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.
Monday, July 21, 2008
Sunday, July 20, 2008
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.
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.
Wednesday, July 16, 2008
Weekend in Cape Coast/Elmina
Last weekend we took our first NYU group trip out of Accra. As you can ascertain, I'm sure, it wasn't my ideal scenario. Too touristy, too many people packed together, not the approach I wanted to take to experiencing Africa. Nonetheless, it was a valuable excursion.
We left at 6:15 Saturday morning, via a fairly atrocious van that resembled a party bus. Not quite the tro-tro trip we took last weekend…though the breathing room was appreciated. Three hours later we arrived at the luxury, 5-star Coconut Grove Beach Resort hotel for breakfast by the ocean. It was gorgeous, peaceful, relaxing…but beyond extravagant. $90/night - compared to last Saturday’s accommodations of $9/night. It certainly provoked discomfort, though it presented a challenge to articulate, as it simultaneously offered (albeit excessive) comfort. Just another way some people “do” Africa, I guess!
We spent the day stopping at various tourist attractions, all of which were fruitful, though I wished we could spend time exploring the fishing villages of Cape Coast and Elmina. Instead we just observed the devastated but vibrant towns from our towering bus windows. First we went to the Elmina Slave Castle, a UNESCO World Heritage site, and were given a not-great tour of the immense white spectacle where slaves (and previously gold – from which Ghana’s coast received the title “The Gold Coast”) were stored, traded, and departed from in the Atlantic Slave Trade. It was profound, chilling, and challenging to be there, and here too I felt marked uneasiness being A) white, B) a tourist, and C) part of a school “fieldtrip” of sorts.
For lunch we went to another hotel’s restaurant, a place called Hans Cottage, which was built over a crocodile pond. Really eerie, ugly creatures! Then we went to Kakum National Park, one of Ghana’s protected rainforests, which boasts the only canopy walk in the country. Though we saw no animals (and were given a disclaimer upon arrival that this would likely be the case), the park was massive, magical, a real sanctuary. Though unfortunately clogged up with tourists (ourselves and other groups), it felt great to be in the thick of the forest. And because I don’t have any qualms with height, I really enjoyed the canopy walk, a precarious-seeming structure constructed of two wooden planks (a width of maybe 8 inches) held in place and supported by webbed rope sides. And oh, the views across the treetops! Stunning.
The evening at the resort was serene, however strange it felt to luxuriate in such splendor when just meters down the beach the locals lived in abysmal poverty. Right before dinner, while sitting with a few other girls on chairs overlooking the beach, a bumbling drunken man clearly not staying at or associated with the resort meandered our way. Now, as many Ghanaians will flock to Obrunis, grabbing hands and launching into welcoming conversation, it seemed innocent as any interaction at first. But when it became clear that my inability to make sense of what he was saying was not a cultural snag but due to his alcoholic incognizance, I tried shrugging him off. But he was persistent, and would not leave until finally, prompted when he very inappropriately grabbed at me, a friend called hotel workers over to deal with the situation. I have no tolerance for such behavior, which is universal, and which I do attribute to problematic gendered proclivities. The better parts of the night included strolling on the beach just after sunset and dancing in the sand around a huge bonfire after dinner.
We left midday on Sunday (against many of our wishes, as it was a gorgeous day for beach-bumming), only to then stop for lunch at a seaside restaurant that in typical Ghanaian fashion did not bring out our food until over an hour after ordered. Not keen on spending the height of the lovely day indoors, several of us explored the rocky coast just outside. We befriended a few children, who became enraptured with our strange Obruni mannerisms, shared dancing moves with us, and delighted in photography – as both taker and poser. Although we left the area by 3 PM, we hit horrendous traffic due to a political rally for the main party (and the one currently in power) in Accra, stalling us for over 2 hours in an outright standstill.
We left at 6:15 Saturday morning, via a fairly atrocious van that resembled a party bus. Not quite the tro-tro trip we took last weekend…though the breathing room was appreciated. Three hours later we arrived at the luxury, 5-star Coconut Grove Beach Resort hotel for breakfast by the ocean. It was gorgeous, peaceful, relaxing…but beyond extravagant. $90/night - compared to last Saturday’s accommodations of $9/night. It certainly provoked discomfort, though it presented a challenge to articulate, as it simultaneously offered (albeit excessive) comfort. Just another way some people “do” Africa, I guess!
We spent the day stopping at various tourist attractions, all of which were fruitful, though I wished we could spend time exploring the fishing villages of Cape Coast and Elmina. Instead we just observed the devastated but vibrant towns from our towering bus windows. First we went to the Elmina Slave Castle, a UNESCO World Heritage site, and were given a not-great tour of the immense white spectacle where slaves (and previously gold – from which Ghana’s coast received the title “The Gold Coast”) were stored, traded, and departed from in the Atlantic Slave Trade. It was profound, chilling, and challenging to be there, and here too I felt marked uneasiness being A) white, B) a tourist, and C) part of a school “fieldtrip” of sorts.
For lunch we went to another hotel’s restaurant, a place called Hans Cottage, which was built over a crocodile pond. Really eerie, ugly creatures! Then we went to Kakum National Park, one of Ghana’s protected rainforests, which boasts the only canopy walk in the country. Though we saw no animals (and were given a disclaimer upon arrival that this would likely be the case), the park was massive, magical, a real sanctuary. Though unfortunately clogged up with tourists (ourselves and other groups), it felt great to be in the thick of the forest. And because I don’t have any qualms with height, I really enjoyed the canopy walk, a precarious-seeming structure constructed of two wooden planks (a width of maybe 8 inches) held in place and supported by webbed rope sides. And oh, the views across the treetops! Stunning.
The evening at the resort was serene, however strange it felt to luxuriate in such splendor when just meters down the beach the locals lived in abysmal poverty. Right before dinner, while sitting with a few other girls on chairs overlooking the beach, a bumbling drunken man clearly not staying at or associated with the resort meandered our way. Now, as many Ghanaians will flock to Obrunis, grabbing hands and launching into welcoming conversation, it seemed innocent as any interaction at first. But when it became clear that my inability to make sense of what he was saying was not a cultural snag but due to his alcoholic incognizance, I tried shrugging him off. But he was persistent, and would not leave until finally, prompted when he very inappropriately grabbed at me, a friend called hotel workers over to deal with the situation. I have no tolerance for such behavior, which is universal, and which I do attribute to problematic gendered proclivities. The better parts of the night included strolling on the beach just after sunset and dancing in the sand around a huge bonfire after dinner.
We left midday on Sunday (against many of our wishes, as it was a gorgeous day for beach-bumming), only to then stop for lunch at a seaside restaurant that in typical Ghanaian fashion did not bring out our food until over an hour after ordered. Not keen on spending the height of the lovely day indoors, several of us explored the rocky coast just outside. We befriended a few children, who became enraptured with our strange Obruni mannerisms, shared dancing moves with us, and delighted in photography – as both taker and poser. Although we left the area by 3 PM, we hit horrendous traffic due to a political rally for the main party (and the one currently in power) in Accra, stalling us for over 2 hours in an outright standstill.
Friday, July 11, 2008
At Last!
At last, two weeks into my time in Ghana, I have finally been ignited. I have found a purpose, a path, a cause. I am bubbling with excitement, determination, and inspiration. All of this occurred in response to a meeting Thursday afternoon at the Police Hospital not far from The Palace with a woman named Florence Okra. Though she works at the hospital in the HIV-testing department, her true work and interest has been single-handedly launching an NGO in Ghana called Eve's Foundation in 2000 (please visit her site: www.evesfoundation.org). I happened upon her name and the foundation in my pre-departure search for women's health, specifically maternal health, resources in Accra. My interest in participating in this field was inspired by my recent completion of an official doula training course. Upon my return to the States, I will begin working as a freelance doula - defined as a woman who provides "emotional support, encouragement, and wisdom throughout labor and birth" (more information on this brilliant concept at www.dona.org).
Unfortunately, I discovered yesterday that Eve's Foundation is in a dire state at present, with a total lack of resources, financial or otherwise. But she is an impassioned visionary, and I see much of her in myself. I believe we both are coming from a similar place in our driving desire to guide women towards self-empowerment through knowledge of and trust in their bodies, specifically through pregnancy, birth, and motherhood. Tears welled and spilled down her cheeks as she described how "my heart bleeds" for the women of Ghana, who she compares to "blind people - they don't know anything about themselves and their pregnancy". She has devoted herself to spreading the message that “you know more than the doctor, it is your body!”, for “in the hands of the doctors, women no longer trust themselves to give birth." This is a devastating reality not only in Ghana but in the States (though here it is maternal and infant mortality at stake, which is not so in the US, though we have other dire issues to be concerned about). She has given her all, sacrificed her time and money, and I can only hope to one day be as accomplished as she is, while retaining such vigor for the cause she has dedicated herself to wholly...I am in awe. I too came near to tears, listening to her recount not only the “huge ignorance about health issues in this part of the world”. But her relentless commitment was what fired up my own investment.
I hope to focus my main project in the journalism program on the state of maternal health in Ghana, in addition to working on an entirely independent level with Florence (far after my time here ends) and her foundation. I have, as does she, so much to say about this issue...but I'll save it for my article, and future writing. I do hope everyone reading this will educate themselves about it by visiting the sites, asking me questions, and continuing to check for updates on my work. It is crucial, for everyone on this planet.
So much good is going to come from this connection, I just know it. I feel it stirring in my toes to the tips of my fingers...
Stay tuned...
Unfortunately, I discovered yesterday that Eve's Foundation is in a dire state at present, with a total lack of resources, financial or otherwise. But she is an impassioned visionary, and I see much of her in myself. I believe we both are coming from a similar place in our driving desire to guide women towards self-empowerment through knowledge of and trust in their bodies, specifically through pregnancy, birth, and motherhood. Tears welled and spilled down her cheeks as she described how "my heart bleeds" for the women of Ghana, who she compares to "blind people - they don't know anything about themselves and their pregnancy". She has devoted herself to spreading the message that “you know more than the doctor, it is your body!”, for “in the hands of the doctors, women no longer trust themselves to give birth." This is a devastating reality not only in Ghana but in the States (though here it is maternal and infant mortality at stake, which is not so in the US, though we have other dire issues to be concerned about). She has given her all, sacrificed her time and money, and I can only hope to one day be as accomplished as she is, while retaining such vigor for the cause she has dedicated herself to wholly...I am in awe. I too came near to tears, listening to her recount not only the “huge ignorance about health issues in this part of the world”. But her relentless commitment was what fired up my own investment.
I hope to focus my main project in the journalism program on the state of maternal health in Ghana, in addition to working on an entirely independent level with Florence (far after my time here ends) and her foundation. I have, as does she, so much to say about this issue...but I'll save it for my article, and future writing. I do hope everyone reading this will educate themselves about it by visiting the sites, asking me questions, and continuing to check for updates on my work. It is crucial, for everyone on this planet.
So much good is going to come from this connection, I just know it. I feel it stirring in my toes to the tips of my fingers...
Stay tuned...
Wednesday, July 9, 2008
Weekend Away
This past Saturday morning, at 7:00 AM, four other students and I took off for a weekend out of the city. We have three open weekends, during which we can do what we desire, and this was the first one. Surprisingly, we were the only ones who went away. Personally, I was dying for both the break from “The Palace", the large group, the programming, and the city, as well as to absorb more of all this country and culture has to offer. And it turned out to be the best experience here yet. Though it didn’t start off so well. The five of us split into two cabs and didn’t think ahead of time to divide according to which ones of us had cells phones, or to tell the cab drivers to follow one another. So we ended up getting separated before even arriving at Temi Station, the huge bus boarding area. But really in Ghana there aren’t many buses, as we know them in the States, but instead are vehicles called “tro-tros” which resemble vans, and can stuff up to 14 passengers (literally stuff, like anchovies). Anyway, my roommate JD had a cell phone that sometimes worked calling local numbers, but did not have the numbers of our co-travelers. So we literally ended up calling our professor who called the group organizer who called the other three, and meanwhile trekked around the grounds desperately searching for them. After an agonizing hour, we finally reconnected. I screamed when I first glimpsed them, and ran like a fool shrieking in relief and excitement, drawing even more attention than I already do as a white woman in a sea of Ghanaians.
After reuniting, we needed to figure out how to get to the eastern Volta region. A host of Ghanaian men assisted us on this search for the correct transport. However, once settled onto a bus – after buying the tickets – we were informed by the driver that it would not be leaving until 12:30 PM, which presented a bit of an issue, as it was only 8:30 AM! A few of us were able to sell our tickets to other riders before finding the right tro-tro, boarding, and waiting just an hour and a half in the stifling van until taking off. It was a cramped ride, to say the least, but the three hours were bearable. A delightful four year old girl sat on her father’s lap next to me, which helped the time pass. It was somewhat precarious figuring out where we wanted to be let off, and we kept questioning ‘are we there? is it further?’ but finally arrived where we wanted to be: in Logba Alakpeti, the junction town in the Tafi region. We were wished a safe stay, offered safe travels and many thanks to our helpful tro-tro cohorts, and jumped out, gasping for air and aching to stretch.
We were welcomed immediately to the town by a man named Lawrence, who assisted us throughout our 24-hour stay. He led us to the Adzotor Hotel, where we obtained two doubles and a single (only one other room occupied, the place appeared barren, but not too spooky in the daylight). We unloaded, replenished ourselves, and took to the town where at every turn grinning Ghanaians assured us “You are welcome”, the typical greeting phrase to foreigners throughout Ghana. Our first stop was the market, a bustling array of open straw-covered stands, brightly colored goods, and an almost entirely female and children crowd. I have found that the blatant cultural/racial barrier between locals and foreigners typically dissolves when the foreigner initiates a greeting or conversation with the local. This proved to be the case once more.
We had a surprisingly unsuccessful search for something to drink, ending up with bottles of coke (unable to find bottled water!), and then arranged to take a taxi the 5km down a dirt road to Tafi Atone, the nearby town known for its Peace Corps-maintained Monkey Sanctuary. A cost miscommunication with the cabbie hindered our arrival in the serene village, but we resolved it and allowed the remarkable scene to absorb us. Chickens and goats pattered around the town, which consisted of small shacks and straw huts, a few stores (with bottled water, of which we almost bought them out!) directed at tourists, a quaint blue church with a water pump in front. Our tour guide, a young boy about our age, was sweet and very patient with our slow meandering through the village towards the forest, and our frequent stops to photograph the beautiful children who were as drawn to and fascinated by us as we were to and by them. Eventually we made it down the road to where the monkeys hung out, and we fed them bananas we had picked up at one of the huts we’d stopped by to say hello. After hanging with the cute things for a bit, we continued on a guided walk through the magical-seeming forest encircling the village. Just as we came out on the other end of the trail, the pitter-patter of rain launched into a downpour. We took shelter on the porch of one of the sanctuary’s small wooden houses, and stayed there throughout the almost 40 minute rainstorm. It was the most peaceful part of my time in Ghana yet.
Told there would not be a taxi to drive us the 5 km back to our town, JD and I hopped onto the back of a motorcycle. This turned out to be the most fun ride, and our driver was very skilled, considering the sloppy, muddied roads remaining after the rain. We didn’t get off as skillfully as he drove, however, and both of us burned our calves on the metal out of which came the exhaust!
Evening was descending, and we strolled around the village some more, returning to the market as it was being closed down. The liveliness largely lost, we felt less comfortable and welcomed this time around town. It may have just been the wearied mood that comes with the end of a working day. We took a break at the hotel before heading out in search of dinner, though a few (including myself) had already decided to pass on whatever local cuisine we came across.
We walked ½ km at sunset to the town’s “Chop Shop” which was more like a family’s front porch area, and after being served drinks – Maltas, which are a barley based fizzy drink that taste like carbonated Grapenuts, and which none of us took more than one or two sips of – were never asked about ordering food. Turns out they were not serving food anymore (6:30 pm)! However, my roommate JD was determined to get something to put in her grumbling stomach, and after some desperation pleading the woman produced a hot meal for her. It consisted of a ball of “porridge” and barley and goat stew, in which lay a goat’s hoof. Yes, its hoof. And yes, JD ate what she could of it, nibbling around the nail for the meaty bits. It was an utterly memorable meal. The others of us ate pre-packed energy bars, nuts, dried fruit, and a few loaves of bread they also had at the Chop Shop.
The evening was lovely, candlelit and infused with African music played on various stereos in the huts throughout town. We chatted and read in candlelight before turning in. Not the best sleep, I’ll admit. Really hot, stuffy, no sheets, no toilet paper (we brought our own, as this is true most places, even in Accra). We roughed it, to put it lightly.
Sunday is not a day of lazing in bed in the village, and we woke pretty early to the sounds of motors and music and churchgoers. First on the day’s agenda was trying to find the barber so JD could shave her head, as she has in the past, because her hair has been bothering her in the heat. Across from our hotel, Uncle Maxi’s Hair Do shack said it was open but was empty. The family gathered on the porch next door approached us, but they only spoke French, so I was designated translator. However, it was not the French I’m familiar with, as it was heavily accented by an African dialect spoken in conjunction. But we were led around the village in search of the barber, and though we found him, he was off to church and the loose agreement to reconvene later in the morning did not ultimately pan out.
We decided to head next to Tafi Abeupe, the center of traditional Kente weaving in the area. We battled with a taxi driver who was asking for way more than was reasonable, though we ended up forfeiting the argument in the service of getting on with the day. The weaving village was another beautiful sight, the handmade houses of straw and clay, the livestock scattered throughout the compounds, the people going about their various tasks and trades. In the central part of the village stood two large sheds – open air but with aluminum ceilings – built by the government to provide rain-durable shelter for the weavers. We also learned a Peace Corps volunteer was currently living there. The weaving itself involves an impressive set-up, with colorful threads spread the length of the room to facilitate rapid production. Boys are seven when they begin learning the craft, and interestingly primarily men engage in the “hard work” of weaving, though several women know how too. I bought a piece of finished cloth (two yards in length, considered a “woman’s piece”, as opposed to four yard long men’s pieces) with the symbol meaning “Hunter’s Path” woven in repetition. We once again got caught in a rain shower, and waited for its dissipation inside one of the sheds, getting lost in the rhythmic motions of the weaver’s skilled hands shuttling the spools of thread in repeated patterns.
Upon our return to the junction, we waited about thirty minutes for a tro-tro headed to Accra with enough room for five additional passengers. Another cramped and over-heated ride, but okay for its familiarity. Immediately I showered –never before only realizing how dirty I had been while trying to scrub myself clean – and then threw my clothes in the laundry. But what a remarkable trip, and despite the welcomed luxuries of a shower and AC, the return brought with it a certain sense of let-down at being back in our palace, in the semi-urban atmosphere, far from the authentic naturalism we’d found in the Volta.
After reuniting, we needed to figure out how to get to the eastern Volta region. A host of Ghanaian men assisted us on this search for the correct transport. However, once settled onto a bus – after buying the tickets – we were informed by the driver that it would not be leaving until 12:30 PM, which presented a bit of an issue, as it was only 8:30 AM! A few of us were able to sell our tickets to other riders before finding the right tro-tro, boarding, and waiting just an hour and a half in the stifling van until taking off. It was a cramped ride, to say the least, but the three hours were bearable. A delightful four year old girl sat on her father’s lap next to me, which helped the time pass. It was somewhat precarious figuring out where we wanted to be let off, and we kept questioning ‘are we there? is it further?’ but finally arrived where we wanted to be: in Logba Alakpeti, the junction town in the Tafi region. We were wished a safe stay, offered safe travels and many thanks to our helpful tro-tro cohorts, and jumped out, gasping for air and aching to stretch.
We were welcomed immediately to the town by a man named Lawrence, who assisted us throughout our 24-hour stay. He led us to the Adzotor Hotel, where we obtained two doubles and a single (only one other room occupied, the place appeared barren, but not too spooky in the daylight). We unloaded, replenished ourselves, and took to the town where at every turn grinning Ghanaians assured us “You are welcome”, the typical greeting phrase to foreigners throughout Ghana. Our first stop was the market, a bustling array of open straw-covered stands, brightly colored goods, and an almost entirely female and children crowd. I have found that the blatant cultural/racial barrier between locals and foreigners typically dissolves when the foreigner initiates a greeting or conversation with the local. This proved to be the case once more.
We had a surprisingly unsuccessful search for something to drink, ending up with bottles of coke (unable to find bottled water!), and then arranged to take a taxi the 5km down a dirt road to Tafi Atone, the nearby town known for its Peace Corps-maintained Monkey Sanctuary. A cost miscommunication with the cabbie hindered our arrival in the serene village, but we resolved it and allowed the remarkable scene to absorb us. Chickens and goats pattered around the town, which consisted of small shacks and straw huts, a few stores (with bottled water, of which we almost bought them out!) directed at tourists, a quaint blue church with a water pump in front. Our tour guide, a young boy about our age, was sweet and very patient with our slow meandering through the village towards the forest, and our frequent stops to photograph the beautiful children who were as drawn to and fascinated by us as we were to and by them. Eventually we made it down the road to where the monkeys hung out, and we fed them bananas we had picked up at one of the huts we’d stopped by to say hello. After hanging with the cute things for a bit, we continued on a guided walk through the magical-seeming forest encircling the village. Just as we came out on the other end of the trail, the pitter-patter of rain launched into a downpour. We took shelter on the porch of one of the sanctuary’s small wooden houses, and stayed there throughout the almost 40 minute rainstorm. It was the most peaceful part of my time in Ghana yet.
Told there would not be a taxi to drive us the 5 km back to our town, JD and I hopped onto the back of a motorcycle. This turned out to be the most fun ride, and our driver was very skilled, considering the sloppy, muddied roads remaining after the rain. We didn’t get off as skillfully as he drove, however, and both of us burned our calves on the metal out of which came the exhaust!
Evening was descending, and we strolled around the village some more, returning to the market as it was being closed down. The liveliness largely lost, we felt less comfortable and welcomed this time around town. It may have just been the wearied mood that comes with the end of a working day. We took a break at the hotel before heading out in search of dinner, though a few (including myself) had already decided to pass on whatever local cuisine we came across.
We walked ½ km at sunset to the town’s “Chop Shop” which was more like a family’s front porch area, and after being served drinks – Maltas, which are a barley based fizzy drink that taste like carbonated Grapenuts, and which none of us took more than one or two sips of – were never asked about ordering food. Turns out they were not serving food anymore (6:30 pm)! However, my roommate JD was determined to get something to put in her grumbling stomach, and after some desperation pleading the woman produced a hot meal for her. It consisted of a ball of “porridge” and barley and goat stew, in which lay a goat’s hoof. Yes, its hoof. And yes, JD ate what she could of it, nibbling around the nail for the meaty bits. It was an utterly memorable meal. The others of us ate pre-packed energy bars, nuts, dried fruit, and a few loaves of bread they also had at the Chop Shop.
The evening was lovely, candlelit and infused with African music played on various stereos in the huts throughout town. We chatted and read in candlelight before turning in. Not the best sleep, I’ll admit. Really hot, stuffy, no sheets, no toilet paper (we brought our own, as this is true most places, even in Accra). We roughed it, to put it lightly.
Sunday is not a day of lazing in bed in the village, and we woke pretty early to the sounds of motors and music and churchgoers. First on the day’s agenda was trying to find the barber so JD could shave her head, as she has in the past, because her hair has been bothering her in the heat. Across from our hotel, Uncle Maxi’s Hair Do shack said it was open but was empty. The family gathered on the porch next door approached us, but they only spoke French, so I was designated translator. However, it was not the French I’m familiar with, as it was heavily accented by an African dialect spoken in conjunction. But we were led around the village in search of the barber, and though we found him, he was off to church and the loose agreement to reconvene later in the morning did not ultimately pan out.
We decided to head next to Tafi Abeupe, the center of traditional Kente weaving in the area. We battled with a taxi driver who was asking for way more than was reasonable, though we ended up forfeiting the argument in the service of getting on with the day. The weaving village was another beautiful sight, the handmade houses of straw and clay, the livestock scattered throughout the compounds, the people going about their various tasks and trades. In the central part of the village stood two large sheds – open air but with aluminum ceilings – built by the government to provide rain-durable shelter for the weavers. We also learned a Peace Corps volunteer was currently living there. The weaving itself involves an impressive set-up, with colorful threads spread the length of the room to facilitate rapid production. Boys are seven when they begin learning the craft, and interestingly primarily men engage in the “hard work” of weaving, though several women know how too. I bought a piece of finished cloth (two yards in length, considered a “woman’s piece”, as opposed to four yard long men’s pieces) with the symbol meaning “Hunter’s Path” woven in repetition. We once again got caught in a rain shower, and waited for its dissipation inside one of the sheds, getting lost in the rhythmic motions of the weaver’s skilled hands shuttling the spools of thread in repeated patterns.
Upon our return to the junction, we waited about thirty minutes for a tro-tro headed to Accra with enough room for five additional passengers. Another cramped and over-heated ride, but okay for its familiarity. Immediately I showered –never before only realizing how dirty I had been while trying to scrub myself clean – and then threw my clothes in the laundry. But what a remarkable trip, and despite the welcomed luxuries of a shower and AC, the return brought with it a certain sense of let-down at being back in our palace, in the semi-urban atmosphere, far from the authentic naturalism we’d found in the Volta.
Sunday, July 6, 2008
A sidenote...
Goats wander the streets, sniffing and munching on trash, everywhere. They are the most adorable creatures. Children just beat them as the most delightful sights in Ghana. I cannot get enough of either little darlings!
Best Experiences from Journalism Tours
The state-sponsored Ghana Radio, a division of the Ghana Broadcasting Corporation (GBC), began on a dull note (it was the second radio station we'd visited, and worked pretty much the same way!) but developed into a rewarding trip. Mainly it was luck. We finally were broken into small groups of 5 or 6 (as opposed to the whole lot of 18) for our tour of the station. My group finished first, and were lounging outside getting some air and started chatting with a man who we learned worked as a show host. A few minutes into the chit-chat, he grabbed the guy of the group and whisked him inside to use his voice to record a piece. Us gals were kind of jealous! But he returned shortly and decided to come up with a jingle for us to do, swept us inside, and recorded it! The three of us who partook first said our names, "JD, Aysha, Annie" and then in unison said "And you're listening to...Passing Time with Greg". For fun, he asked if someone would wrap up that segment with the line "Oooo, I love it". Of course, I jumped at the chance, turned on my most sexy, sensuous voice, and let it ooooze. It was great, so much fun. He told us to listen for it when he planned on playing the clip, this morning, but unfortunately we were out of town in a very remote area and couldn’t…Still, it was thrilling.
Another great visit was to Public Agenda, a newspaper sponsored by an NGO in Ghana called ISODEC (Integrated Social Development Centre) “to promote sustainable development through working for good governance and giving a voice to the disadvantaged”. Finally, I felt pulled in and invigorated by one of our many visits and presentations! The adorable and articulate editor Amos Safo spoke with incredible passion, and was the first person this entire week to discuss why they did the work they do, what intention the newspaper is driven by (to influence government policy), and its core values. Unfortunately, but predictably, it’s struggling financially. They don’t have a printing press at their office, and actually just had to move to another office because their last one hiked up the rent. If anyone needs a new cause, or knows of some organization or committee looking to donate money (or a press!), send them here! And it’s worth checking out, at http://www.ghanaweb.com/public_agenda/. Even better is the NGO’s website, which is http://www.isodec.org.gh/. I am really hoping to write some stories for them during my time here over the next five weeks.
Another great visit was to Public Agenda, a newspaper sponsored by an NGO in Ghana called ISODEC (Integrated Social Development Centre) “to promote sustainable development through working for good governance and giving a voice to the disadvantaged”. Finally, I felt pulled in and invigorated by one of our many visits and presentations! The adorable and articulate editor Amos Safo spoke with incredible passion, and was the first person this entire week to discuss why they did the work they do, what intention the newspaper is driven by (to influence government policy), and its core values. Unfortunately, but predictably, it’s struggling financially. They don’t have a printing press at their office, and actually just had to move to another office because their last one hiked up the rent. If anyone needs a new cause, or knows of some organization or committee looking to donate money (or a press!), send them here! And it’s worth checking out, at http://www.ghanaweb.com/public_agenda/. Even better is the NGO’s website, which is http://www.isodec.org.gh/. I am really hoping to write some stories for them during my time here over the next five weeks.
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