[Once again, photo link at the end of the entry, if you're lazy.]
Well, it seems as if these Ghanaian celebrations -- and the invitations to them for this obruni -- just don't ever end. The evening after I attended the funeral drumming celebration, I was invited back to Latebiokorshie for part two of the drumming rites. There would be dancing, drumming, and singing once again, and this time a collections basket would also be passed around the village to raise funds for the funeral expenses. In Ghana, funerals are elaborate affairs and whole villages are invited. Many families go bankrupt in the process of buying the coffin, food, and attire. There was a pretty interesting piece written on Ghanaian funerals in a March edition of the Economist this year. Check it out here for more info.
As it turned out, the drumming got postponed because the state shut the power off in Latebiokorshie that evening. Everything was pitch black, and I made plans to return the following evening for the ceremony.
The trip to Latebiokorshie, a bourough on the western most edge of Accra, takes anywhere from 40 minutes to 2 hours from where I am staying in Labone, a pretty affluent district in the city right next to Osu. A round trip via taxi costs ten cedis, a little more than ten US dollars -- way more than this poor journalism student can afford. So on Saturday, I decided to make the first leg of my trip to Latebiokorshie using a tro-tro, the independently owned buses that are everyhere here in Accra. Everyone crams into those rickety vans, which often have the randomest slogans pastered across the doors and windows. Jesus Power. Fear God. Shut Up. Etc. A driver operates the tro-tro, of course, and a tro-tro mate tags along, someone who opens the door and yells out the destination at every stop. There's also a separate person who goes around collecting the fare.
We were told at the beginning of the trip never to get on a tro-tro. Ever. And tro-tro rides at night? A sure fire recipe for death, the orientation leaders told us. But I got on one anyway, at night, and guess what? Nothing happened. I'm still alive.
And the whole thing cost me the equivalent of 15 cents.
I took a taxi the rest of the way to Latebiokorshie, and when I arrived, I learned that there was also a wedding party happening the same time the funeral rites were being held. I ended up ditching the funeral drumming party to go to the wedding instead.
There was only a slight problem. I was wearing jeans and sneakers, and the dress code was strictly white. I was able to borrow Gladys' traditional two-piece outfit however, which happened to be exactly my size, although maybe a bit too long for me and I didn't own enough boob to quite fill it out. She also had shoes in my size too. Decked out in the stiff, lacy white thing, trying to balance myself on these super high platform shoes -- well, the whole affair was vaguely reminiscent of my Punahou high school grauation, when we were forced to wear white marshmallow dresses and shoes that ought to have surgeon's general warnings printed on their soles. Seriously. I'm not particularly good at this whole dress thing.
But I managed, and when I got to the party, which was outdoors, near the neighborhood gym, everyone was milling around drinking and laughing and talking. The Ghanaian men were friendly, and offered me sips from their drinks. I've had my share of Star beer here in Ghana, and I've developed something of a fondness for it. But this root wine was something else entirely. It tasted like rubbing alcohol mixed with toothpaste and menthol. Needless to say, I remained sober that night.
The wedding was Muslim, and the groom even converted from Christianity and changed his name to a traditional Muslim name in order to be accepted by his Muslim wife. That's pretty hardcore, but I guess if a woman did it, no one would even give that kind of dedication a second thought. There were a lot of guests dressed in traditional Islamic garb, sort of like a loose fitting tunic worn over loose slacks. Really descriptive, huh? The music, however, was hardly traditional. Shakira and Akon and other artists I don't even know the names of filled the whole street.
I mingled and chatted and danced for a bit with the men. The women, for the most part, gave me the cold shoulder, which has pretty much been my overall experience with Ghanaian women during my time here. Either they weren't drunk enough, or I wasn't.
For the first part of the evening, the bride and groom were nowhere to be seen. Then they showed up in a red car, and a bunch of horn players ran up to the vehicle and started blaring into long, black instruments. The newlyweds, along with the best man and the bride's maid, sat at their own special table arrayed with a variety of bottled drinks. I should have asked about the meaning of that.
For some reason, I was really tired that evening and I felt really uncomfortable in that dress and bored and sober too. Unlike the fineral I went to last Thursday, where I felt totally welcomed and accepted, this evening I was acutely aware that I was out of place. I don't know, maybe people don't have time to act all jealous and bitchy in the face of death, but it seems like weddings are just storehouses of girly bitch politics. That is, if I know anything from those glimpses I got of Sex in the City reruns we watched in the Talbot house lounge last year.
But the dancing continued, and the drinks made their rounds, and a bunch of people made some speeches and announcements.
Then the bride and groom stood up and some people showered cedi bills on them. Kojo told me that the practice is really popular in Nigeria, and that it's often performed here in Ghana too.
More dancing. And then the food came. But this time is was well after midnight. It's weird how long the ceremony went on before the food was served. It just seems like in general, that's how food works here in Ghana. Eating out at restaurants often requires a three or four hour commitment, because that's how long it takes to prepare the food. The whole concept of scheduling seems practically non-exitant here, and understandably, we Americans go crazy because of all those cancelled appointments and three-hour dinner delays and waiting around for God knows what. But in a strange way, not having to catagorize life into one-hour time slots is liberating too, and I feel people here are more in touch with themselves and each other because the culture allows them to simply be.
I bypassed the meat, but opted for the rice-based dishes and the bankum, a paste made from maize that is eaten with sauce or stew. In Ghana, no one uses forks or utensils. People eat with their right hands (the left is considered unclean) and there are often bowls of water with soap at tables for washing up before and after meals. I picked up a spoon at the buffet line, but eventually tossed it at the prompting of Eric (ERIIIIICOOOO, as he calls himself) who told me that this is Africa, where nothing bad will happen and germs won't kill you if only you believe hard enough.
During the course of the meal, about five different strangers ran their fingers through my food and dropped food bits from their hands and their mouths onto my plate. Then people started eating off my plate. They also complained because I wasn't eating the bankum with anything, and I eventually agreed to dip a little of it into the meat/fish sauce meant to go with it. Needless to say, toward the end of the night, I got pretty bad indigestion. Perhaps it was psychologically induced, though, but nothing some Tums couldn't remedy.
After the food and subsequent indigestion, I fell asleep for a little bit. But before I did, I noticed several of the women walking around with tear-streaked faces. For the most part, the women at the party kept a low profile, not talking much, and dancing only a little. Definitely not sauntering around with near-empty whisky bottles, like their husbands and boyfriends. So when I noticed that most of the women were crying amid all the dancing and drunken revelry, it occured to me that there was a whole other universe unfolding that evening, but one that I wasn't welcomed to witness. Even as a woman, and perhaps especially because I was a woman, an obruni woman. I wondered what was going on in the minds and hearts of the bride and her friends, but there weren't any women I could ask.
The actual marriage ceremony took place earlier that day, but it was a women-only affair, which is how it's done in traditional Muslim ceremonies I was told. I wonder what it was like that morning, but none of the men I spoke with were there to experience it.
As usual, there are accompanying photos posted on facebook here. Check them out.
This will be my last blog post for who knows how long. I get kicked out of the NYU dorm complex today, and will be staying at this beach front motel Todd found for $15 a day. Running water? Check. Electricity? Most times, check. But wireless internet access? Hell no. So I'll be writing on Word documents and posting the entries online when/if I get a chance.
I have a couple more interviews lined up for next week in Accra, and after those are over, I will most likely be traveling east to the Volta region with some people in my group. We'll be talking a boat up the Volta river and maybe visiting Tamale before heading to Mole National Park. Some people in my party want to go all the way up to the northern border to visit a witches internment camp (if we can find it, since no one knows where it is or whether it even exists in reality) and maybe cross over into Burkina Faso. I doubt I'll be going up all the way with them, and plan to come back to Accra to do more exploring. It's amazing how much there is here in the city that didn't make it into the last edition of the Bradt travel guide.
Sunday, July 29, 2007
Friday, July 27, 2007
Ghanaian pre-funeral drumming rites
Note: photo link at the end of this entry, for you illiterate types who want to skim...
I was invited last night to attend the first part of a funeral, or rather the wild drumming and dancing party that precedes the actual funeral itself. I don't know what the Twi word for the ceremony is, hence the mouthful of a title I have for this entry.
I agreed to go having no idea what to expect. Visions of me drinking coconut milk through a straw, sitting in plastic lawn chairs and watching performers in traditional garb dance and chant to drumming music flickered through my head for two seconds, but mostly I didn't think much about it ahead of time. I sort of thought it would be a show, like going to the Polynesian Cultural Center, as a comparison for those of you who've been to Hawaii.
Um, no. I should have known that in Ghana, they don't do the whole bystander thing.
I arrived via taxi in Latebiokorshie, a borough in western Accra, where the ceremony-party-celebration was being held. Through the window of my cab, I saw a group of 20 or so men, little boys around 5 or 6 years of age and younger and middle-aged men singing and chanting, beating drums and other tympannic instruments, blowing whistles, and shooting off firecrakers from long rusted metal cylinder cannons. They danced around and around in a tight circle, right there in the middle of the street, stopping traffic coming from both sides, and the the blaring of car horns melded into the music and voices, completely filling the night. All around, leaning on street posts and peering out of shops and houses, neighbors stood and looked on, chatting over Guinnness and Star beers, their laughter and shouting interspersed between more solemn conversation.
The deceased, I learned later, was a 22-year old man from the neighborhood who was killed in an automible accident last Wednesday. A few color ink-jet fliers were passed among the crowd, the colors blended and splotchy from the rain.
"WHAT A SHOCK," the headline on the poster read. And beneath those words was a picture of the young man, dressed in a Western suit and tie, staring unsmilingly and seriously out the right margin of the poster. Beneath the photo was printed his full name, although the Ghanaian sounds have slipped my mind now.
The ceremony had been going on since seven, and I arrived a little after eight. A little after I got there, the group of people started moving up and down the streets and roads of Latebiokorshie, pounding on drums and shooting off firecrackers in every section of the neighborhood. Seriously, no wonder everyone is fit and muscuular here. It was seriously like a neighborhood-wide aerobics class out in the dark and the rain. Everyone in America would have passed out by now, and not from the beer I mean.
A makeshift marching band joined the group, huge white Western drums we played in high school and two trumpets too. I thought of Jen when I saw the trumpets. The little children and men pulled, up and down the streets, dancing and singing to traditional songs. I danced in my lame Americanish way, but I didn't know the words and the languages so I couldn't sing.
We passed through each part of the neighborhood, officially announcing the death to everyone, although I'm sure everyone knew already. More halted traffic, more blaring of horns, but the drivers didn't seemed startled or shocked, or even amused. Just mildly impatient, but not really. They understood. So it goes: life, death, and life again.
Some of the younger boys danced wildly in the middle of the streets, inches in front of the oncoming traffic, performing acrobatic stunts and blocking off the taxis and tro tros. I was almost expecting an older Ghanaian woman to break apart from the crowd, and come rushing out to chastise these wayward kids, who were about to kill themselves exactly the way the young man died but last week, exactly the way I almost died a year ago. Ironic, I thought, and I didn't really know how to feel. The events of last year came back to me again, and I thought about what would have happened if I had gotten killed by that car in Hyde Park. Not a single car in Chicago would have stopped for me, no one would have danced in the streets. The whole event would have been a most somber and depressing affair.
Yet, I don't think one should be tempted into believing that Ghanaians are somehow less able to feel grief and pain, that they live inherently happier and more carefree existences than we do. Desensitized? There was just another funeral last week, I was told. The 20-something year old woman died of a stomach ailment. And already another funeral so soon. So maybe it's desensitization, but mostly I think that the bottles of beer that were freely passed around and the singing and dancing and the Christian lyrics that were belted out in Twi and Ga -- well, wasn't all this just another way human beings cope with the mind-blowing and incredible losses that happen over and over again, the pain that just doesn't stop as long as human beings are alive on this earth, as long as we remain human enough to think and feel? Is it possible, though, that those of us that live in the West, despite our cognitive behavoral therapy and Prozac and rehab resort facilities, really have not found the secret panacea to human desperation and sorrow? Maybe we don't have all the answers in the end, and that it is us that needs to be pacified and taught. Strange to contemplate, and wholly wonderful too.
As we went up to doors and shop fronts, more neighbors joined the group, and even a bunch of women eventually came out to join us. I don't think I've seen so many women in one place before in public during my stay in Ghana, dancing and singing freely, laughing and shouting just like the men. It made me feel incredibly shy to be around them, because I didn't know what they would think of this lone obruni lady, and in the past I've been glared at and given the silent treatment by Ghanaian women, presumably for stealing their men. But it wasn't like that at all here. A girl my age, or maybe a bit younger, started shouting and screaming and ran up to me and grabbeed my waist and we danced crazily together a couple of times that night.
A middle-aged woman who introduced herself as Peace, grabbed my hand and danced with me at the head of the pack for most of the second half of the evening. I welcomed her company, as she kept off the flocks of young men who wouldn't stop pressing themselves against me, and also quelled the swarms of school children that wanted to walk next to me. She was a large women, dressed all in bright red clothes, and she wore a matching head scarf too. She told me to stop dancing so hard, that I would tire myself out, but mostly I think she needed to talk a walking break.
It occured to me how crazy I must have looked, the only "white" person within miles of this place, dancing wildly with all these Ghanaians with their drums and whistles and firecrakers and homemade posters of the man who had died. It just did not make sense to me at all, and my laughter at myself and the whole situation dispersed into the noises of the night. Nonesense, all if it, when I tried to think about it and justify it and fit my experiences into some sort of coherent and larger theory. But when I relinquished that need to process and analyze, and simply let myself be, everything fit into place, and this piece of life suspended in time suddenly made a whole lot of sense to me.
The cars kept coming, and the dancing still happened, and somewhere out in this world another person was getting hit by a car, maybe in Accra or Chicago or Honolulu. But still everyone here was singing and dancing, and I was dancing too, and I think that night I allowed myself to let go just a little bit more. That night of dancing out in the rain and mud did for me what I look for in endless sessions of psychotherapy and hours and musing and writing and soul-searching. I came to accept myself a little but more that evening, and realized maybe somewhat more what it is to be human -- vulnerable in both body and mind, but with amazing capacilities and capacities too. And all of these strange contradictions and ironies and incongruencies, I let them all simply be so that I could simply be too.
It was a really good night full of authenticity.
"I like these people," Kojo told me after it was all over. "Everyone here is really real."
So as it turns out, nothing I experienced last night was remotely like the Polynesian Cultural Center at all.
Check out the accompanying photos here. Compliments to Kojo for taking them.
I was invited last night to attend the first part of a funeral, or rather the wild drumming and dancing party that precedes the actual funeral itself. I don't know what the Twi word for the ceremony is, hence the mouthful of a title I have for this entry.
I agreed to go having no idea what to expect. Visions of me drinking coconut milk through a straw, sitting in plastic lawn chairs and watching performers in traditional garb dance and chant to drumming music flickered through my head for two seconds, but mostly I didn't think much about it ahead of time. I sort of thought it would be a show, like going to the Polynesian Cultural Center, as a comparison for those of you who've been to Hawaii.
Um, no. I should have known that in Ghana, they don't do the whole bystander thing.
I arrived via taxi in Latebiokorshie, a borough in western Accra, where the ceremony-party-celebration was being held. Through the window of my cab, I saw a group of 20 or so men, little boys around 5 or 6 years of age and younger and middle-aged men singing and chanting, beating drums and other tympannic instruments, blowing whistles, and shooting off firecrakers from long rusted metal cylinder cannons. They danced around and around in a tight circle, right there in the middle of the street, stopping traffic coming from both sides, and the the blaring of car horns melded into the music and voices, completely filling the night. All around, leaning on street posts and peering out of shops and houses, neighbors stood and looked on, chatting over Guinnness and Star beers, their laughter and shouting interspersed between more solemn conversation.
The deceased, I learned later, was a 22-year old man from the neighborhood who was killed in an automible accident last Wednesday. A few color ink-jet fliers were passed among the crowd, the colors blended and splotchy from the rain.
"WHAT A SHOCK," the headline on the poster read. And beneath those words was a picture of the young man, dressed in a Western suit and tie, staring unsmilingly and seriously out the right margin of the poster. Beneath the photo was printed his full name, although the Ghanaian sounds have slipped my mind now.
The ceremony had been going on since seven, and I arrived a little after eight. A little after I got there, the group of people started moving up and down the streets and roads of Latebiokorshie, pounding on drums and shooting off firecrackers in every section of the neighborhood. Seriously, no wonder everyone is fit and muscuular here. It was seriously like a neighborhood-wide aerobics class out in the dark and the rain. Everyone in America would have passed out by now, and not from the beer I mean.
A makeshift marching band joined the group, huge white Western drums we played in high school and two trumpets too. I thought of Jen when I saw the trumpets. The little children and men pulled, up and down the streets, dancing and singing to traditional songs. I danced in my lame Americanish way, but I didn't know the words and the languages so I couldn't sing.
We passed through each part of the neighborhood, officially announcing the death to everyone, although I'm sure everyone knew already. More halted traffic, more blaring of horns, but the drivers didn't seemed startled or shocked, or even amused. Just mildly impatient, but not really. They understood. So it goes: life, death, and life again.
Some of the younger boys danced wildly in the middle of the streets, inches in front of the oncoming traffic, performing acrobatic stunts and blocking off the taxis and tro tros. I was almost expecting an older Ghanaian woman to break apart from the crowd, and come rushing out to chastise these wayward kids, who were about to kill themselves exactly the way the young man died but last week, exactly the way I almost died a year ago. Ironic, I thought, and I didn't really know how to feel. The events of last year came back to me again, and I thought about what would have happened if I had gotten killed by that car in Hyde Park. Not a single car in Chicago would have stopped for me, no one would have danced in the streets. The whole event would have been a most somber and depressing affair.
Yet, I don't think one should be tempted into believing that Ghanaians are somehow less able to feel grief and pain, that they live inherently happier and more carefree existences than we do. Desensitized? There was just another funeral last week, I was told. The 20-something year old woman died of a stomach ailment. And already another funeral so soon. So maybe it's desensitization, but mostly I think that the bottles of beer that were freely passed around and the singing and dancing and the Christian lyrics that were belted out in Twi and Ga -- well, wasn't all this just another way human beings cope with the mind-blowing and incredible losses that happen over and over again, the pain that just doesn't stop as long as human beings are alive on this earth, as long as we remain human enough to think and feel? Is it possible, though, that those of us that live in the West, despite our cognitive behavoral therapy and Prozac and rehab resort facilities, really have not found the secret panacea to human desperation and sorrow? Maybe we don't have all the answers in the end, and that it is us that needs to be pacified and taught. Strange to contemplate, and wholly wonderful too.
As we went up to doors and shop fronts, more neighbors joined the group, and even a bunch of women eventually came out to join us. I don't think I've seen so many women in one place before in public during my stay in Ghana, dancing and singing freely, laughing and shouting just like the men. It made me feel incredibly shy to be around them, because I didn't know what they would think of this lone obruni lady, and in the past I've been glared at and given the silent treatment by Ghanaian women, presumably for stealing their men. But it wasn't like that at all here. A girl my age, or maybe a bit younger, started shouting and screaming and ran up to me and grabbeed my waist and we danced crazily together a couple of times that night.
A middle-aged woman who introduced herself as Peace, grabbed my hand and danced with me at the head of the pack for most of the second half of the evening. I welcomed her company, as she kept off the flocks of young men who wouldn't stop pressing themselves against me, and also quelled the swarms of school children that wanted to walk next to me. She was a large women, dressed all in bright red clothes, and she wore a matching head scarf too. She told me to stop dancing so hard, that I would tire myself out, but mostly I think she needed to talk a walking break.
It occured to me how crazy I must have looked, the only "white" person within miles of this place, dancing wildly with all these Ghanaians with their drums and whistles and firecrakers and homemade posters of the man who had died. It just did not make sense to me at all, and my laughter at myself and the whole situation dispersed into the noises of the night. Nonesense, all if it, when I tried to think about it and justify it and fit my experiences into some sort of coherent and larger theory. But when I relinquished that need to process and analyze, and simply let myself be, everything fit into place, and this piece of life suspended in time suddenly made a whole lot of sense to me.
The cars kept coming, and the dancing still happened, and somewhere out in this world another person was getting hit by a car, maybe in Accra or Chicago or Honolulu. But still everyone here was singing and dancing, and I was dancing too, and I think that night I allowed myself to let go just a little bit more. That night of dancing out in the rain and mud did for me what I look for in endless sessions of psychotherapy and hours and musing and writing and soul-searching. I came to accept myself a little but more that evening, and realized maybe somewhat more what it is to be human -- vulnerable in both body and mind, but with amazing capacilities and capacities too. And all of these strange contradictions and ironies and incongruencies, I let them all simply be so that I could simply be too.
It was a really good night full of authenticity.
"I like these people," Kojo told me after it was all over. "Everyone here is really real."
So as it turns out, nothing I experienced last night was remotely like the Polynesian Cultural Center at all.
Check out the accompanying photos here. Compliments to Kojo for taking them.
Tuesday, July 24, 2007
Is this Africa?
I was musing on that catchy three-letter acronym the other day. TIA, as it goes. This Is Africa, from the movie Blood Diamond which I finally saw a few days ago. TIA. Kind of cool, pretty original, sort of like a secret code word for people in the know. TIA. It's rather convenient too. TIA is the new grand theory of everything here in this strange and gaping continent.
"What the hell. Did the power just go out?"
"Yeah. You know, TIA."
...
"I had the craziest taxi driver today. He drove backward, in the opposite direction, on a highway. Then we drove into a gutter and got stuck there for like half a minute."
"Oh my god, horrible. TIA."
...
"I'm going to miss the people here when I go back to New York. Everyone here is so friendly, and they come up to you and want to hear about your life. Back home, there are people everywhere and yet of the millions of people on the streets and the subways, not a single one gives me eye contact."
"But for now, TIA. I'll miss it too."
...
This is Africa? And I suppose it is, in a literal sense. But is it really? Sometimes I think it's such a lazy thing to say, haphazardly tossed about when the parched and barren surface of this great continent seems impenetrable and wholly incomprehensible. This is Africa. But we knew that already. TIA doesn't tell us anything we did not know before.
During my first two weeks here in Ghana, our group had back to back group activities, field trips, and lectures. But starting last week, the scheduled group activities dwindled, and I found myself with more time to get out and explore the city on my own.
I've had some lovely and terrible experiences, and in the process I've met some memoriable people. And the more I converse and the more I meander around without any game plan or schedule or definitive agenda, the more vivid and diversified this vast continent becomes for me. Is it possible to capture the whole of Africa, or even all of Ghana or Accra in three letters? With each passing day here, I'm convinced this kind of simplification is impossible.
I'll admit it. When I first arrived here, what first met my eye was a sea of dark faces, all the same and tired and sad, a particular one prominent now, and now imperceptable, now blending into the larger nebulous whole of this continent. Yes, I was touched. Yes, I was awed and inspired and moved, but in the way the photo spreads in National Geographic and TIME magazine awe and inspire and move. Information to be processed, filed, and retreived one day for two-minute conversations over dinner and booze.
Maybe it's still this way for me some days, when thirteen-year old taxi drivers go nuts and can't read maps and spend 90 minutes weaving around the same streets in Adabraka at night, back and forth back and forth and no one goes anywhere. Then I'm just convinced this really is Africa, where everyone's just crazy and "borderline mentally retarded" (that was not an original quote, by the way) and no one understands anything of how the world should be.
Yes, in truth, I still have those days. Yesterday, for one.
But it's getting to be less and less this way for me, and it's about time too. As I get to know this place, it's not so much that the whole expanse of the Dark Continent clarifies and brightens. It's rather that pockets of the nebula suddenly jump out to me, and make themselves known in ways I had never expected. And juxtaposed against this burst of unexpected clarity, the adjacent regions of cloudiness become even more perplexing, and so this city and its people seem at once more comprehensible and more complicated than they were to me before.
A side note: compared to the other bloggers in our NYU group, my ramblings are incredibly and disappointingly vague. Is that because this is a publicly viewed thing? Or is that because my thinking just generally needs some fine tuning? Perhaps I'm not cut out to be a journalist and I should go back to my ivory tower.
There wasn't a point to this entry. But that's all for now.
"What the hell. Did the power just go out?"
"Yeah. You know, TIA."
...
"I had the craziest taxi driver today. He drove backward, in the opposite direction, on a highway. Then we drove into a gutter and got stuck there for like half a minute."
"Oh my god, horrible. TIA."
...
"I'm going to miss the people here when I go back to New York. Everyone here is so friendly, and they come up to you and want to hear about your life. Back home, there are people everywhere and yet of the millions of people on the streets and the subways, not a single one gives me eye contact."
"But for now, TIA. I'll miss it too."
...
This is Africa? And I suppose it is, in a literal sense. But is it really? Sometimes I think it's such a lazy thing to say, haphazardly tossed about when the parched and barren surface of this great continent seems impenetrable and wholly incomprehensible. This is Africa. But we knew that already. TIA doesn't tell us anything we did not know before.
During my first two weeks here in Ghana, our group had back to back group activities, field trips, and lectures. But starting last week, the scheduled group activities dwindled, and I found myself with more time to get out and explore the city on my own.
I've had some lovely and terrible experiences, and in the process I've met some memoriable people. And the more I converse and the more I meander around without any game plan or schedule or definitive agenda, the more vivid and diversified this vast continent becomes for me. Is it possible to capture the whole of Africa, or even all of Ghana or Accra in three letters? With each passing day here, I'm convinced this kind of simplification is impossible.
I'll admit it. When I first arrived here, what first met my eye was a sea of dark faces, all the same and tired and sad, a particular one prominent now, and now imperceptable, now blending into the larger nebulous whole of this continent. Yes, I was touched. Yes, I was awed and inspired and moved, but in the way the photo spreads in National Geographic and TIME magazine awe and inspire and move. Information to be processed, filed, and retreived one day for two-minute conversations over dinner and booze.
Maybe it's still this way for me some days, when thirteen-year old taxi drivers go nuts and can't read maps and spend 90 minutes weaving around the same streets in Adabraka at night, back and forth back and forth and no one goes anywhere. Then I'm just convinced this really is Africa, where everyone's just crazy and "borderline mentally retarded" (that was not an original quote, by the way) and no one understands anything of how the world should be.
Yes, in truth, I still have those days. Yesterday, for one.
But it's getting to be less and less this way for me, and it's about time too. As I get to know this place, it's not so much that the whole expanse of the Dark Continent clarifies and brightens. It's rather that pockets of the nebula suddenly jump out to me, and make themselves known in ways I had never expected. And juxtaposed against this burst of unexpected clarity, the adjacent regions of cloudiness become even more perplexing, and so this city and its people seem at once more comprehensible and more complicated than they were to me before.
A side note: compared to the other bloggers in our NYU group, my ramblings are incredibly and disappointingly vague. Is that because this is a publicly viewed thing? Or is that because my thinking just generally needs some fine tuning? Perhaps I'm not cut out to be a journalist and I should go back to my ivory tower.
There wasn't a point to this entry. But that's all for now.
Sunday, July 22, 2007
the challenges of internet communication in Africa
Here's an interesting NYTimes article that I thought was pretty timely, considering the frustrations we've all been experiencing with unreliable and slow internet access here in Ghana.
Check it out here.
Slow internet is, I think, number two on the list of things I will never get used to about Ghana. I think number one is the lack of Starbucks and having to drink instant NesCafe. Ew.
Edit: and another article here detailing an interesting intersection between NYC and West Africa.
Check it out here.
Slow internet is, I think, number two on the list of things I will never get used to about Ghana. I think number one is the lack of Starbucks and having to drink instant NesCafe. Ew.
Edit: and another article here detailing an interesting intersection between NYC and West Africa.
Saturday, July 21, 2007
photo update from Elmina and Cape Coast
We spent last weekend in the twin cities of Elmina and Cape Coast, about three hours west of Accra by bus. Check out some of my photos.
See the Elmina photos.
See the Cape Coast photos.
See the Elmina photos.
See the Cape Coast photos.
Friday, July 20, 2007
one hell of a crazy week...
Well, a bunch of crazy things happened this week, one after another, all of which is too mental-breakdown-inducing for my public readership (read: parents). However, I did get a pretty good follow up interview with an activist, and I felt that the talk we had really allowed me to understand the challenges that weren't apparent to me during my first two weeks here.
Today I went to the West Africa AIDS Foundation (WAAF), an NGO that freely provides counseling and services for sex workers and MSM living with HIV/AIDS. I spoke to the director, Eddie Donton, who is such a dedicated and intelligent person. He knew everyone by name at the organization, and all of his staff members and interns were open-minded and thoughtful people. They have students and professionals from abroad who intern for several months at a time, and if I ever come back to Ghana, I would love to help them out and work with them more.
Outside the WAAF office is a small, one room store called The Almond Tree, which sells clothes, handbags, and jewelry made by people living with HIV/AIDS. According to Esther, who co-owns the store with Rebecca, The Almond Tree opened in December of last year and everything they sell is produced through a loan program that allows people living with HIV/AIDS to jump start their lives and re-integrate themselves back into society.
The Almond Tree is open on Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays, and Esther said that she takes three tro tros to get to the shop on those mornings. On Tuesdays and Thursdays, she goes to the market to buy batik fabrics, tie dyes her own prints, and then sews dresses and hand bags. She told me also that business isn't so great, and that it's always a concern that she won't have enough money at the end of the month to support herself.
Rebecca didn't speak much English, or maybe she was shy, but I learned from Esther that she came to The Almond Tree after her husband died and she needed to make a living for herself. She now uses her sewing skills to support herself. Both Esther and Rebecca took a break from their old fashioned sewing machines, beautiful ancient things that don't use foot pedals but instead have a wheel that you manually wind, and put down their multi-colored cloths to speak with me.
I asked whether they knew each other before opening The Almond Tree.
"No, we did not know each other before," Esther replied. "But we are like sisters now."
Before I left, Esther gave me a beaded anklet. I offered to pay for it, but she told me no.
"I am giving it to you because I like you so much."
I had to tell Esther and Rebecca, though, that I was leaving Accra in a week, and that most likely I wouldn't be back in Ghana for years. Maybe forever. Come to think of it, the whole thought of leaving this wonderful country and never seeing its people and its beauty ever again makes me feel so incredibly sad. I've been here almost a month, which does seems like a long time, but I feel as if I know next to nothing about this place. I'll sorely miss it when I leave in three weeks.
Yes, in spite of the craziness, I'll still miss everything. Even the craziness itself.
Next Wednesday I'm going back to the WAAF to talk to George, who does outreach work with MSM in the community. I'm looking forward to it.
P. S. Thanks to all the anonymous readers and people I don't know in real life who comment on my posts. I appreciate all your thoughts and encouragement!
Today I went to the West Africa AIDS Foundation (WAAF), an NGO that freely provides counseling and services for sex workers and MSM living with HIV/AIDS. I spoke to the director, Eddie Donton, who is such a dedicated and intelligent person. He knew everyone by name at the organization, and all of his staff members and interns were open-minded and thoughtful people. They have students and professionals from abroad who intern for several months at a time, and if I ever come back to Ghana, I would love to help them out and work with them more.
Outside the WAAF office is a small, one room store called The Almond Tree, which sells clothes, handbags, and jewelry made by people living with HIV/AIDS. According to Esther, who co-owns the store with Rebecca, The Almond Tree opened in December of last year and everything they sell is produced through a loan program that allows people living with HIV/AIDS to jump start their lives and re-integrate themselves back into society.
The Almond Tree is open on Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays, and Esther said that she takes three tro tros to get to the shop on those mornings. On Tuesdays and Thursdays, she goes to the market to buy batik fabrics, tie dyes her own prints, and then sews dresses and hand bags. She told me also that business isn't so great, and that it's always a concern that she won't have enough money at the end of the month to support herself.
Rebecca didn't speak much English, or maybe she was shy, but I learned from Esther that she came to The Almond Tree after her husband died and she needed to make a living for herself. She now uses her sewing skills to support herself. Both Esther and Rebecca took a break from their old fashioned sewing machines, beautiful ancient things that don't use foot pedals but instead have a wheel that you manually wind, and put down their multi-colored cloths to speak with me.
I asked whether they knew each other before opening The Almond Tree.
"No, we did not know each other before," Esther replied. "But we are like sisters now."
Before I left, Esther gave me a beaded anklet. I offered to pay for it, but she told me no.
"I am giving it to you because I like you so much."
I had to tell Esther and Rebecca, though, that I was leaving Accra in a week, and that most likely I wouldn't be back in Ghana for years. Maybe forever. Come to think of it, the whole thought of leaving this wonderful country and never seeing its people and its beauty ever again makes me feel so incredibly sad. I've been here almost a month, which does seems like a long time, but I feel as if I know next to nothing about this place. I'll sorely miss it when I leave in three weeks.
Yes, in spite of the craziness, I'll still miss everything. Even the craziness itself.
Next Wednesday I'm going back to the WAAF to talk to George, who does outreach work with MSM in the community. I'm looking forward to it.
P. S. Thanks to all the anonymous readers and people I don't know in real life who comment on my posts. I appreciate all your thoughts and encouragement!
Wednesday, July 18, 2007
Elmina, Cape Coast, and more
I haven't been blogging lately because the internet connection is so unreliable, but also because I feel that these posts are just watered down versions of entries I would have written more honestly if I were sure no one would read them except me. I'm not so good at this whole blogging stuff, I suppose.
These past two days I've been feeling extremely frustrated with reporting. A big part of my frustration is rooted in the whole taboo nature of gay issues in Ghana. Trawling through the national archives, talking to people on the street, I'm always astophished at the rampant homophobia everywhere, but during these times I'm not bothered so much. When I'm out in the day with my reporter's mindset, all these news pieces and every day conversations are interesting to me and I get genuinely excited to hear what Ghanaians have to say about gay and lesbian rights. Yet, at the end of the day, after my reporting is momentarily suspended and I let myself unwind, I muse on everything that had happened that day and I finally let myself feel these experiences. I brush aside the analyzing and the probing and the inquiring I do as a journalist, and simply let myself feel the reality of Ghana's homophobia as a human being. Evenings are so overwhelming for me, and sometimes I seems more than bearable. Last night I wasn't able to do anything, and after prepping my interviews for the next day, I just sat on the sofa in our dorm complex and stared into space. How is it possible to feel so overwhelmed and exasperated and have nothing really accomplished so far?
Another interview fell through today. The phone lines are down across the city and won't be back up until Monday. I've been here two and a half weeks and I have nothing substantial to show for all the hours I put into everything. I can't confirm many of the incriminating statements I've gotten from sources, and I won't be able to publish them unless I find a way to substantiate them. Not like I'll be able to since no one archives any of these things and the government won't give me access to their files, obviously.
I've spent all day calling people to no avail. I have no interviews set up despite the hours of calling I've done. None.
I need to leave now for a follow up interview. I'm just hoping that this one works out and I can get the information I need. You know, I wonder why I'm in this country when no one wants me here, no one wants my help or input. It seems as if neither the local media, the government, or even the gay rights organizations here and internationally want me here. I'm just a crazy "white" foreigner intruding, pompous and deluded, thinking I can do something positive for a country I'll never be able to call home, for a people who I cannot understand and who will never understand me.
Enough self pitying. I am very late.
Elmina/Cape Coast pictures to come!
These past two days I've been feeling extremely frustrated with reporting. A big part of my frustration is rooted in the whole taboo nature of gay issues in Ghana. Trawling through the national archives, talking to people on the street, I'm always astophished at the rampant homophobia everywhere, but during these times I'm not bothered so much. When I'm out in the day with my reporter's mindset, all these news pieces and every day conversations are interesting to me and I get genuinely excited to hear what Ghanaians have to say about gay and lesbian rights. Yet, at the end of the day, after my reporting is momentarily suspended and I let myself unwind, I muse on everything that had happened that day and I finally let myself feel these experiences. I brush aside the analyzing and the probing and the inquiring I do as a journalist, and simply let myself feel the reality of Ghana's homophobia as a human being. Evenings are so overwhelming for me, and sometimes I seems more than bearable. Last night I wasn't able to do anything, and after prepping my interviews for the next day, I just sat on the sofa in our dorm complex and stared into space. How is it possible to feel so overwhelmed and exasperated and have nothing really accomplished so far?
Another interview fell through today. The phone lines are down across the city and won't be back up until Monday. I've been here two and a half weeks and I have nothing substantial to show for all the hours I put into everything. I can't confirm many of the incriminating statements I've gotten from sources, and I won't be able to publish them unless I find a way to substantiate them. Not like I'll be able to since no one archives any of these things and the government won't give me access to their files, obviously.
I've spent all day calling people to no avail. I have no interviews set up despite the hours of calling I've done. None.
I need to leave now for a follow up interview. I'm just hoping that this one works out and I can get the information I need. You know, I wonder why I'm in this country when no one wants me here, no one wants my help or input. It seems as if neither the local media, the government, or even the gay rights organizations here and internationally want me here. I'm just a crazy "white" foreigner intruding, pompous and deluded, thinking I can do something positive for a country I'll never be able to call home, for a people who I cannot understand and who will never understand me.
Enough self pitying. I am very late.
Elmina/Cape Coast pictures to come!
Wednesday, July 11, 2007
shop names
I've been collecting entertaining names of shops and businesses from around the Accra and Kumasi areas. More than half of Ghana's population identifies as Christian, and the ubiquitous references to the scripture reflect the nation's unique variety of Christianity. (Not your typical WASPy version at all. Think crazy dancing and getting slain in the spirit and pot.) There are however a couple non-religious names I recorded.
Only Jesus Can Judge Internet Cafe
In God I Trust Barber and Communication Centre
Marose Beauty Salon
Jesus Power (from Rollo's tie)
If God Say Yes Snack Shop
Don't Mind Your Wife Maggi Chicken
God's Time is Best
Jesus Cares Snack Spot
Gift of God Business and Communication Centre
His Grace Coca-Cola
Baccus Wine
Apollo Theatre
Exaulted and Purified Enterprise
Holy Trinity Fast Food
Zion Art Design
Education is the Key to Success! Blows your pain away...
Just Here Eating Place
Jerusalem Press General Printing
Justice Hotel
Heightened Seed Christian Fellowship (ummm...)
Kick Super Store
Be Fine Water Services
By His Grace Fashion Center
Rhema Hotel
Latex Foam: Your Partner for Life (??)
Star Beer
Star Oil
Star Art Works
Scaffolds for Rent
Vibration Spot (It was actually a greenhouse/plant nursery...)
Pink Panther Hotel (we stayed here in Kumasi)
Blessings Barbering Salon
Heavy Bite Fast Food
No Weapon Fast Food
Trinity Divine Light Church
Peculiar Child Academy
Your Blood Circulator Massager Machine is Here
Only Jesus Can Judge Internet Cafe
In God I Trust Barber and Communication Centre
Marose Beauty Salon
Jesus Power (from Rollo's tie)
If God Say Yes Snack Shop
Don't Mind Your Wife Maggi Chicken
God's Time is Best
Jesus Cares Snack Spot
Gift of God Business and Communication Centre
His Grace Coca-Cola
Baccus Wine
Apollo Theatre
Exaulted and Purified Enterprise
Holy Trinity Fast Food
Zion Art Design
Education is the Key to Success! Blows your pain away...
Just Here Eating Place
Jerusalem Press General Printing
Justice Hotel
Heightened Seed Christian Fellowship (ummm...)
Kick Super Store
Be Fine Water Services
By His Grace Fashion Center
Rhema Hotel
Latex Foam: Your Partner for Life (??)
Star Beer
Star Oil
Star Art Works
Scaffolds for Rent
Vibration Spot (It was actually a greenhouse/plant nursery...)
Pink Panther Hotel (we stayed here in Kumasi)
Blessings Barbering Salon
Heavy Bite Fast Food
No Weapon Fast Food
Trinity Divine Light Church
Peculiar Child Academy
Your Blood Circulator Massager Machine is Here
Tuesday, July 10, 2007
more on Kumasi
In about half about half an hour I'll be heading out to a Liberian refugee camp about 2 hours from Accra. I'm not sure how to spell it, but it's pronounced Budaborum. A few people in our group are doing some reporting/broadcasting on the camp, and I'm tagging along just to check things out.
I guess I should also say something small about Kumasi, because I know I'll totally forget to write about it/get lazy later. The main attraction in Kumasi is it's central market. According to Kenneth, one of the Ghanaian guides hired by NYU, the Kumasi market is the second largest in Africa, dwarfed only by a certain Nigerian market (I don't know the name). Indeed, the market in Kumasi was HUGE. Our tour bus got stuck in the city's notorious traffic on our way to our hotel, and I felt as if we were being engulfed by a sea of people. Everywhere there is shouting and honking and all of the buyers and sellers blend into this large vague whole while somehow remaining distinct too. Kind of like Michigan Avenue on Friday evenings, but totally different also. It's strange how it is possible to detect moments of familiarity amid surroundings that are decidedly alien and new.
I didn't actually get to look around the market during a regular day. We didn't have time Saturday so we went on Sunday. Kenneth explained that most vendors shut down their stalls on Sunday to go to church. Nevertheless, despite the reeduced capacity, things were still pretty busy. I bought Trinity a cool hat like she wanted, but I tried it on later and it might be kind of tight. Oh well. There were bread vendors selling fresh sweet loaves of white bread, young girls and women walking around with screen-lined boxes filled with the creamy loaves on their heads. I hadn't had dinner the night before, so I was starving. I bought one and ate it and it was great, but like fifteen minutes after I finshed it I felt so nauseated and wanted to throw up. Later I saw some stalls where several women were bagging loaves of bread. The unwrapped bread was sitting in mounds on the table... covered in flies! Oh great. So I guess I pulled an Uncle Froggy, right Dad? Well hopefully my immune system is working right these days.
We turned into a side alley in the marketplace and I spotted these weird ass hand painted signs depicting all kinds of bizarre lower body ailments. On one sign was printed "gonnorhea" and showed a picture of a guy with his jeans unzipped, reaching into his pants. Allison thought he was masterbating, but I think he was just scratching his painful lesions. Another board depicted a picture of "toilet bleeding," basically someone's rear end squatting down with a stream of blood flowing out onto a bloody pool on the floor. Constipation anyone? There were other signs advertising infertility cures and whatnot.
As we were perusing the odd sights, a random guy popped out of nowhere and introduced himself to me as a doctor. I asked if he did traditional or Western medicine, and he said that he did everything. I asked if I could take a photo of his signs (you have to always ask in Ghana, where Islamic influence is still felt amid the predominantly Christian population) but he started running up the street to get his medicines for me. Oh crap, I though. Now I have to buy something.
He came back shortly and I managed to explain that I didn't want any medecines, only a few snapshots of the signs. However, the medicine man proceeded to roll up his pants and change into his traditional medicine man outfit. He then threw off his Nikes and someone handed him his medicine man hat, and he sat down all serious and somber like crossed legged, after speading out an old blue tarp and unloading the contents of his medicine bag. There were wilted plans and old twigs, plastic bottles filled with muddy, oily liquids that he was was for syphillus/gonnorhea. There was also a goat horn, or some kind of animal horn that was dirty and molded over. So all this he spread out on the mat. Then he said he was ready for some photos, so I took a few.
I offered to buy the goat horn after it was over, in compensation for his time. He wanted 100,000 cedis, the equivalent of $10, but I got it down to $5. However, after I bought it he demanded yet more money for the photos. I offered to give him a dollar, and he got pissy. So I threatened to give back the goat horn and he got all worried and accepted the dollar. Meanwhile, during the whole encounter, a crowd of Ghanaian vendors had gathered around the medicine man's stall. We left amid a chorus of definite Goodbyes. Someone even called out, "You are mean," as we left. I suppose six dollars wasn't enough for the entertainment we were supposed to have derived from this scam. Oh well. I have some decent pictures to show for it, and I rotting horn which is currently in the back of my closet.
On the way back from Kumasi, we made stops at two different Ashanti villages. There are various ethnic groups in Ghana, each with its own language. The Ashanti comprise over half of Ghana's population, and Twi is the most widely spoken language here after English. The first village we stopped at specialized in wood carving. Even before we got off the tour bus, about a million vendors pressed themselves against the vehicle waving their wares and shouting "I like your style! I like your style! Come look at my stall! Come buy!" Not at ALL the widely circulated idea of poor isolated villagers sitting passively by as malaria and AIDS and other horrible maladies consume their body and soul. Nope. These people were fricking crazy. So I got pulled into various stalls, and I ended up spending around $30 on some really gorgeous and beautiful stuff. They make everything there themselves too. No sweatshops. I only felt bad that I didn't pay more, but I seriously didn't have more money to give. I bought a traditional mask, and when I attempted to find out what it was used for, they guy selling it said "All occassions." I think he was just more interested in getting my money into his hands. I bought a traditional female fertility doll, a necklack, and something for Chara also that we can all use.
The second Ashanti village we went to specialized in kente cloth weaving. We also got swamped with vendors at this village, but not so much. Like I said on facebook, there are three different kinds of kente cloths, single, double, and triple (I forgot the Twi names). I learned this from one of the villagers who shouted Konichiwa as he came up to me, and asked me if I was his American wife. Suddenly everyone around me got excited and started asking me if I was his American wife in between random Konichiwas. So I decided to play along, and everyone got so excited out of their minds when I shouted Konichiwa back. Oh, let them think I'm Japanese... I mean, all my life I referred to them using the vagueish nebulous "African." What the hell is African? So I suppose, in the end, we're even.
The guy that came up to me, or one of them, wanted to give me a tour of his village. He kept mentioning the village priest, how he wanted to take me there, so I started milling up the street with him, when it dawned on me. No, I did NOT want to go to the village priest with him. Turns out he had crazy ideas about marrying me on the spot and even calling up my mother on the phone. In Ghana, I think it's typically the mothers that arrange the marriages and do the final acceptance. So I told him that my mother would absolutely say no and probably kill him too. He was very sad, but oh well.
Before I left he wanted my email address. So I wrote it down for him, and once again that uncanny feeling decended upon me. Here I was in the heart of Ghana, in this "African" village, writing my email address down for this Ashanti man. How odd is that? That story would never appear in National Geographic or the Times, with their sad stories of death and dolor and decay. That's Africa back home for us, but we don't know anything, it seems.
Oh god I'm so late ok bye.
I guess I should also say something small about Kumasi, because I know I'll totally forget to write about it/get lazy later. The main attraction in Kumasi is it's central market. According to Kenneth, one of the Ghanaian guides hired by NYU, the Kumasi market is the second largest in Africa, dwarfed only by a certain Nigerian market (I don't know the name). Indeed, the market in Kumasi was HUGE. Our tour bus got stuck in the city's notorious traffic on our way to our hotel, and I felt as if we were being engulfed by a sea of people. Everywhere there is shouting and honking and all of the buyers and sellers blend into this large vague whole while somehow remaining distinct too. Kind of like Michigan Avenue on Friday evenings, but totally different also. It's strange how it is possible to detect moments of familiarity amid surroundings that are decidedly alien and new.
I didn't actually get to look around the market during a regular day. We didn't have time Saturday so we went on Sunday. Kenneth explained that most vendors shut down their stalls on Sunday to go to church. Nevertheless, despite the reeduced capacity, things were still pretty busy. I bought Trinity a cool hat like she wanted, but I tried it on later and it might be kind of tight. Oh well. There were bread vendors selling fresh sweet loaves of white bread, young girls and women walking around with screen-lined boxes filled with the creamy loaves on their heads. I hadn't had dinner the night before, so I was starving. I bought one and ate it and it was great, but like fifteen minutes after I finshed it I felt so nauseated and wanted to throw up. Later I saw some stalls where several women were bagging loaves of bread. The unwrapped bread was sitting in mounds on the table... covered in flies! Oh great. So I guess I pulled an Uncle Froggy, right Dad? Well hopefully my immune system is working right these days.
We turned into a side alley in the marketplace and I spotted these weird ass hand painted signs depicting all kinds of bizarre lower body ailments. On one sign was printed "gonnorhea" and showed a picture of a guy with his jeans unzipped, reaching into his pants. Allison thought he was masterbating, but I think he was just scratching his painful lesions. Another board depicted a picture of "toilet bleeding," basically someone's rear end squatting down with a stream of blood flowing out onto a bloody pool on the floor. Constipation anyone? There were other signs advertising infertility cures and whatnot.
As we were perusing the odd sights, a random guy popped out of nowhere and introduced himself to me as a doctor. I asked if he did traditional or Western medicine, and he said that he did everything. I asked if I could take a photo of his signs (you have to always ask in Ghana, where Islamic influence is still felt amid the predominantly Christian population) but he started running up the street to get his medicines for me. Oh crap, I though. Now I have to buy something.
He came back shortly and I managed to explain that I didn't want any medecines, only a few snapshots of the signs. However, the medicine man proceeded to roll up his pants and change into his traditional medicine man outfit. He then threw off his Nikes and someone handed him his medicine man hat, and he sat down all serious and somber like crossed legged, after speading out an old blue tarp and unloading the contents of his medicine bag. There were wilted plans and old twigs, plastic bottles filled with muddy, oily liquids that he was was for syphillus/gonnorhea. There was also a goat horn, or some kind of animal horn that was dirty and molded over. So all this he spread out on the mat. Then he said he was ready for some photos, so I took a few.
I offered to buy the goat horn after it was over, in compensation for his time. He wanted 100,000 cedis, the equivalent of $10, but I got it down to $5. However, after I bought it he demanded yet more money for the photos. I offered to give him a dollar, and he got pissy. So I threatened to give back the goat horn and he got all worried and accepted the dollar. Meanwhile, during the whole encounter, a crowd of Ghanaian vendors had gathered around the medicine man's stall. We left amid a chorus of definite Goodbyes. Someone even called out, "You are mean," as we left. I suppose six dollars wasn't enough for the entertainment we were supposed to have derived from this scam. Oh well. I have some decent pictures to show for it, and I rotting horn which is currently in the back of my closet.
On the way back from Kumasi, we made stops at two different Ashanti villages. There are various ethnic groups in Ghana, each with its own language. The Ashanti comprise over half of Ghana's population, and Twi is the most widely spoken language here after English. The first village we stopped at specialized in wood carving. Even before we got off the tour bus, about a million vendors pressed themselves against the vehicle waving their wares and shouting "I like your style! I like your style! Come look at my stall! Come buy!" Not at ALL the widely circulated idea of poor isolated villagers sitting passively by as malaria and AIDS and other horrible maladies consume their body and soul. Nope. These people were fricking crazy. So I got pulled into various stalls, and I ended up spending around $30 on some really gorgeous and beautiful stuff. They make everything there themselves too. No sweatshops. I only felt bad that I didn't pay more, but I seriously didn't have more money to give. I bought a traditional mask, and when I attempted to find out what it was used for, they guy selling it said "All occassions." I think he was just more interested in getting my money into his hands. I bought a traditional female fertility doll, a necklack, and something for Chara also that we can all use.
The second Ashanti village we went to specialized in kente cloth weaving. We also got swamped with vendors at this village, but not so much. Like I said on facebook, there are three different kinds of kente cloths, single, double, and triple (I forgot the Twi names). I learned this from one of the villagers who shouted Konichiwa as he came up to me, and asked me if I was his American wife. Suddenly everyone around me got excited and started asking me if I was his American wife in between random Konichiwas. So I decided to play along, and everyone got so excited out of their minds when I shouted Konichiwa back. Oh, let them think I'm Japanese... I mean, all my life I referred to them using the vagueish nebulous "African." What the hell is African? So I suppose, in the end, we're even.
The guy that came up to me, or one of them, wanted to give me a tour of his village. He kept mentioning the village priest, how he wanted to take me there, so I started milling up the street with him, when it dawned on me. No, I did NOT want to go to the village priest with him. Turns out he had crazy ideas about marrying me on the spot and even calling up my mother on the phone. In Ghana, I think it's typically the mothers that arrange the marriages and do the final acceptance. So I told him that my mother would absolutely say no and probably kill him too. He was very sad, but oh well.
Before I left he wanted my email address. So I wrote it down for him, and once again that uncanny feeling decended upon me. Here I was in the heart of Ghana, in this "African" village, writing my email address down for this Ashanti man. How odd is that? That story would never appear in National Geographic or the Times, with their sad stories of death and dolor and decay. That's Africa back home for us, but we don't know anything, it seems.
Oh god I'm so late ok bye.
Sunday, July 8, 2007
Kumasi, briefly
I just got back from our group's weekend trip to Kumasi, Ghana's second largest city about 5 hours by bus north of Accra. There's so much to say about the trip, but I'll have to blog more on it later because I'm tired and I have some interviews tomorrow that I should prep for.
I'm just posting to let everyone know that I have new facebook albums up.
Check out my Kumasi photos here.
I also added a new album of photos I took of some school children near the Kaneshi market in Accra. See it here.
The Accra II album is updated also. I added some photos I took last week during my second visit to the Kaneshi market.
Finally, I enabled commenting for everyone. I forgot to do that earlier, but now readers who don't have a blogspot account can still leave messages.
I'm just posting to let everyone know that I have new facebook albums up.
Check out my Kumasi photos here.
I also added a new album of photos I took of some school children near the Kaneshi market in Accra. See it here.
The Accra II album is updated also. I added some photos I took last week during my second visit to the Kaneshi market.
Finally, I enabled commenting for everyone. I forgot to do that earlier, but now readers who don't have a blogspot account can still leave messages.
Wednesday, July 4, 2007
Oxford Street, Accra
Today I wandered around the central district in Accra for a little over an hour alone, with the equivalent of 20 US cents on me. I was starving but I couldn't buy anything to eat with so few cedis, so I went into an old bookstore to escape the heat and the persistance of the vendors.
The bookstore, right across Frankie's Hotel (an overpriced restaurant), was called The Bookshelf.net. Its selection wasn't anything impressive--mostly outdated textbooks, yellowing and dog-earred paperback romance novels, quarterly publications, and never-heard-of titles from the 80s and 90s. I weaved in and out of the bookcases, feeling rather disoriented and alone and bored with the titles available, my fingertips dusty and grimy from running them along the rows and stacks of uninspiring works. However, there was a single shelf titled "classics," and of the two hundred or so books in that section (most of them decidedly not classics at all, nor anything remotely literary in nature), I found two slim paperback volumes of Thornton Wilder's plays. Here was my favorite American playwright/novelist, in this dusty unnoticed corner of this small West African capital. Heartened and feeling less alone, I started looking around the bookstore for some Shakespeare.
It seems that everyone here raves about Kwame Nkrumah, the first president of Ghana. Any reference to him makes me squirm with embarassment because for the first couple of days I couldn't even say the dude's name, nor did I have the slightest clue who he was. Yet all the Ghanaians spoke of him as if the world knew of this Kwame Nkrumah just as they did. So then I got to thinking, well, maybe our Shakespeare is like this hero Nkrumah. Perhaps the Bard isn't so universal as I'd like to believe he is. So I decided that I'd put Shakespeare's reknown to the test right here in this dusty corner of a bookstore. If I found at least one of his works, I would give myself the right to continue holding fast to my belief in the universality and genius of the Bard. So I began my search, but nothing came up; Shakespeare was nowhere to be found. Embarassed in front of myself for my own egocentrism, I was about to give up my hunt when I spotted two of Shakespeare's histories in spotted, stained paperback: Richard II and Henry IV, Part I.
They're those wonderful lines spoken by the poet-king Richard in Act III, upon learning of Bolingbroke's return to England:
The bookstore, right across Frankie's Hotel (an overpriced restaurant), was called The Bookshelf.net. Its selection wasn't anything impressive--mostly outdated textbooks, yellowing and dog-earred paperback romance novels, quarterly publications, and never-heard-of titles from the 80s and 90s. I weaved in and out of the bookcases, feeling rather disoriented and alone and bored with the titles available, my fingertips dusty and grimy from running them along the rows and stacks of uninspiring works. However, there was a single shelf titled "classics," and of the two hundred or so books in that section (most of them decidedly not classics at all, nor anything remotely literary in nature), I found two slim paperback volumes of Thornton Wilder's plays. Here was my favorite American playwright/novelist, in this dusty unnoticed corner of this small West African capital. Heartened and feeling less alone, I started looking around the bookstore for some Shakespeare.
It seems that everyone here raves about Kwame Nkrumah, the first president of Ghana. Any reference to him makes me squirm with embarassment because for the first couple of days I couldn't even say the dude's name, nor did I have the slightest clue who he was. Yet all the Ghanaians spoke of him as if the world knew of this Kwame Nkrumah just as they did. So then I got to thinking, well, maybe our Shakespeare is like this hero Nkrumah. Perhaps the Bard isn't so universal as I'd like to believe he is. So I decided that I'd put Shakespeare's reknown to the test right here in this dusty corner of a bookstore. If I found at least one of his works, I would give myself the right to continue holding fast to my belief in the universality and genius of the Bard. So I began my search, but nothing came up; Shakespeare was nowhere to be found. Embarassed in front of myself for my own egocentrism, I was about to give up my hunt when I spotted two of Shakespeare's histories in spotted, stained paperback: Richard II and Henry IV, Part I.
They're those wonderful lines spoken by the poet-king Richard in Act III, upon learning of Bolingbroke's return to England:
Of comfort no man speak:I would say in general what Richard says is true, but after today, I still think that the Bard himself remains the exception to the rest of humanity's common fate. Five hundred years after he lived and died, Shakespeare is still thriving in this dusty Accra bookshop.
Let's talk of graves, of worms, and epitaphs;
Make dust our paper, and with rainy eyes
Write sorrow on the bosom of the earth;
Let's choose executors and talk of wills:
And yet not so — for what can we bequeath
Save our deposed bodies to the ground?
Our lands, our lives, and all are Bolingbroke's,
And nothing can we call our own but death,
And that small model of the barren earth
Which serves as paste and cover to our bones.
Tuesday, July 3, 2007
selected snapshots of life in Accra
First Weekend in Accra
Hello from Ghana! Right now I'm sitting in my dorm room at the New York University center here in Accra, Ghana's capital. I'll be in Ghana for six week doing some reporting, and for the most part I'll be based in Accra writing on the city's underground gay rights movement. Homosexuality is illegal in Ghana, and "unnatural carnal knowledge" is a criminal offense according to the country's criminal code of 1960, which hasn't been much updated since the time of British colonialism. Hopefully I'll be able to delve deeper into this issue, despite the fact that it's shrouded in secrecy (not to mention that my principle source fled the country a few months back because of all the death threats he was receiving...). Wish me luck!
I arrived in Ghana from Honolulu via San Fran and New York, and after 27 hours of flight time (thanks to weather delays at JFK) I made it to Accra in one piece. Although I've only been here less than five days, I feel as if I've been here forever. Yet in some ways, I'm pretty sure certain things about life in Ghana will never quite feel like home for me. One thing for sure, I'll never get used to this internet situation. Access in even the most developed parts of the country is only occasional at best, and pretty unreliable. I also miss not being able to use my cell phone to constantly text message everyone everywhere at every moment of the day. Bathrooms with toilets, toilet paper, and running water? Nope. We're lucky here at NYU's dorm to have these "necessities," but I was surprised to find that even some of the top restaurants here in the city lack what I take for granted back home.
Although it's imaginable that I might eventually get used to the lack of toilet paper, drinkable tap water, etc, I know I could never live like a Ghanaian or be fully accepted as one by the people here. Hey ladies back home, looking for a husband? Well, let me suggest you book yourself a plane ticket to sub-Saharan Africa ASAP. It's literally impossible to walk five feet in the busier parts of town without some Ghanaian man coming up and asking for my contact number, complimenting me on some part of my body, confessing he loves me, or offering his hand in marriage. It's all very entertaining, but exasperating at times, and lately I find myself wishing that I had invisible powers.
Some interesting pick up lines for everyone's edification and entertainment:
"Hello. You are beautiful. I want to take you to Aphrodisiac tonight and you can shake your boobboob for me."
"Excuse me, lady, but this gentleman here *points to his friend* claims he loves you."
"CONTACT NUMBER! CONTACT NUMBER! PLEASE! CONTACT NUMBER!"
"I want to make you my wife. Oh, here is my sister. Then you can be sisters." *woman sitting next to him glares at me and does NOT smile back*
Ad infinitum. But that was an aside.
The word for foreigner or white here is "obruni," which is loosely applied by the locals to anyone who isn't Ghanaian. That means even African Americans and Asian Americans like me fit the obruni description. I was actually hoping that I could go in cognito because I didn't look typically "American," but no such luck. I think being an ethnic minority actually attracts more attention in some ways, and I've had people ask me whether I am Japanese, Chinese, or Filipino. One man even expressed surprise that I spoke English.
I've been trying to keep up with my running, but so far my training isn't going so well. I usually try to maintain a mileage of around 50 in Chicago, but all the timezone changes, the busy schedule, the heat, and the lack of safe running trails all makes running difficult. When I'm outside, every taxi driver honks and tries to pick me up, nearly running me over in the process! In Ghana, you don't flag down taxis; they come to you, honking and waving and stopping but two feet away from you. The other thing that makes running difficult are the potholes and roadside gutters. People in Hawaii need to stop complaining about potholes. Seriously, walking along main highways is like hiking on trails here.
There were several places we've been so far that have really made me happy. We've been to so many and they all sort of blend together after awhile, but two that stand out at the moment are the Kaneshi market and La Pleasure beach, both in Accra (not too sure about the exact location of each, as I'm still rather disoriented).
The market is housed in a two (three?) storey building, very dilapidated but definitely a structure with lots of character. The stalls completely fill the ground floor and spill out onto the surrounding streets. Everywhere people press themselves and their merchandise into you, calling out to you.
"Come, come, not buy, just look, come come. And maybe if you like, then I get lucky today."
The first floor of the market is filled with various food items. Don't think McDonald's and Starbucks, please. Maybe I'm simply naive, having nothing to gauge my experience at the market, but everything about the Kaneshi market seemed refreshingly real. This is not Accra's version of Waikiki at all, nor is it the counterpart to Michigan Avenue in downtown Chicago. There were animal body parts for sell, and it seemed qutie possible to find every single appendage or organ imaginable amid the sea if stalls and tables. The meat filled the place with the smell of blood and flesh, putrid and earthy and strangely alive. It seems that goat meat is pretty popular in Ghana. I have yet to see cows here, but there are packs of goats roaming everywhere. I don't think the Ghanaians are big on dairy either, as everyone here drinks soy milk. Apple flavored, mango flavored, pineapple flavored, you name it. I have yet to try anything but the plain version so far...
Sandwiched in between the meat vendors were tables displaying gorgeous fruits and produce. Pyramids of tomatoes, apples, bananas, and mounds of dried spices and chiles brightened the dimly lit ground floor. There were several items that looked somewhat familiar (white pineapples?) but for other items, I simply found that I had no means of processing the things before me.
Upstairs the vendors sold beads, jewelry, and fabrics. Not to mention sanitary napkins. Actually the upstairs level kind of bored me, because most of the goods looked imported, but all the girls in my group suddenly went crazy and started buying everything. Snore...
I didn't have much time too look around the marketplace on my own, but I hope to go back by myself and take more time to check out the produce and goods and talk to the vendors.
A couple of days ago we also visited La Pleasure beach. Not all all like Hawaii's beaches, or like Chicago's view of the lake front. I couldn't locate a single trash can the entire three hours I was there, and consequently, the sand and shoreline was completely speckled with litter. But I hardly noticed the dirt and the grime because everywhere there were people, people, people, bodies filling the narrow spaces between the large multi-colored beach umbrellas, vending goods, wrestling, sharing beers, dancing, and singing. The only people lounging on beach towels were the tourists. It seemed that all the Ghanaians were busy doing something active. The country also celebrated a national holiday this past weekend, and so Monday wasn't a working day. Maybe the beach isn't usually as lively and crowded, and this weekend was the exception. They had a stage set up and performers danced some traditional dances but I also heard that really popular Black Eyed Peas song from two years ago (whatever the name is, the one that goes on about all that junk in your trunk). It's amazing how amid such a different universe there sometimes erupt such familiar pieces of home, bits of my world that somehow assume an uncanny twist in this country so far from everything I know.
I loved that beach. I definitely want to go back. Best part had to be the beer, which I bought for an equivalent of 90 US cents.
Speaking of beer, the nightlife here is amazing too. No cover charges, no IDs required, beers go for US $1, and the men are fabulous dancers! Everyone sings along to the music, and there are times when everyone is jumping up and down and screaming in words I can't define but somehow instrinsically understand. If you want to know more, email me directly.
Checking out for now. Congrats if you made it this far. I'll try to write more consistently so I don't have to spew out a load of stuff all at once. Love from Accra!
I arrived in Ghana from Honolulu via San Fran and New York, and after 27 hours of flight time (thanks to weather delays at JFK) I made it to Accra in one piece. Although I've only been here less than five days, I feel as if I've been here forever. Yet in some ways, I'm pretty sure certain things about life in Ghana will never quite feel like home for me. One thing for sure, I'll never get used to this internet situation. Access in even the most developed parts of the country is only occasional at best, and pretty unreliable. I also miss not being able to use my cell phone to constantly text message everyone everywhere at every moment of the day. Bathrooms with toilets, toilet paper, and running water? Nope. We're lucky here at NYU's dorm to have these "necessities," but I was surprised to find that even some of the top restaurants here in the city lack what I take for granted back home.
Although it's imaginable that I might eventually get used to the lack of toilet paper, drinkable tap water, etc, I know I could never live like a Ghanaian or be fully accepted as one by the people here. Hey ladies back home, looking for a husband? Well, let me suggest you book yourself a plane ticket to sub-Saharan Africa ASAP. It's literally impossible to walk five feet in the busier parts of town without some Ghanaian man coming up and asking for my contact number, complimenting me on some part of my body, confessing he loves me, or offering his hand in marriage. It's all very entertaining, but exasperating at times, and lately I find myself wishing that I had invisible powers.
Some interesting pick up lines for everyone's edification and entertainment:
"Hello. You are beautiful. I want to take you to Aphrodisiac tonight and you can shake your boobboob for me."
"Excuse me, lady, but this gentleman here *points to his friend* claims he loves you."
"CONTACT NUMBER! CONTACT NUMBER! PLEASE! CONTACT NUMBER!"
"I want to make you my wife. Oh, here is my sister. Then you can be sisters." *woman sitting next to him glares at me and does NOT smile back*
Ad infinitum. But that was an aside.
The word for foreigner or white here is "obruni," which is loosely applied by the locals to anyone who isn't Ghanaian. That means even African Americans and Asian Americans like me fit the obruni description. I was actually hoping that I could go in cognito because I didn't look typically "American," but no such luck. I think being an ethnic minority actually attracts more attention in some ways, and I've had people ask me whether I am Japanese, Chinese, or Filipino. One man even expressed surprise that I spoke English.
I've been trying to keep up with my running, but so far my training isn't going so well. I usually try to maintain a mileage of around 50 in Chicago, but all the timezone changes, the busy schedule, the heat, and the lack of safe running trails all makes running difficult. When I'm outside, every taxi driver honks and tries to pick me up, nearly running me over in the process! In Ghana, you don't flag down taxis; they come to you, honking and waving and stopping but two feet away from you. The other thing that makes running difficult are the potholes and roadside gutters. People in Hawaii need to stop complaining about potholes. Seriously, walking along main highways is like hiking on trails here.
There were several places we've been so far that have really made me happy. We've been to so many and they all sort of blend together after awhile, but two that stand out at the moment are the Kaneshi market and La Pleasure beach, both in Accra (not too sure about the exact location of each, as I'm still rather disoriented).
The market is housed in a two (three?) storey building, very dilapidated but definitely a structure with lots of character. The stalls completely fill the ground floor and spill out onto the surrounding streets. Everywhere people press themselves and their merchandise into you, calling out to you.
"Come, come, not buy, just look, come come. And maybe if you like, then I get lucky today."
The first floor of the market is filled with various food items. Don't think McDonald's and Starbucks, please. Maybe I'm simply naive, having nothing to gauge my experience at the market, but everything about the Kaneshi market seemed refreshingly real. This is not Accra's version of Waikiki at all, nor is it the counterpart to Michigan Avenue in downtown Chicago. There were animal body parts for sell, and it seemed qutie possible to find every single appendage or organ imaginable amid the sea if stalls and tables. The meat filled the place with the smell of blood and flesh, putrid and earthy and strangely alive. It seems that goat meat is pretty popular in Ghana. I have yet to see cows here, but there are packs of goats roaming everywhere. I don't think the Ghanaians are big on dairy either, as everyone here drinks soy milk. Apple flavored, mango flavored, pineapple flavored, you name it. I have yet to try anything but the plain version so far...
Sandwiched in between the meat vendors were tables displaying gorgeous fruits and produce. Pyramids of tomatoes, apples, bananas, and mounds of dried spices and chiles brightened the dimly lit ground floor. There were several items that looked somewhat familiar (white pineapples?) but for other items, I simply found that I had no means of processing the things before me.
Upstairs the vendors sold beads, jewelry, and fabrics. Not to mention sanitary napkins. Actually the upstairs level kind of bored me, because most of the goods looked imported, but all the girls in my group suddenly went crazy and started buying everything. Snore...
I didn't have much time too look around the marketplace on my own, but I hope to go back by myself and take more time to check out the produce and goods and talk to the vendors.
A couple of days ago we also visited La Pleasure beach. Not all all like Hawaii's beaches, or like Chicago's view of the lake front. I couldn't locate a single trash can the entire three hours I was there, and consequently, the sand and shoreline was completely speckled with litter. But I hardly noticed the dirt and the grime because everywhere there were people, people, people, bodies filling the narrow spaces between the large multi-colored beach umbrellas, vending goods, wrestling, sharing beers, dancing, and singing. The only people lounging on beach towels were the tourists. It seemed that all the Ghanaians were busy doing something active. The country also celebrated a national holiday this past weekend, and so Monday wasn't a working day. Maybe the beach isn't usually as lively and crowded, and this weekend was the exception. They had a stage set up and performers danced some traditional dances but I also heard that really popular Black Eyed Peas song from two years ago (whatever the name is, the one that goes on about all that junk in your trunk). It's amazing how amid such a different universe there sometimes erupt such familiar pieces of home, bits of my world that somehow assume an uncanny twist in this country so far from everything I know.
I loved that beach. I definitely want to go back. Best part had to be the beer, which I bought for an equivalent of 90 US cents.
Speaking of beer, the nightlife here is amazing too. No cover charges, no IDs required, beers go for US $1, and the men are fabulous dancers! Everyone sings along to the music, and there are times when everyone is jumping up and down and screaming in words I can't define but somehow instrinsically understand. If you want to know more, email me directly.
Checking out for now. Congrats if you made it this far. I'll try to write more consistently so I don't have to spew out a load of stuff all at once. Love from Accra!
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