when we began our journey back into the city, it was that utterly enriching exhaustion that actually sustains me through the drudgery of the week ahead.