Always Knock on Wood

In the continued spirit of Ghana Time, within three hours of arriving at work last Monday I was planning a trip to Kumasi in the afternoon. The head of the clinic attached to WAAF, Dr. Naa Ashiley Vanderpuye, was giving a talk on the basics of HIV/AIDS to a group of Ghanaian educators. Somehow tagging along fell under the volunteer advancement part of our internship; Joanne and I were happy to play tourist in the middle of the week.

Kumasi is the second largest city in Ghana and the capital of the Ashanti region. It is only about 250 km from Accra but the journey took roughly 5 hours (longer on the way home), after the 45 minute departure delay. I think the weekend acclimatized me to Ghanaian driving as I could barely stay awake. Jo, on the other hand, spent the entire time gripping her water bottle and staring in fear/astonishment at the road. Many near-head-on collisions and a body on the side of the road later, we arrived at the house of Elizabeth and Eben. The next day, our educational segment was over before we knew it and Elizabeth arrived to play tour guide. We explored the Cultural Centre, essentially a road lined with traditional gift shops, that is supposed to be better (ie. less aggressive) than the Accra version. The Manhyia Palace is a modest building on a huge piece of land in the middle of the city. It was donated by some British dude three kings ago. There is something about the type of artefacts on display at the museum that makes me chuckle. First off, one of the most holy symbols in the region is the golden stool. Ghanaians love their stools. Every kitchen has multiple and many buildings take on the form. Each new king is blindfolded in a room full of the past kings’ stools and given the name of the one he choses. Stools! I can’t get over it. Other highlights of the palace include the first TV in Ghana, very lifelike effigies of the last three kings and their queen mothers, rings full of golden keys to symbolize importance, and a war gown that makes women barren (the tour guide wouldn’t let me touch it).

At lunch I was boasting about how well my stomach has been handling raw, unpeeled fruits and veggies. Even as I ate the slightly sketchy salad laden with some sort of mayonnaise sauce, I neglected to see how I was tempting fate. Big mistake. Within half an hour I was wishing I had knocked on wood, especially with the washroom out of order. I definitely appreciate sweating out most of the liquids I consume in this country as the state of public washrooms is frightening. I will spare you the details of the facilities and my runny stomach. The most fortunate part was hiding out at Elizabeth’s work, the music school at the Calvary Charismatic Church. (Yes, I took refuge in a church. Desperate times call for desperate measures.) I even got to see a performance of Ghanaian songs with a local xylophone and numerous drums.

Since I’m stubborn and don’t like my body controlling my life, I adopted the strategy of not eating so I could continue to travel. Ghana contains many small towns that specialize in a traditional craft. Bonwire, just outside of Kumasi, is renowned for its kente cloth. Once we got rid of the horde of boys trying to sell us cheap bracelets, we happened upon The Master Weaver. This old man has sat in his hand & foot loom (see picture) everyday for 50 years weaving and teaching over 200 other weavers. It takes him a week to set up the loom, three weeks to make a strip, and four months to make a man’s complete piece of fabric. Yet I bought a strip for 30,000 cedis, approximately $4 Canadian. Eight hours of travel later I was home stuffing bread into my angry stomach.

On Saturday we were off to another traditional craft village, this one outside of Accra, known for its wood carving. I was pleasantly surprise when the sales approach was less forceful, on the condition that you visit every shop in the compound. The variety of craftspeople made for a diverse selection of unique pieces, along with the typical African souvenirs, religious symbols, and wholesome mother/father/child ones. I now have proof that I’ve been to Africa; I am the proud owner of a slightly scary wooden mask. The town itself was very picturesque, old buildings built on steep hills. We also encountered at least five funerals (you can always tell when it’s a Saturday in Ghana). I still haven’t figured out the entire funeral ceremony but I do know it spans many days, involves a lot of shiny black (and sometimes white or red) material, and everyone is invited, as long as you bring a donation.

Cocoa, Pawpaw and Pear! OH MY!

Before I traveled to Ghana everyone warned me about “Ghana Time”. I have learned that this mentality not only manifests itself in start times but in the act of planning in general. Activities are planned very last minute and executed by the seat of their pants. I would say that I am doing very well at adapting. In the first few days I had perfected the skill of getting up, getting ready and going back to sleep until others arrived. At the end of last week I called Kate & Andrew, other NetCorps people who are now working in northern Ghana. Before I knew it I had plans to visit a cocoa plantation and go on a boat cruise. Andrew grew up in Ghana; he still has lots of family and connections here. His background and interest in history made him the perfect tour guide.

Now I must admit that I expected something quite different from what I got at the "plantation". Silly little Canadian girl shows up with shorts imagining rows of cocoa trees, some living quarters, perhaps a barn for storage. In reality, we were going into the bush with a variety crazy (to me) flora & fauna. We drove down a very rough dirt & rock road to a sizable village where we parked the car. The locals immediate showed interest; cars rarely visit, let alone one with two Obrunis. With our audience watching we covered ourselves in bug spray and descended into the bush. A 20 minute walk brought us past two more villages, some bright red chickens, a plant that smells like southern Ontario and then we were on Andrew's uncle's property. There is no discernible division between pieces land - no fences, no change from one crop to another. Just plants everywhere. From walking around for a few hours I can now identify (by sight and taste) cocoas, pawpaw (aka papaya), plantain, banana, sugar cane, Ghanaian spinach, pear (aka avocado), mango, coconut, coffee bean and palm nut. Most of the harvesting is done by chopping fruit from trees with machetes, piling them, gathering to dry/extract/mash, then carrying the end product on your head out of the bush and down the dirt road. These people have a way of life that is so separate from mine, yet they seem to have all the necessary modern tools (a well, a phone, a school). All in all an amazing experience thanks to Andrew and his family. And I managed to emerge from the bush with minimal bites & wounds.

On the way back we had to stop to repair the exhaust pipe. Luckily auto repair shops are abundant and I think I now understand why. A few kilometers down the road we pulled over again, across from a capsized freight truck we saw being unloaded earlier, to tie up our dragging muffler. As we were waiting another truck zoomed by exuding what I assumed was just a lot of exhaust (a regular sight here). A few hundred meters up the road the truck swerved into the ditch and burst into flames. The good news is that people came from every direction, running to help the driver. I did my best to keep my eyes closed for the rest of the journey home.

The boat cruise was a lot of fun, but in contrast to the previous day's activities a total tourist trap. All the black people on the boat were workers, Ghanaian who reside elsewhere, or escorts (some shady, some not). We started at the Akosombo dam and traveled up the Volta River, the largest man-made river in the world. Being the little environmentalist that I am, I was very interested to see the effects of human and ecological displacement. I tried my hardest to get a local to say something negative but they wouldn't crack. The dam has allowed the country affordable power and another resource to export. This brings me to the one topic people will criticize: rolling blackouts. On my fifth day in Ghana I discovered that for the last few months everyone in the country has had no lights every three days, alternating between daytime and nighttime. It has now been switched to every five days and only at night. The official explanation is that the water levels are low (I wouldn't have noticed if I hadn't known). The unofficial one is that they've been selling too much to surrounding countries. Damn francophone nations ;) I'm happy that there is a schedule put in place; sometimes the water just stops flowing.

Akwaaba (Welcome)

Joanne (my fellow Crossroader) and I made it safely to Accra, Ghana (via Amsterdam) on Thursday evening. Although I got all the information I could before I left, I was not prepared for this place. I don't believe anyone could be prepared .... not that that's a bad thing. My senses have been stimulated in a way one could never experience in North America. I'm still busy taking in all the sites, smells (mmm open gutters), sounds (local languages, honking, shouting, hisses), and sun. Currently my vocabulary consists of "Where are we now?", "What did you say?", "So how does this work?", and "What is the plan?" I am quickly learning that appointments are not met on time and plans are not made in advance.

On our first day we learned a story that I think is very indicative of Accra and the culture. There is a hospital in town called 37 because it has 37 buildings (this sort of naming is used throughout the city). Large trees line the property and house thousands of fruit bats. Every night they fly up to 10 kms to find food and return before sunrise. The story goes that the bats followed an Ashanti chief who came to the hospital when he was sick. Even after he died, the bats stayed to morn and protect his legacy. It seems that the locals love to tell this story yet they will curse the bats as soon as something splats on their cars.

I went to the main market (Makola) in Accra on Saturday. I really can't describe this place in words. There is stall after stall, as far as the eye can see, in each section. I would say that there is the equivalent of a city block for the women's section, the men's, the food, the beauty products, etc. Luckily we had a local guide from work, Fiifi, to protect us from the grabbing, pinching, and yelling of "Obruni" or "white". It was a little overwhelming, but a good lesson is culture, how people shop, the stereotypes placed on white people, and navigating the tro tro (the fastest and cheapest way to get around the city, see the white vehicle in the photo).