An African Adventure
Spring 2005
A journal by Bob Rank
Saturday, 2/27/2005 -- Amsterdam (in route to Ghana)
In just 14 hours I made it to Amsterdam. And I only have 9 more hours to Accra, but the planes on time at least.
The flights getting here were not terrible exciting except for seeing the Northern Lights out the plane window while flying over Canada.
The plane loaded in Minneapolis with about fifty (I'm not exaggerating) babies --- all crying. But they settled down when we were airborne.
Anyway, I'll try to get to another Internet connection Sunday or Monday at the latest.
Sunday, 2/27/05 (Nungua, Ghana)
Remember the first time you went to TJ and the poverty you saw. Multiply that poverty by ten, subtract any evidence of discomfort we felt from the disadvantaged citizens and you have Accra. This place is poor. It’s dirty. It stinks. But the people don’t seem to give a hoot, unless you ask them then they question in return. “Why are we so poor.?” “Why is our daily pay so low?” These are just a few questions thrown at me on my first day in country. Obviously the most difficult question is, “How can we share the wealth of America?”. I’ve been able to get around that question by comparing what we would pay for a bottle of water ($1.25) versus what a Ghanaian pays, about $0.33. So far, I seem to have ended the conversation with them feeling how lucky they are to be a Ghanaian.
If you ever wanted to feel special, this is the place to come to. I spent a good portion of the day bouncing infants on my seated knee. No sooner would I get one baby to sleep before I’d have another placed into my arms for entertainment. After the second sleeper, I asked how much I could expect in baby-sitting fees. Talk about a foreign concept, they never heard of paying people to watch a child.
I really tried to do my homework and learn some of the local, dialect. On the first day I realized the advantage: I got incredible harassed at the airport for “Tips” the first minutes after my arrival. Young men were fighting over tips they anticipated (even demanded) that I had no intention of paying. The main question among these young men was do I give a tip to the guy who saw me first or should it go to the person who stood by me while I loaded the bags into the car (death trap) sent to pick me up. I took an unpopular stand. No one gets tipped, because no one did anything but me. This announcement wasn’t well received as both groups supported each other in their attack on my unfair behavior. A “no, no, no” got me nowhere. Dah Bee, is Ghanaian for NO. That simple sound sent everyone scurrying. It let them know, even though I was just off the plane, I wasn’t stupid.
But then I stepped into a TAXI with an elaborate display of windshield cracks and enough engine noises to require us to pull to the side of the road just outside the airport. Well this resulted in a festival of sympathizers. Two other taxis pulled over to offer advice and beat on the engine with roadside rocks. I was the only one with a flashlight, and that earned me a lot of respect. I couldn’t tell if anything was ever accomplished, but after a few minutes, we push started the car, and drove off with all the same noises.
Monday 2/28/05
I spent the morning at the local school and will write more about my experience tomorrow. But for now I’ll just say, “I have some homework of my own!” They have me teaching math and science to two classes of students where they’ve been segregated by ability. In one class the students ranged in age from 12 to 17 even though the grade level is our Jr. High 8th grade equivalent. I observed an English lesson that I had trouble answering the questions about “Past Perfect Particles”. And the lessons I’m being asked to teach are way beyond anything I’ve ever taught. So after I go to the local Internet café and email this letter, I’ll have to hit the books!
It's a little hard to believe that in the 40 some hours I've been here, I have not seen another white face. But you've never seen so many smiling faces. Bottom line I'm optimistic that I'll enjoy my time in Ghana.
Monday 2/28/05; Evening:
My plan for sending email seems to have worked. I compose the email in my hotel room, download it into my MP3 player, take the MP3 player to the internet café, connect it to one of their computers , and upload it to send from my web mail site. I paid about 40 cents for 25 minutes of internet connection. In Amsterdam I had to pay $4.80 for 15 minutes of connection. But the connection speed here is painfully slow for someone used to a cable connection. So it’s going to take a few days before I post any pictures.
Nungua Internet Café Building
My hotel room is really less than I expected. It does have a small refrigerator, but it doesn’t work. It does have a radio, but I unplugged it because the wiring was less than US code. The bed is comfortable, but the sheets are like sandpaper. Still I have slept well. The bathroom doesn’t have a sink. Hand washing is done from a faucet out of the shower stall wall. I could live with all that, but the musty smell and lack of air-conditioning is the biggest problem. I paid for five nights upon arrival, (that takes me through Thursday morning) so tomorrow I’m going to take a taxi ride closer to the beach to see what else if anything is available. If I find nothing, I’ll just get used to this situation. It is live able, but could be better.
I haven’t figured out the phone system. I think I’ll wait until I get to know the people at the school better and then ask them if I could place a call using my charge card. I’ll email more about this later.
I don’t have any complaints at all about the food. It tastes good. On Sunday, my local guide, Adolte, took me for a tour of his neighborhood. I had lots of local dishes: corn mush, calamari, and fish in a spicy soup with some kind of pasty stuff that looks and feels like the paste we made in grade school from flour and water, but really tastes pretty good when rolled in a ball and dipped in the soup. We also attended a funeral celebration in the town square. There must have been 150 people there. I was treated as a special guest, even though everyone else was dressed in their Sunday best and I was in a t-shirt, long pants and sandals. The children just can’t seem to take their eyes off of me.
I still have some studying to do for tomorrow’s lesson, so I’ll sign off for now.
Tuesday 3/01/05
All’s good with the world. I made a hotel move today. This place is more like what you would enjoy, Kathi. When I first arrived, I knew you made a good decision in not coming. I remember some of the hotels in Vermont that we weren’t really pleased with, and they were penthouses compared to where I spent the last three days. I negotiated a good deal out of my last hotel. Give me a refund for the two days I paid for but won’t be here, and I won’t name bash your hotel on the internet (of course there were numerous other negotiations, I promised to return two times for the “best” omelets breakfast and they wouldn’t charge me for today’s lunch,…) Everything in Ghana seems to be negotiated. I have to take a Taxi to the school; Maybe three miles. I’ve done it four times now. Initially, I’ve been quoted rates between 15 and 20 thousand cedi. Ultimately, I’ve never paid anything but 7 thousand (about 80 cents).
Ravico Royale Hotel
I’m paying $15 a day more for my current room, but it comes with plumbing that works, air conditioning (on remote control), a balcony overlooking the swimming pool, Chinese restaurant, two bars, other white people as guest, hot water, a bottom and a top sheet, internet room, all the usual bathroom fixtures, and it doesn’t smell moldy and dusky. There’s no doubt that the rest of my stay will be much more pleasant. Probably even more appreciated, because of what I know I won’t be enduring.
I spent the morning teaching math lessons to my two classes (low and high) in angle calculation. I think the lessons went well, and the students learned. They were like students everywhere. Some were interested, some were totally lost, some were getting it, and others weren’t. The most striking difference in the schools compared to the US (besides the total lack of facilities and supplies which will be apparent when I post some pictures) is the disciplinary techniques. The students told me about the “canings” yesterday and this morning when I arrived at school I noticed that every teacher was carrying a long switch stick. I never saw anyone get hit, but the message was apparent, “Don’t upset the teachers or you’ll get a cane.”
I’ve only observed one teacher in depth so far. He appears to be one of the oldest on the campus. He was the guy teaching the verb conjugations I noted yesterday. He explained to me today that he studied Latin in college. He also said that none of the other teachers’ would or could have taught his lesson. Thank goodness! He’s also an “old school” teacher: never smiling and highly critical of the student’s efforts. So it appears that I’m going to be a pleasant relief for the students. There were many moments of laughter – some at me, but mostly with me.
Wednesday March 2, 2005
I went to school this morning only to find that they sent most of the students’ home because they hadn’t paid their current term fees. The school is a private institution with 1600 students (Junior Secondary (like our middle school) and a trade school.) There’s also a dormitory for some girls that board at the school. I asked why only girls boarded, but I couldn’t really follow the answer. Anyone that knows me knows I can’t hear very well. Mix that disability with a heavy accent, and what I get is about half of what is given. When I really need to understand something, I know I’m in for a lengthy conversation with a lot of “Say it again, please.”
I learned from a friend I’ve made that many of the teachers (even at private schools) are doing what they call their “National Service”. In order to attend college, most students need to take out student loans. Just like our student loans, but with the additional requirement that they spend the first year after school working in some form of social service, like teaching. That explains why almost all the teachers at my school are young. But it doesn’t explain another question of mine: Why are there (seemingly) no female teachers.
There are women on the campus, but they are the cooks or secretaries. I’ll ask Lauren what percentage of the students at her universities are women. If they are few women, that explains all the male teachers. Otherwise it just appears that teaching is a male vocation.
Right now I’m sitting outside by the pool with the laptop. And except for the BBC News played over the loud speaker it’s relatively quiet here. It’s an amazing transition from the other hotel. There was always music coming from every direction. On Sunday and Monday evening there were church services somewhere nearby where the sounds were something out of a movie about African missionaries. It was really quite pleasant to the ears. Shut your eyes and it was easy to visualize Dr. Livingston, I presume, leading the choir. This evening, when it cools down, I’ll be walking over to the Internet café. There, I will get a sufficient dose of local music: rap, African rap, reggae, high life … something different from every direction.
When coming back from the school this morning, I had a cab driver with a sense of humor and a taxi that looked much better than most. I was able to shoot pictures out the front window--- no cracks and very little grime. So I hired him to pick me up from school tomorrow and drive me around for about $7 an hour. I want to visit the beaches and shoot some more pictures. .
The batteries beeping,
BYE
Thursday Mar 3, 2005 2pm
Yesterday, I mentioned a friend I’ve made. A good kid, named Abraham in his mid twenties. He was the night manager at the other, first, hotel I stayed at. He also helped me get out of the place, by educating me on some of my local options. His sister is the hotel manager. Somehow his sister got wind of some of his help to me and became pretty angry with him, but I confronted her with the facts of why I was moving, and flat out denied that he had helped me. To return the favor though, I’ve invited him and his fiancée to have dinner with Lauren and I when she gets back.
Dinner with Abraham, Lauren and Friends
But the whole incident demonstrates a lot about Ghanaian culture. First these people are friendly. If you ever needed a friend, you needn’t look far in this place. People, complete strangers, flat out state, “I would like to be your friend.” At the Internet café in town, I feel like Norm from the TV show Cheers. When I walked in yesterday at least three people said “Mr. Bob, welcome, good to see you ….” Most of my “new friends” express a desire to visit me in America. Of course I say they’d be welcome. Let’s just hope they all don’t show up at the same time. One of the clerks here at the hotel gave me his passport number somewhat on the sly. I’d give odds that he will be our first visitor. In fact though, I really don’t think any are using our acquaintance for anything other than friendly conversation.
Gerald at the Internet Cafe
Another fact about the Ghana culture demonstrated in the Abraham-Hotel incident is that there are people everywhere here. I don’t think any conversation at any place of business could be secret. Every job (no matter how menial) seems to be performed by at least two people at the same time. If you can have one hotel desk clerk, why not have two or three? It doesn’t seem to make any difference that there isn’t enough work for one clerk. The same goes with every other conceivable position. I’m sure it helps the unemployment problem, but it has to have a negative impact on productivity, and ultimately wage levels. Poverty is a rampant, but it’s going to be hard to break this cycle when people are getting paid next to nothing for doing just about nothing.
I took a lot of photos on my taxi trip today, and I’ll keep trying to get some posted. But at the speed the Internet travels here, I'm not terribly optimistic. Anyway that’s enough news for today. I’m looking forward to seeing Lauren this weekend. Maybe she’ll want to be my friend.
Tema Fishing Village
Friday March 4, 2005
Handling money around here is really a daunting task. Psychologically, paying 60,000 for a meal or 9,000 for a beer just doesn’t seem fair even if it only translates to $7.67 and the meal was five grilled-jumbo shrimp with potato and salad, and the beer taste like Heinekens in a bottle that must be 24 ounces, and nobody expects a tip. Really the biggest problem with the money is the low denomination of bills. I went to the currency exchange bureau and exchanged a hundred dollar bill. I received ninety-one 10,000 cedi bills. Think about putting ninety-one $1 bills in your pocket and you get an idea of the volume of currency you have to carry even if you only want thirty or forty dollars on hand. There is a 20,000 cedi bill, but getting change can be a problem. I bought some bottled water once with a 20K (that I thought was a 2K they look so much alike) and received three 5K, one 2K, one 1k note, and some coin in change. I looked at the wad and thought okay, looks right to me, stuffed the wad in an empty pocket, and marveled at the accuracy when I counted it later.
$100 in local currency, Cedi
The food has been great, especially since I moved. I had a cheeseburger today and it was really good. I already mentioned the shrimp from last night, and the night before I ate fried rice with chicken. It’s really funny about the chicken. There are chicken running around seemingly un-owned everywhere. I asked how you know whose chicken it is, and was told, “If you kill it, you will soon know who it belonged to!” And I believe it. Like I said, I don’t believe there’s a secret anywhere in this part of town. And despite the friendliness of the people, they argue continuously --- over money… , over who knows what. You can be talking with Abc and Xyz will come up and begin an argument that will ebb and flow with shouts and finger pointing for ten minutes. Xyz will leave, usually with a handshake and smile. But if you ask Abc what the problem was, “Just a misunderstanding.” is a likely response and our conversation returns in a normal, relaxed manner. There doesn’t appear to be a lot of hidden feelings, and a lot more honesty than I’m used to seeing.
I got an answer to why most of the teachers at my school are males. It’s because my school, Preseco, is a private school. They pay better than the public schools and expect much more from their teachers. The given example was “Like being on time”, something apparently Ghanaian women are incapable of doing.
There is learning at Prececo, without any of the support materials I had to teach with. There is a chalkboard in each room, but they are really in bad shape. Other than that, nothing but desks straight from “The Little Red School House” at Knotts Berry Farm. Teachers aren’t bothered with bulletin boards at Preseco. Half the students seem to have books of their own which they share with the other half. Some have notebooks; some just use scrapes of paper for note taking. Every student has a backpack and everyone wears a uniform. Without the sign out front and kids in uniforms, there’s very little that makes Preseco School look like a school. Still the students learn. They know as much about English grammar and geometry as I would expect from an average class in the US.
Preseco School Classroom
Friday Evening, 3/5/2005
I talked to Lauren this afternoon using her chaperone’s cell phone number. She told me they probably would not make it back to Accra tonight. Their van had broken down twice and they currently had been waiting five hours for repairs. It was amazing. Neither one of us were surprised or even concerned. It’s just the way it is in Ghana.
I’ve had five days of scheduled teaching at my school. I’ve actually taught to the schedule twice. Today’s excuse for no one showing up was that everyone was at the “authority” marching in practice for the parade on Sunday, Ghana’s 48 th Independence Day Celebration. There were three boys in the classroom when I arrived. One had a sore leg and the other two had been deemed substandard marchers and left behind.
While waiting for the marchers to return for my lesson (they never did), the four of us had a good long conversation. I learned that two of the boys spoke the Twi language in their home and the other spoke Asare, or something like that. In school they spoke only English, except when they were in one of their language class, which included: Ga (another tribal language), French, and English. Every student studies these three ‘foreign/secondary’ languages. Of course some students already speak Ga, so they only have two new languages to learn. When I asked why their parents sent them to a private school, they all agreed it was because they were taught French at Preseco – not offered in the public schools. I asked, “Why would anyone care about learning French?” “Because, Ghana is surrounded by French speaking countries.” Which probably explains why Spanish isn’t one of the instructed languages.
Not into Marching
I also discovered that both days I taught, I had been teaching to the wrong class schedule. Not the wrong lesson, just the wrong time. The first time I taught, on Tuesday, the class lessons were back-to-back, so it didn’t make any difference. While I taught one class, my master teacher, Alex Osuma, taught the other class. The next-time I taught off schedule, Thursday morning, I taught an hour-long lesson to one class while the other class (separated only by a panel of plywood), sat in their seats doing nothing. If it had been the first time I’d seen a class left alone, I probably would have caught on, but a class alone seems to be the norm.
Alex seems to be the ‘core’ teacher for three separate classes: the two classes (Forms) I’ve miss-scheduled with, and another that is far enough away for the students to see him coming. I’ve heard, “Here he comes!” and he actually arrives more than a minute later. Occasionally another teacher showed up to teach a class in agriculture, Ga language, or cooking (called kitchen). I tried to follow a cooking class once while teaching my group, but I think it was being taught in Ga or French or some other language I couldn’t comprehend. Anyway, how do you teach cooking with just a blackboard –in any language?
Back on topic, if Alex is with another form and another subject lesson isn’t scheduled, the kids are on their own. Well, neither Alex nor any other teacher showed up to correct me while I was off-schedule -- so the other class sat idle. Or if someone did show up to find me teaching their schedule, they might have thought, “Hey, this is better than public school”, and took a break. In either case, there is an obscure correlation here to my conversation with Lauren today --- Scheduled today, maybe tomorrow, Okay! No reason to get excited. We’re in Africa.
New topic: Signs.
Remember the song, “Signs, signs, everywhere signs!” The signs here are unique, and they are everywhere. Yesterday’s best was “Satisfactory Laundry Service” --- I guess they’re in competition with: Excellent and Really Crappy Laundry Service. But even more prevalent are the Religious based signs. Along every roadside, there’s these little kiosk of services just slightly smaller than one of those old drive through photo booths. Almost all have signs with religious connotations. “Jesus Anoints Me Beauty Salon”, “I Walk in the Footsteps of God Locksmith Services”. Then there’s the reference to Bible book and verse: “Psalm 23- Taxi Dispatch”. Makes me wonder if it wouldn’t be a good idea to have a quick Bible reference at hand. Maybe Psalm 23 is that one about “Into the valley of death…” in which case I might want to try another taxi service.
Final note, I spent the last forty-minutes squinting at this computer screen. Just now, I cleaned the dirt crust from my glasses and found, I’m not going blind. New thought: There’s a crust of dirt and a crust of difference everywhere around here. It’s all in how you look at it, and I’m having a ball discovering one from the other.
Sunday Mar 6, 2005
Lauren came to my hotel yesterday for Lunch. We had a great visit sharing war stories of African adventures. With her extensive travels and extended stay she had more stories. But with my teaching, small village, and hotel adventures, I was able to share, too. We visited for a few hours after a hearty hamburger lunch with fries. She said it was the best she’d had in Africa. The most fun we had was sharing the signs we’d seen, and we both promised to record more of the signs we see. I can visualize a good movie from just the signs.
Favorite sign, Ad for Maggi SHITO --- new and tasty
After I put Lauren in a cab (paid and threatened the young driver that he’d better take good care of my daughter --- all with smiles), I came back to my room and spent the rest of the day reading and watching TV.
Television is another interesting experience. There’s the BBC and CNN. Both seem to be tailored for the African viewer. CNN doesn’t look anything like our broadcast, much lower tech – missing most of the banners and boxes. And stories are more like segments from "60 Minutes" -- again skewed to African issues. I just watched one CNN segment about MTV coming to African television that lasted about 9 minutes. I’m sure if there was really any big news from the US, it would be reported, but I’ll probably have to wait until I get home to find out how the Robert Blake trial is going or if Martha’s been paroled. Don’t worry though; Michael Jackson gets wide coverage on the local, Accra channel.
Local TV is really a kick. It’s mostly news and CSPAN type coverage of local official meetings. I watched one about a local chief holding court. Last week while walking though a “neighborhood” (it looked like a village to me, but when I referred to it as a village, I was corrected) we passed a large white-fenced compound. I was told, that’s where the prince lives. Then we passed an “Authority”, a large lot with a small building and high porch, almost like a stage. The authority is where the local chief holds court, described as where he settles arguments. Princes, Chiefs, Tribal Courts – sounds like a village to me.
The hotel does have one premium satellite (mostly movie) channel. Occasionally a commercial interrupts a movie. And while watching “A Few Good Men” last night a banner came across the bottom saying the movie would continue after the news. So they interrupted the movie for a half-hour newscast, and then true to their promise completed the movie broadcast. What’s really difficult about the movie channel is at the end of a movie, a sign come on the saying the next movie will start in 10 minutes. Sometimes it says 12 minutes. That sign can stay on the screen for over an hour without changing. No count down, nothing. Then you might get a soccer game.
So if you just feel like watching TV, you better have a good book close by.
I’m going to Lauren’s house this afternoon. We plan to visit a Market and she can show me Downtown Accra. And then we’re going to try to make or receive a phone call from or to Kathi/Mom. Placing a phone call is another experience that I’ll share later.
Monday, March 07, 2005 AM
I met Lauren at her dormitory in Central Accra, yesterday. No that’s wrong. We met at her compound. This was the first time for me in Accra proper. The wealthiest of the working class must live in her neighborhood (and I don’t mean village), and NYU’s complex was the best of them. Four single common-wall houses with all the luxuries of any US up-scale condominium.
Lauren’s Dormitory
We walked over to the NYU educational facility, where the Internet still wasn’t good enough for me to upload pictures to my web site. So we took a cab downtown to a High Speed Internet Café and to eat lunch. We ate at my first tourist location. We ate pizza with other white people. Not that being with whites made the food any better. In fact it was just mediocre pizza. But when you’re the only white in a restaurant or walking down the street, as I have been for the past seven days, you know that people “notice you”. So just blending into the crowd was noticeably different.
After lunch we tried the high-speed café: huge complex with maybe fifty stations, each with large flat screen monitor, mouse and keyboard. You buy a coupon for your time -- 25 minutes for 60 cents. And the connection really is fast. This place was so high-tech, they had a firewall that prevented anyone from opening the port I need to upload my pictures. I quit!!! Africa doesn’t want me to export my pictures. However, I will occasionally try to include a few as attachments.
One thing I noticed about Lauren’s neighborhood was it was much cleaner. Yet it still wasn’t CLEAN.
After the smell, one of the first negatives you notice about Ghana is all the litter. Everywhere! There’s trash everywhere. Plastic packaging has found Ghana, but not trash receptacles -- at least not outside receptacles. They sell little bathroom trashcans at roadside kiosk, and there is one in my bathroom. But look around. You don’t see any dumpsters or garbage trucks. Ah, there are lots of smoldering trash piles. They must burn the trash put in those little cans. But no one has bothered to put trashcans outside, so everyone just throws whatever traveling trash they have on the ground. And it has piled up!
So I’ve been toying with another thought. Remembering how the Christian Missionaries crusaded through here in past centuries and the way these people really bought into those programs evidenced by how many churches there are, how long these people spend in services, and the religious signage I wrote about the other day.
Little leisure time for the religious
Well now it’s time for a new crusade in Ghana: “Don’t Be a Litter Bug”. I remember the “Don’t Be a Litter Bug” campaign in my school in 1955, and it really worked for the US. We got rid of Tin Can Beach, and we rarely see people maliciously litter anymore. So why not a “No littering campaign/crusade here”? It could make this place a lot more pleasant. And then there are the unlimited business opportunities that would accompany such a campaign: “Cleanliness is next to Godliness, Exterior Trash Container Ltd.” or “Waste Not, Litter Not - Refuse Collection Service”.
After the trash is up off the ground, we could campaign to put the sewers under ground. And then … Sorry, an action packed black exploitation film just came on TV so ---bye.
Sewer gutter, smelly and deep!
Tuesday, March 8, 2005 evening
Yesterday was the observed holiday for Ghana 48th Independence Day. Ghana has the distinction of being the first African colony to gain its independence. So it’s a pretty big deal. The TV proudly reported that US, George II, had sent his congratulations.
I stayed pretty close to the hotel, because Lauren and some of her friends said they might come over and use the hotel pool. We never could connect by phone, so I don’t know what happened to them. It’s probably a good thing they didn’t try to come. On a normal day, there’s no one at the pool. Yesterday, it was packed with locals. There wasn’t one vacant chaise lounge.
Back to the phone system. Surprise, surprise--- it’s not very good. According to one Ghanaian I spoke with. Ten years ago there was no telephone access for the civilian population. Today there are these, “communication center” kiosks everywhere. They are just shacks with a telephone and an extension phone. You give the number to the clerk who dials the number for you. When she gets a ringing tone everyone (all the assistants and back-up clerks) gets excited. A sale has been made. I’m directed to pick up the extension and talk, at a cost of anywhere from 25 to 75 cents a minute, depending on your location and level of gullibility. While I’m talking, all the clerks carry on heated discussions --- probably trying to discern what the person is saying on the other end of my phone connection. It would probably be a lot quieter if we just used a speakerphone. Then no one could feel left out of any part of the conversation.
Up until today, I believed the “Yes Lord, Communication Center and Video Rental” kiosk had the best per minute rate. However there was a new clerk and supporting staff today. My rate suffered a harmonic resolution adjustment dependent on the taxable equivalency rate of the cedi inflationary elasticity. That’s not exactly what she said when I questioned the charges, but I’m sure it was something equivalent in her language, BS. We negotiated a more reasonable sum. There wasn’t a buck difference between her quote and a fair price, but I just can’t permit myself to be ripped off. After all, negotiation is the national pastime sport of Ghana, and I’m becoming a contender.
In my neighborhood, I’d guess somewhere around 20% of the locals have cell phones, but next to no one other than communication centers and hotels have land lines. Where Lauren’s at I’m sure the cell and home phone percentage is 100%.
Apparently all utilities (water, telephone, and electricity) are prepaid monthly in what are called: ‘Units’. According to my source, Lauren’s NYU friend Isis, the maximum number of units a household can purchase is 2,000 (the amount purchased by NYU), but the average Ghanaian family purchases around 50 units. Every time you make a phone call, or turn on a light, or flush the toilette, a fraction of the remaining available units for the month is decremented. Once the purchased units are consumed, all utilities are shut off for the rest of the month. Can you imagine an American household with teenager girls and telephones trying to complete a month with the lights still on?
Funny timing, I just got through talking to Lauren on the phone. We’ve worked out our communication problem. The hotel phone number I gave her from the hotel brochure was missing a zero. Any call from outside of Accra wouldn’t have been affected by the missing zero, but inside Accra it don’t work that way. Anyway, we made plans to get together and finish planning our greater Ghana exploration trip. Seven days in the “Bush”. I still have to arrange for transportation, find a guide, hire porters to carry our Lands End luggage on their heads, and …
New soccer game starting on TV. I’m still missing some of the finer points of the game, but I know if the made the field a lot smaller, everyone wouldn’t have to run so far just to miss a shot at the goal.
Wednesday, March 11, 2005 Evening
Had a great day today! Hired another taxi, to help me run errands in Accra. On the way, he asked me if I had been to the trade fair. Actually he said something I didn’t understand and I sorta just shook my head in a could be yes or no manner.
Before I knew what was happening we pulled through a gate where I was hit up for a 40 cent parking fee. Now I was financially committed to seeing the something. It turned out to be just like our county fairs with a little more swap meet thrown in. There were massive pavilions just like at the LA Fair Grounds. In some there were upscale appliance dealers looking for wholesale but accepting retail business. One pavilion was reserved for the sub-continent dealers –Indians, Pakistani …- selling all the same brassy, jade, carved wood, crap they sell at every American county fair.
In an arts and crafts pavilion, I found a fabric dealer with a much better than average display. They weren’t just selling retail. I found something I liked, and bought six yards for Kathi for 105,000 cedi, $11.40. I asked the clerks at my hotel desk what they thought of my purchase --- was it good fabric? They all said it was good fabric and after much discussion agreed that I shouldn’t have paid more than 160,000 for it. When I told them what I paid, I was a hero. I’m telling you, I’m going to be a contender.
I’m also learning how to pick taxis. When you want one, you stand on the side of the road, hold your arm out and wiggle your fingers. When I was just going back and forth to school, I wasn’t very particular what the cab looked like. The traffic on Nungua Road never exceeds 15 MPH, so safety wasn’t all that important. Then I went to Lauren’s last Sunday in a cab that was worse than the one that picked me up at the airport. I had to use my Papa Bear voice (low and strong) to get the driver to slow down on an open stretch of road. So now I’m more selective as to the cab I’ll ride in.
There must be accidents here. You see dinged up cars. But Lauren’s friends and I were all in agreement: we had seen many fewer accidents STOP (I’m starting to sound like how everyone speaks around here--- somehow fragmented English) HOW ABOUT; We hadn’t seen as many accidents we would have expected with all these bad roads and vehicles. Why? Because almost every driver on the road is a professional – taxi, bus, truck, or tro-tro -- driver. They are all experts at driving defensively, because every other aspect of driving is so offensive.
Back to, how Bob (dat is me) has learned to pick a taxi? Now I study the cab before I wiggle my fingers. If the taxi is trailing sparks from some piece of metal dragging on the ground, or I can’t see the driver through the window grime, or I just don’t like the cab’s fender dent pattern --- I don’t wiggle my fingers.
Today I wiggled at a cab with seat belts, driven by a true professional, Steven. After he led me to the great fabric deal, and I never once had to papa voice, I booked him to drive Lauren and me to our African adventure-launching site, on Saturday morning.
In reviewing of today’s entry I noticed that the tro-tro was highlighted in red by MS Word as a misspelled or not a commonly used word. Damn straight! A tro-tro ride is an uncommon word and even more so an uncommon experience, but I will have to write a better description later.
MORE ::::
Kath,
Regarding our scheduled trip, I can only tell you that schedules aren’t worth much here. The key point of our trip is Mole National Park, and the only sleeping spot in the area, Mole Motel. I’ve had the hotel staff trying to call there for two days to make reservations, but the lines are not working. Everyone I speak to tells me not to worry, “There are always rooms available”, but I’m going to keep trying anyway. Mole is a fourteen-hour bus ride from here, so I’m reluctant to just, “Not Worry”. I have until Monday before I have to commit to the Tamale/Mole leg of the trip.
The book you bought me has been invaluable in giving me the confidence that everything will work out and in preparing what small itinerary I have. Transportation arrangements are made the day before. Hotel accommodations (except Mole) are negotiated upon arrival.
Anyway here’s the gist of it:
Saturday, 12th to Kumasi
Sunday, 13th in Kumasi
Monday 14th to Tamale
Tuesday 15th to Mole
Wednesday 16th (another day in Mole or back Tamale depending on bus schedule)
Thursday 17th (In Tamale or back from Mole)
Friday 18th (Back to Accra)
Don’t worry, my road trips have prepared me for a seat of the pants adventure. Yep, this trip is taking me!
New subject, I visited a local fabric store today and they were selling cotton batik and another fabric describe as tie dyed, sadre or sader. Without negotiating they were asking 20,000 per yard. It wasn’t nearly the quality of the stuff I bought at the fair yesterday, but it did have an interesting – tie dyed pattern.
Friday, March 11
Lauren and I spent the afternoon together yesterday. We bought 10 yards of three different tie-dye patterns of material for Kathi all for $20. Then we visited my internet café where the clerk, Gerald, asked me to give him my daughter. We also ate at the hotel, where she enjoyed another beef burger. I abstained. I’m getting real tired of the hotel food, and I’m not brave/stupid enough to eat at the local chop shops. All the hotel food is fried. Burgers –fried, fish—fried, shrimp—fried and always with chips – french fries. Of course at breakfast there is a choice of fried egg options.
So leaving this hotel tomorrow should be good for my health and waist-line. Our trip is very under planned. It’s like saying I’m going to take a vacation and go to New York City and Yellowstone without a single reservations. But that’s the way it’s done around here. You can hire safari companies to act as guides, but their schedules are just as vulnerable to local transportation disruptions and they are ridiculous in their fees. So why bother? We’ll just get African and not worry. You can’t be too disappointed if you have no expectations.
I’m not taking my computer with me, so there won’t be any journal entries. However if we see any internet cafes we’ll probably drop a quick line of update. I can’t imagine taking this trip without this little computer. It’s been my writing tool, my music player, my TV and DVD player, my books on tape player, and my photo organizer and enhancer.
Gotta go, now. I need to pack light, leaving everything else at Lauren’s.
The following entries thru Friday, March 18 are being transcribe from handwritten entries and outlines made while Lauren and I were on our road trip. In transcription, I’ll probably make some additions that make it appear I could foretell the future. I can’t. Because if I really could have foretold the future, some of what follows never would have happened. And now I’m staying in Accra proper, where I can get a decent WWW connection so I’m going to try and include some pictures.
March 12 to March 14
We started our trip with a bang: an inter-country flight from Accra to Kumasi on Antrak Airlines. Lauren was much more concerned about the plane than I. She wasn’t sure a plane with propellers instead of jets could really fly, but I did my best to convince her otherwise. The plane was like the transit planes I flew a couple of times from OC to LA: Maybe twenty-four passengers total. It was a pleasant flight lasting about forty-five minutes, a lot shorter than the six-hour bus trip noted in the tour book. There was even a beverage service: “Coke, Fanta, or water”? The best part was our cruising altitude of 6,000 feet. I told Lauren that if we tried that in OC we’d run into Big Bear Mountain. See, I told you I tried to ease her fears.
Can it really fly with just propellers?
In Kumasi we visited the Asante Heritage Museum. During the original colonization of the Gold Coast (Ghana’s colonial name) the Asante were a warrior, tribal nation that ruled much of West Africa. The Asante kicked ass on the British Colonial Armies in a number of battles. They were eventually defeated however with the help of another colony army imported from the British West Indies. See I learned something at the museum...
Uncle Ghana wants You!
We also visited the Ghana Military Museum housed in an old colonial fort. Our tour guide was extremely knowledgeable, and we learned among other things that Ghanaian Forces fought the Italians in Ethiopia and the Japanese in Burma. Most eerie were the death cells (tiny rooms without any ventilation, light, or room service) where the British placed prisoners they had no intention of returning to society.
Death Cell at Fort
The final highlight of Kumasi was the central market. Imagine a market like the Orange County Fair ground’s Swap Meet. Multiply the acreage covered a 100 times. Then multiply the number of vendors by 1,000 because they’re so cramped together. And finally multiply the shoppers by 10,000 times. Then you’ll have something that looks like Kumasi Central Market, reportedly the largest market in West Africa.
Lauren and I walked straight into the market but we didn’t stay long. Everything (smell, closeness, sounds, general chaos…) while exciting was just overwhelming. And somewhat like the OC Swap Meet, every aisle seemed to be filled with pretty much the same categories of merchandise. One vendor with shoes, another with belt buckles, another with … In just a few aisles, there were enough shoes for sale to cover every foot in Ghana. The only problem would be trying to find the right sizes for everyone. Each shoe vendor had his shoes heaped in a pile. And to my eye, every vendor’s pile looked just like his neighbor’s pile. But every shoe in every pile was stuffed with shredded paper that covered the aisles. Just more fodder for my “No Littering” crusade.
This guy didn’t like me taking his picture, and I didn’t argue – he was BIG!
I’ve found that taking pictures randomly (especially in the big towns) can cause problems. Sometimes the person who believes his image was captured will demand payment setting off endless rounds of negotiations. Other times you just get dirty looks. So, I’ve restricted my public photography to long shots or snaps taken from vehicles (not always safe, see above). Eventually Lauren and I found a vantage point overlooking the fair where no one could claim I captured their image. And looking back at the pictures I took, I’m convinced there’s no image that could truly capture or relate what I saw that day. It was just unbelievable!
Antrak doesn’t fly between Kumasi and Tamale (the stop over point in route to Mole National Park), but the six hour bus ride wasn’t as strenuous as I had anticipated. We made a couple of stops along the way where women with a variety of local delicacies balanced on top of their heads hawked their goods.
Lauren and I declined until we hit a stop about half way where we found Fan Chocos (an icy product similar to the frozen malts I used to buy at movie theater when I was young) and local donuts (deep fried donut dough about the size and shape of a tennis ball). Ghana is not for weight watchers. But given a choice between a hunk of some kind of meat, a smoke-dried whole fish, or a donut and malted: what would you do?
The landscape and scenery changed dramatically as we traveled north across Ghana. Kumasi was much greener than Accra and we moved into even thick jungle as we moved north. About two-thirds of the way though the trip, the foliage turned into a sage brush with many fewer trees. A local called this terrain, savannah. And another local called both the jungle and the savannah the ‘bush’. North and south Ghana is like the difference between northern and southern California.
What was unique was the housing construction. Housing was far more affected by local resources here than in California. In Kumasi like Accra, most houses are rectangular structures made from cinder block, coated over with stucco, and covered by tile or tin roofing materials. As we moved north, the stucco gave way to just cinder block. Then the cinder block was traded for a red adobe brick. Next the tin roof was replaced with a grass thatched material. Finally when you were deep in the savannah, the rectangular shape, was traded for a round hut and the adobe brick was traded for a mud caked, twig framed wall and a thatch roof. That was when I could really say, “This place looks just like Africa!”
There was another sight on the trip that was remarkably “African” but I didn’t have my camera ready. There’s these trees that must be more than 60 feet tall and look like a giant green Q-tip: one tall, thick, branchless trunk with a small outcropping of green leafed branches at the top. In the savannah these trees are few and far apart. As we passed one of these trees about fifty feet off the road, and with no apparent living structure anywhere nearby, I spotted two women in traditional dress, squatted in the little bit of shade offered by the tree, and cooking over an open fire. One woman had an infant swaddled to her back, and a naked toddler played near by. This was a picture straight out of National Geographic and probably eons before cameras were ever invented.
Tamale, although just a layover for us on our way to Mole, is the largest city in the north and way different than either Accra or Kumasi. For one thing the heat was much drier. More like Palm Springs than the humid heat in the south. Also different was the traffic. The crush of taxis and tro-tros in the south was replaced by motorized scooters and bicycles. The abundance of these two wheel vehicles sharing a bike lane with walkers made walking much more difficult. Especially so at night, when some of the scooters rode with their lights off. Lauren’s understanding was these people feel that running lightless saved energy, petrol. Whatever the reason, it made crossing the street into a game of dodge the scooter.
Another obvious difference in Tamale was the replacement of Christian churches with Islamic, Mosques. In the whole country of Ghana, Islam makes up a small minority of religions, but it’s centered in the northern, Tamale, area. Hence the church choir music was replaced with the ‘call to prayer’ depicted in the background of every Arabic movie and broadcast over a loudspeakers across the town. Except for a picture Lauren spotted depicting George Bush II between Bin Laden and Saddam, I never got the feeling that we might be looked at with anything other than the white man curiosity we experience in southern Ghana.
March 15
Tamale to Mole--- 90 kilometers--- seventy-five of which are the dustiest, most cratered (not pot-holed but cratered) road I’d ever traveled. The tour book said we could catch a bus at 3pm out of Tamale, but it was unreliable and sometimes didn’t leave at all. So we opted for an alternative – hire a taxi. Yesterday, we went to the center market place where we hand picked a taxi looking for one with soft seats, seat belts, and a reasonably sound looking physical condition.
Looking back we were exceptionally fortunate in our selection. We only had to stop twice. Once when a policeman stopped us in the middle of nowhere and asked us to deliver a letter to the police station 50km down the road; it was probably his resignation letter. The other stop was after we slammed into three left side craters one after the other. The left head-light just popped out of its housing. The whole trip took a little over three hours. I sat in front where I could white knuckle direct the driver off hazards on my side with my arm clutched on the open window. When we arrived my right arm was caked with a fine red dust. But Lauren sitting in the back was caked head to toe in the red stuff as was all our baggage.
While Lauren tried to wash off some of the dust, I sat with our driver around the swimming pool drinking a beer and watching a herd of elephants bathing in the water hole below the hill where the hotel sat. That was just the beginning. Every time we turned around there seemed to be another wild life show. After dinner we were again by the pool playing cards when I noticed a massive tree close by had come alive with long tailed monkeys.
We’d tried to make phone reservations for a good room days before we arrived at Mole, but could never get through. When we arrived the best rooms (with air-conditioning) were booked, so we end up with just an overhead fan. With my bed directly beneath the fan, I slept fine albeit a little sweaty. In the morning, I woke up to find Lauren sleeping on her mattress at the foot of my bed, just a few feet closer to the fan. It reminded me of how, when she was a toddler, we’d find her sleeping on the floor at the bottom of our bed after a bad dream.
Early that morning, we took a guided walking safari with a rifle totting park ranger. Just outside the compound we came upon a lone elephant feeding. We probably weren’t fifteen feet away from him as he watched us watch him for maybe five minutes before continuing our walk. We saw a variety of gazelle, wart hogs, a deer like animal that made a barking sound like a dog, and an endless variety of birds. The last stop was the water hole below the hotel. The elephant herd was again bathing, but this time they were just twenty-feet away. This was a show in itself. Then six more males (all with long tusk and some that were huge) walked out of the trees to join the bathers. The banks of the water hole were steep and just watching them enter the water was quite a show.
These elephants were just like the elephants you see in a circus or zoo, until you realize --- Nobody takes care of these ‘puppies’! Nobody has to feed them or clean up their poop (obvious to anyone on a walking safari). They take care of themselves. They were the ultimate in wildlife. They were magnificent! The only human intervention is protection by some humans (rangers) from other humans (poachers).
Later back at the hotel and again around the pool with Lauren and me playing cards (see a trend here), I heard a little girl in the pool say, “Look Daddy, a monkey!” I turned to see a very, very large baboon saunter through the pool area directly towards us. All the guests sort of freaked out. Not screaming or anything, but we all just sort of quickly moved out of its path. As the day continued, the compound swarmed with baboons and a variety of monkeys and we were no longer freaked by their presence. I watched a large male, sit by a female guest at the observation platform, pick up her plastic water bottle, twist off the lid, pour the water out, and lick from the puddle. Once while I went back to the cabin (seems a more apt term than hotel room), Lauren watched a similar situation when a baboon stole a bottle of ketchup off a restaurant patio table, took it out by a tree, unscrewed the cap, dipped his finger in, tasted, and left with his score. At another time there were more than a dozen wart hogs wandering around the hotel.
All this wild life adventure wasn’t cheap. The taxi ride from hell cost $65 and the hotel including four meals cost $67 for the two days. That’s almost as much as I’d have to pay for two days at Disneyland.
March 17 and 18th
Our bus ride back to Tamale from Mole was much less frightening but no less of a unique experience. Our travel book said the bus left the hotel between 5am and 6am depending on the mood of the driver for the four to eight hour trip back to Tamale depending on break downs and road conditions – what road? The night before we left, the hotel said the bus was leaving at 4:30am and we would be woken a half-hour before departure. At 3:30 am they knocked on the door and said something --- was it “The bus is leaving now.” Or “Santa Claus is here.”? There was no way of telling. So we hustled out for an actual 3:50am departure.
Lauren got all excited when she saw the buses interior. It was just like any school bus except there were these flip seats in the aisles that could be used for additional seating. She explained that with the flip seat down, you could lay horizontally supported across the entire bus width. After all there were only six hotel guests on the whole bus when it departed. However our first stop to pick up passengers was no more than a hundred feet from our departure point. Then there were three more stops in the next mile. At Laramie (I started to name towns where I’d never remember there names after old western towns that had some name resemblance) the bus more than half filled. Lauren’s nap plans crushed in the first thirty minutes.
Then we stopped in Durango. There was a near riot as people pushed and shoved to get near the bus door. Then ‘bus loading’ began in earnest. By the time we left Durango, every bus seat contained at least one butt (and not all African butts are created equal) and every aisle flip seat contained at least two butts. For some reason, people started putting down the flip seats long before the back of the bus was fully packed, so that late arrivers had to climb over or squeeze by the flip seat occupants. That’s when it was really apparent that all butts weren’t equal.
Before we’d even arrived in Durango Lauren and I had been separated, but when I saw the mob outside I moved people to get the seat between Lauren and the aisle flip seat. And it was a good thing that I did. As soon as the flip seat on our aisle was activated, I locked my knees against the seat in front of me just to maintain our space.
After the conductor came on the bus and announced, :”The bus is full!” which was echoed by myself and a lot of others, then the front --standing room only part of the bus was filled. The final sardine style packing came when babies and toddlers were passed “mosh pit” style (hand over head) to some Auntie or acquaintance at the rear of the bus.
The bus arrived in Tamale (that’s its real name pronounced Tam-uh-lay) in just over four hours. A successful trip.
With the noise of a rattling bus and the dust there was no chance to talk on the trip. So later at that night's hotel, Lauren and I discussed how we had dealt with the situation. She lost her self in music from her MP3 player. I used a trick I’ve honed at the dentist office where I just put myself into another place. What ever, it worked and we both agreed the experience of Mole made it all worthwhile.
Our Tamale hotel we was owned by a Pakistani family. The name of the place was “Relax Lodge, and after our bus trip, all we wanted to do was relax. The TV didn’t work in our room, so our lodge host replaced it. Then we noticed that the air conditioner wasn’t blowing cold and after two hot days and nights in Mole we knew we needed to cool down. So our host moved us (including the working TV) into the “Executive Double”. There were a few less bare wires protruding from the walls and the smoke alarm wasn’t open with the battery missing so that must have made it executive.
I read and napped the day away while Lauren watched and bitched about the TV. A cable attached to the TV received one satellite subscription service channel, but all the room cables must have been attached to a single master control box somewhere in the hotel. Occasionally while watching a program on the one channel, someone/somewhere in the hotel would decide to surf the channels. Or you could be watching a movie when someone/somewhere decided it was time for little Habeeb to watch “Rug Rats” on Nickelodeon. Hence, Lauren’s frustration.
One thing the hotel had going for it was the food. It was fabulous. For lunch I had a chicken in pita (spelled peter) bread. For dinner we had a chicken pizza. Whatever was in the chicken sauce they used was one of the best I ever tasted. And nothing was fried.
As soon as we returned from Mole, I tried to book plane tickets back to Accra but the Friday flight was full and the next flight wasn’t until Monday. Two more days in Tamale – No way! So we bought bus tickets. The travel book said the return bus trip from Tamale to Accra should take about 12 hours. That didn’t make any sense when Tamale to Kumasi took six hours and Kumasi to Accra took four hours --- a total of ten hours. And Lauren said she made the trip in about nine hours when returning from Bakino Faso. We left Tamale around 6:30am and arrived in Accra about 6:30pm. Trust the book.
After leaving the Navy, I thought I’d never again have to take the bus. But when you set your mind to a task like a long bus ride, you can manage the challenge. It also helped that we took the deluxe bus with air conditioning. And that wasn’t just open window. It was really cool inside. Also the bus wasn’t full, so we both had a double seat to ourselves. I remained pleasantly occupied reading, sight seeing, and listening to my MP3 player, until we hit the eleventh hour when I felt we should have been there. The last hour was spent in horrendous traffic in Accra, where I just wanted to scream ---“Let my people go!” But I survived, and because I need to take the bus to Cape Coast on Monday to see the slave castles (four hours one way) I won’t be able to swear-off busses for a little while longer.
Monday , Mar 21, 2005 Accra to Cape Coast – (Elmina more precisely)
I had dinner with Lauren and eight of her roommates last night at my hotel. The first pour from the pitcher there was a toast – “To the Dads!” There’s little wonder why I was being toasted. Guess who paid for the bill? Except this time there was another Dad from Arizona visiting his son, so we ended up splitting the bill. Again I was out $40 or so, but I ended up feeding five people dinner, drinks, and a movie on the big screen TV. My hotel, The Paloma, fancies itself a hip place, and the white population of Accra has bought into the program. Remember, this is the place that Lauren and I had lunch when we first got together ---the place where I wasn’t in the minority. The food still wasn’t great, but we did all enjoy ourselves.
Early yesterday I took a taxi to the STC (State Transportation Company) bus station to get a ticket to Cape Coast for today. No problem getting a ticket. I learned there was a return bus at 1pm on Tuesday, but I didn’t want to book a return ticket until I talked to Lauren and friends about how many days I should reserve for the trip. They all agreed that I should be able to easily do the trip and see the slave castle at Elmina, with just a single night stay over. Then they all insisted I had to stay at the Coconut Grove Resort, where they had stayed.
Right now I’m sitting under the cabana at the Coconut Grove Resort and I have to admit, this is one of the most beautiful places I’ve visited, inside or outside of Ghana. Except for the darker color of the occasional native walking along the beach, I could be in the South Pacific.
Coconut Grove Resort
There were a couple of hitches to this adventure in paradise. One, on the trip here the bus wasn’t full, so as soon as I was sure every ticket holder was aboard I abandoned a shared seat at the front of the bus for a double empty seat at the rear of the bus. Tickets are seat assigned, and I assumed they sold ticket beginning front to rear. When the driver boarded the bus he looked at me then started talking. He announced that the 11am bus To Cape Coast was ready to depart (the ticket was purchased for a 10am departure, but seeing as how we were leaving an hour late, he was technically correct) then he said a lot of other stuff I couldn’t understand. His final comment got a few giggles and heads turned around looking at me.
It didn’t take me long to figure out what the joke was. Lauren had told me the road to Cape Coast was pretty rough, but not nearly as rough as the road to Mole. The only difference was the bus to mole didn’t travel at 60mph, and I was sitting up front on the Mole trip. After today, I’m convinced the rear seats were unoccupied because they didn’t sell those seats. There was no suspension at the rear of the bus ---no shock absorbers! We hit bumps where I was physically launched toward the ceiling. I once caught my back pack in mid-air, and it contained the computer I’m writing on right now. But I had a good spot for picture snapping, and more importantly I had “face” to save from whatever the driver’s comment were.
The next hitch, so far (--- remember, I just got here), was I couldn’t get a return bus ticket before Friday. It seems that Easter vacation for the schools begins tomorrow, and all the kiddies book trips on the STC buses. Considering my flight home is Thursday, Friday back to Accra was a problem. I told the ticket seller of my dilemma, and she unsympathetically responded with “Alternative transportation!” I was on my own.
I started with other bus companies, nothing available. Then I tried the hired taxi approach, 600,000 cedi. But I remember the taxi ride to Mole over bad roads. Finally I asked, “What will it cost me to get a real car with air conditioning and seat belts and suspension and a driver that will listen to me when I say ‘slow down’?” I settled on a 700,000 cedi solution of a newer Nissan Ultima that will give me a demonstration ride when it picks me up tomorrow morning and drives me to the slave castle. Eleven dollars difference --- We’ll see if it works.
Right now though, I’ve just been served a tuna and tomato sandwich, so signing off. I’ll add some pictures to this JE when I get back to Accra.
Tuesday March 23, 2005 Back in Accra
It worked! The car was comfortable, the driver was cautious, and the trip back was just purely enjoyable. But the reason for the trip and the rest of this entry should be dedicated to the Elmina Slave Castle visit and Joshua.
Elmina Slave Castle
The castle visit had two parts: the educational part and the emotional part. The educational part began with a visit a little museum inside the castle. There wasn’t a whole lot in the way of information about the slave trade in the museum, but I learned little more from the tour guide. In short the castle --- and to me it looked like so many colonial forts, that I don’t know why it was called a castle. I asked that question and the guide said it was because it had a mote. I would have thought it took more.--- But not to get too far off subject… the castle was first built by the Portuguese in 1482 for the gold trade (hence the old Ghana name Gold Coast) in 1637 when the slave trade was really thriving the Dutch took the Castle in a battle. The Dutch built a fort on a hill just inland from the castle and bombarded the hell out of it. Then the Dutch fought the British for a number of years over who controlled the fort, but when the slave trade declined in the early 1800’s the Dutch sold the castle to the British in 1807. The British outlawed slave trading shortly thereafter.
The tour guide showed us through the various parts of the castle including the Dutch Governor’s balcony overlooking the female slave compound where he could select a slave mistress to be led to his personal quarters through a trap door to be ‘raped over and over again’, the guides words, not mine. I’d seen portraits of some of the Dutch Governors in the museum, and they didn’t appear capable of doing much of anything over and over again.
The tour guide was wrought with exaggeration, but I felt educated enough in the museum and from previous reading not to let his hyperbole make me want to kill the first Dutch Governor I met. Obviously, I wasn’t surprised that sex was forced upon the women slaves. I seriously doubt that Thomas Jefferson’s slave mistress was just another nymphomaniac negro-temptress.
Our guide wasn’t very good. His accent was heavy and he insisted on asking us to ask him a specific question – Like, “You may ask me, how many slaves where held hear at any one time?”
Now of that statement, I might have understood, “You may ___ slaves ___ time?”
To which I would respond, “What?”
Many moments and much conversation later, I would finally ask, “How many slaves where held hear at any one time?”
Then the guide would say, “Very good question! Minimum 1,000.”
At the end of the guided tour, I tipped the guide what he told me at the beginning of the tour was an appropriate sum, and was then on my own to wander back through the tour route. That’s when the emotional part of the tour began. I’d taken pictures during the guided part of the tour. Now I put the camera away.
I stood alone in the same spot where hundreds of thousands of people had been imprisoned for months after being kidnapped from their homes. I stood looking through the “doorway of no return” where the slaves were packed aboard a ship for months more of a hellish sea voyage.
Passage to Door of No Return
I tried to make connections between the Holocausts that lasted less than a decade to the centuries of abuse here. The Killing Fields of Cambodia … Nothing made any more or less since than: Just another example of Mans’ Inhumanity to Man.
I’ve tried a number of times to describe the emotion, but sad describes it best. Then sad was mixed with: Smokey Robinson and the Miracles, Aretha Franklin, Otis Redding… If it weren’t for the slave trade what would my teenage America have looked and sounded like? But, what a price to pay.
That only leaves Joshua, to be discussed. He was a kid (maybe 12yold) that hung on to me when I first arrived at the castle. He tried to be my guide, but not knowing any better, I dismissed him for the professional. Still, as I walked up the steps to the castle, Joshua educated me about the history and simultaneously questioned me about my name, country of origin, email address…
When I left the castle, Joshua was standing there waiting for me. He handed me a seashell inscribed in felt pen that said something like (see picture below), “To My California Dad. Mr. Bob. Have a safe journey, with his name and email address.”
Joshua
Was Joshua a hustler, possibly…probably. But he was so young and the pitch so smooth that he could only be an indirect accomplice to the crime. But just in case, maybe it’s time to send something back to the source of all this sadness and a thanks for Aretha, Smokey, and Otis. I know people here. It shouldn’t be too difficult to check out Joshua and his status, when I get back to the states. It wouldn’t take much to make something, “All Good” around here. You just have to get through the crust!
Thursday March 24, 2005
Time for some final notes on Ghana – for everything I think I missed!
Tro-Tros ---
A seven passenger van modified to seat fourteen and usually pack with eighteen. A conductor/caller hangs out the side door yelling the ultimate destination. Seating is first come, and once inside is at the discretion of the conductor. He may direct everyone in the last row to move forward --- and we do. If someone boards he tells/yells to the conductor his drop point. The conductor yells back the cost. If the passenger and conductor are separated, everyone in between passes money and change back and forth. (If you ever visited a baseball park, and bought something from an inner row, you’ll understand the concept of a money pass.) Every time I boarded a Tro-Tro, I handed or passed a 2000 cedi note. Sometime I got change, sometime I didn’t, but I never got asked for more than the 24 cent value of a 2000 cedi note.
Clown Car? No, a broken down Tro-tro with all passengers outside.
Hustlers ---
They are everywhere, but everyone that’s friendly isn’t necessarily a hustler. When I was leaving the Busy-Net internet café in Accra once, a young man asked me if we could talk.
I said, “No!”
He asked, “Why not?”
I answered, “Because, you want my money?”
When he responded with, “No,No,No! I’m just new in town from Sierra Leone, where my father is a rich man, but needs a financial partner to ….” I thought I’d split a gut. The harder I laughed, the larger he smiled. We departed company on a humorous if not mutually happy note. For anyone who doesn’t follow the humor here, you’ve avoided the scam-spam email that flooded the internet over the past few years and began almost word for word with this hustlers pitch.
P.S. –While over at Lauren’s last night I noticed that she had a shell that looked the one Joshua gave me at the castle. It was a hustle. Too bad!
Prostitutes – The other kind of hustler
Heard it was a major problem. But was never was approached --- Too old? Never even recognized an obvious encounter, but sometimes wondered, “What’s this young, beautiful black woman doing with some fat old balding white man?” But then last night I found myself following a couple upstairs: an awkward white man in his early thirties (balding) and a much younger nervous woman. It was obviously not a match made in heaven. Just another “Damn, Mans’ Inhumanity to Man.” Or just gross!
On Tipping
Ghanaians don’t tip in general and waitresses in particular. But the waitress while not anticipating a tip play a game I call “change” with obruni, white people. I rarely find myself with the proper denomination of bills to put down the exact amount of the restaurant bill. But you can generally get within 10,000 cedi ($1.25) over the amount of the bill. Example: You get a bill for 33,000, and you lay down 40,000. That’s when the game begins. And the rules are simple. How long are you willing to wait for your 75 cents worth of change? More often than not, I lose.
On Dating and Courtships
My friend, Abraham, explained how he became engaged. In his culture when a boy and girl wants to date, the boy goes “knocking” at the girls house asking permission from her parents to court her. As part of the “knocking” procedure, he pays the parents a nominal sum, around twenty dollars. After knocking comes the engagement. The engagement is where our traditional understanding of a wedding takes place with a formal ceremony, gift, etc. Following the engagement is the wedding where the legalities of the marriage is finalized, but without any celebration. This is pretty much the traditional (he wouldn’t say tribal but it seemed appropriate) marriage process.
Abrahams situation, took a little different side route when during the “knocking” phase he knocked a little too much and his girlfriend became pregnant. So when he found out in December they immediately became engaged, theoretically leaving no stigma on the couple. But they won’t be married until this summer. I think there’s some more money to be paid her parents, but he didn’t offer an explanation and I was just listening.
I did ask him if he and his girlfriend live together now, and he told me no, but it wasn’t because the tradition would disapprove. It was her parent’s wishes as influenced by the Christian church they attended.
But apparently a stigma of sorts still remains though. Initially Abraham’s fiancée was afraid to meet Lauren and I for dinner for fear we woold not understand her situation, but I convinced him and he her, that we had no opinion.
On Pollution
Pollution is the worst part about Ghana. The traffic congestion is worse than Manhattan, and every vehicle spews exhaust fumes. No taxi has air conditioning so all the windows are down and the inside is still full of fumes. The noise pollution is even worse. Taxis honk (somewhat like a morse code- short, short, long, shot …) to warn pedestrians and other vehicles. They honk to announce that they are looking for a fare. And sometimes they honk for no apparent reason.
People are pretty good about controlling the noise indoors, but once outside anything goes and nobody seems to notice. I was standing outside a bank waiting for an ATM machine to be restocked. A guy pulls up to the curb, parks his newer car, and goes into the bank. Within a minute, a pedestrian had bumped into his car and the alarm goes off and rings for a few minutes before he comes out of the bank with a key-blipper and makes a big show out of resetting the alarm. This happened two more times in the ten minutes I was at the bank. It’s as if there are no rules of noise courtesy outside.
I’ve already talked about the litter pollution. But I heard from my driver on the trip back from Cape Coast that the government is getting ready to tax the manufactures of bag-water (Little ½ liter bags of water that look and feel like water balloons. You bite off a piece of the bag, suck out the contents, and throw the bag on the ground.) to pay for a country wide clean up. These bags make up a majority of the roadside liter. So maybe the crusade will begin without me.
On work:
I can’t imagine any hope for these people. So many really want to work, and be paid a reasonable wage, but it’s just a dream. Reality --- there are too many people chasing too few jobs. Until investment of international capital toward something that’s unique to Ghana happens, there will be no improvement. In western Africa, the only thing Ghana has going for it is they speak English, or something close to it. The general English pronunciation is not anywhere close enough to challenge India’s telecommunication boom. And although eight years of Democracy is encouraging, it’s not nearly long enough to build an international investment confidence base. Makes you wonder; if Ghana hadn’t fought the Japanese in Burma, or the Italians in North Africa; if they hadn’t been on the winning side of WWII; might they have become an economic power like Japan and Germany.
Poor Africa, Poor Ghana!
It’s a phase I’ve heard often.
I’m going home today and will attempt to send these footnotes as a final email.
My adventure’s over! And so as Forest Gump so adequately stated, “That’s all I have to say about that.”
