Monthly Archives: November 2011

Traveling: Cape Coast, Ghana

I planned to go to Cape Coast with a couple friends on Thursday.  I got up early in anticipation and left out at 6:20 am, thinking I would surely get to the bus station by 7:30.  I walk to the Tro Tro station to find the line stretched damn near into the next neighbourhood.  My first option of travel was out the window, so I began trying to get a taxi.  The first one I stopped wanted 30 cedi to take me.  I flagged down another and he simply refused to go so far during morning traffic.  Its now 6:40 and I have to do something.  All the cars passing by are full.  Finally I hail a free driver and he agrees to take me for 14 cedi.  Apparently the bus station is pretty far, I should have left earlier.  We get going only to come to a complete halt about 2 miles down the road.  7am rolls around, now 7:15, still stuck. I call my friends.  They have already made it to the station.  I tell them where I am and we agree that I probably won’t make it.  I ask driver to turn around and take me back.

After I get in and rest a bit, I begin considering taking the next bus at noon.  My friends won’t be able to go with me so the real debate is whether I want to brave the journey alone.  I reorganize myself and decide to give it another shot.  I head out again and catch a Tro Tro easily since rush hour is over.  I climb in the rickety old van, the seat slightly rocking from loose screws, the next row of seats begins where my knees end and I’m squished between two broad shouldered women. The journey begins to feel miserable.  How can I travel like this?  And when I get to my stop, how will know the bus station without the guidance of a friend?  I give up and get out.  I’ll have to do Cape Coast another time.  Frustrated with the discomfort of Tro Tros, I decide to walk home.  I figure it will be less trouble.  My backpack is full with a weekend worth of stuff.  The pavement is unrelenting, and dust from the side of the road is swirling around as cars zoom past.  The sun, the smog, the heat.  I start hearing my song Only Temporary echo in my head, as if an angel is singing it to me.  I’m determined to keep going.  A car pulls over and stops.  I don’t notice it until the driver says, “Akua!” Its an acquaintance I met at my last show.  What are the odds?  The day couldn’t have been more difficult but it ended with a major blessing, at the perfect time.  I climb in and ride home in cool AC and a comfy seat.  When I text my girl Linda about my 2 failed attempts at going to Cape Coast, she writes back, if you still want to go, I’ll go with you.

I spend the night at Linda’s house, to ensure early arrival at the station.  We wake at 4:30am and we’re out the door by 5:30.  We reach the station intending to catch the 8am bus but find out there’s one leaving at 6, so we hop on.  This is perfect, we won’t have to wait and we’ll make it out of town before traffic.  The ride is smooth and the countryside is rustic bush, green and untamed.  2 hours later, the ocean appears on the horizon.  We have arrived. Some friends from the States recommended a resort called One Africa Wellness Center, owned by a repatriated African American woman.  We reach the place.  The landscape is well manicured, the buildings boast of bright red, black and green colors.  We are checked in by the owner’s son, whose thick Brooklyn accent feels familiar to me.  He leads us to our chalet, a round little hut with a straw roof.  We pass a great outdoor dining area and hammocks strung to trees.  The ocean is footsteps away.  The waves here are so strong, their continuous crashing onto the rocks sounds like rumbling thunder.  Each chalet is named after a hero, ours is Queen Mother Moore, and pictures of her decorate the walls. We squeal with delight, drop our bags and head straight for the ocean view.  The water looks like a deep blue blanket, stretched across the sea.  Milk white frothy waves bubble over a cappuccino black stony shore.   The sun still newly risen, looks on from the east.  It is a technicolor fantasy, sensory seduction, absolute heaven to my spirit.  We stand for a long time on the cliff overlooking this vision.  It’s like a painting it’s so perfect.

Two older ladies from the States are also staying at the resort as well.  We meet and instantly vibe with them, so we arrange to tour the slave castle together.  We are like giddy girls in the cab, getting to know each other, chatting, finding similarities and sharing stories of our Ghanaian experience. Suddenly we pull up to the castle and stop.  Guys selling tourist goods surround the car.  Linda cautions me to keep my purse close, for pick pocketing is common here.  We have a nice lunch and brace ourselves to enter the castle.  We all take deep breaths and start walking into the enormous stone structure, solemn and serious.

The bricks are rigid beneath our feet, they lead down into a deep dungeon.  We carefully descend into darkness, into an open room, where a small hole allows only one ray of light in.  The tour guide tells a tale of distant traders who came and built this thing. They sought out easily persuaded chiefs with whom they could exchange guns and liquor for human beings. The scent is smoky, fleshy, bloody.  We walk farther into another room, where hundreds of men were packed in.  The tour guide points to a line on the wall, as high as his knee.  He says the entire room was filled this high with fecal matter.  People wading in their own waste, with no air or light, skin to skin, no room to move.  I feel them.  I feel the presence of so many hundreds of human beings.  They were here in this place, so long ago, right where I stood.  My chest tightens.  Energy envelopes me, like arms around me.  A heavy layer of pain and sorrow permeates every inch of my being.  The guide leads us to the next room where there is an ancestral shrine.  He mentions that traditional spirituality has been replaced by religion.  I move to the shrine, as it is a familiar place for my method of spiritual practice, and fall to my knees.  I weep at the feet of my ancestors, in the dust and clay of their remains.  My tears falling where their blood spilled ages ago.  I open my hands in surrender, and honor their passage through this place as a sacrifice for my own life.  The Spirit was indescribably powerful.  I mourn loudly, touch my head to the ground, fully prostrate before It.  Again and again I submit and praise and cry.  All my struggles as of late, pale in comparison to the holocaust of my people, and so I am humbled and grateful.  I rise, unable to see, my face completely drenched.   I leave a small offering and stagger into Linda’s arms.

We ascend to daylight and the comforting sound of water.  Our older lady friends have now become surrogate aunties.  One of them is a priestess and she suggests I take a moment, after all the energy I just encountered.  I do and decide I’ll in fact sit out the rest of the tour.  Once you’ve seen one dungeon, you get the idea.  I let Linda tell me about the rest.  She said the “cell for the defiant” was where she had to stop.  This is where the most resistant African men were placed, 50 in a small room,  and left until the last one died.  The walls still have the their scratch marks.  We are all raw and quiet.  Introspectively looking out into the ocean, impacted in our own way from what we just saw.  We slowly gather ourselves and give thanks but pray to leave the weight of the world behind.  Shedding our burdens, we gently depart the place, reverently, respectfully.  Forever changed.

Back at the resort, we cleanse from the experience and meet at the dining area.  We have been bonded by the tour and are subsequently still enjoying each other.  We order drinks and dinner, and get into great conversation.  It’s a scene from How Stella Got Her Groove Back.  Our aunties schooling us to life and men and womanhood.  Our laughter carries on into the late night, as we kick back among the palm trees, the moonlight and the sweet rolling waves of the sea.

Traveling: Aburi, Ghana

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Outside I hear clapping and chanting.  The school girls are playing on the street.  I go out, walk around the house to the back, and climb up to the balcony to watch.  The game stops and all eyes are on me.  The girls giggle amongst themselves.  They begin speaking English with what they think is an American accent, extra exaggerated and proper.  One says, “I want to drink water.”  The others chime in and say, “give me water, give me water.”  Another shakes her behind at me, I believe imitating what she thinks black American women dance like.  Another girl says, “what is your name?”  “Akua,” I say and many giggle in surprise.  The girl responds “that is MY name.”  I say “Wednesday?”  She says, “yea.”  I say “ete sen,” which is “how are you?”  The whole group responds “eye,” which is “I’m fine.”  Satisfied, the girls return to their game, now fully aware of the foreigner on the balcony watching them.  The oldest calls out “circle, circle, circle,” and everybody repeats while forming a huge circle.  The leader begins the song, “if you born on Monday, come in and dance.  If you born on Monday, come in and dance.”  All the Monday born girls move to the middle and dance a bit.  Their laughter and fun is contagious, and I’m having a ball just watching.  When they get to Wednesday, I wiggle my shoulders to the beat and of course the girls laugh at me.  By the end of the game, I climb down and come inside.  We actually have a huge supply of water so I thought, why not go give them some.  Auntie says, “me I won’t give them, you see what they do, they urinate here, me I won’t give them, but you go, you are a stranger, you can give them.”  Water is such a commodity.  Some have plenty, in huge reserve tanks on their property, like us.  Some have to carry water from the nearest pipe.  Young ladies bring several gallon jugs to a spigot, fill them up, and carry them on their heads home.  In traffic, small sachets of water, little bag pouches, are sold for 10 pesewa.  I’ve tried the bag water but I’ve been told some brands don’t purify so it may not be safe.  But here in the house we have loads of these pouches so I scooped a bunch and made my way back outside.  Just as I’m closing the gate, a neighbour passes by and we chat awhile.  She asks me what I’m doing with all the water and I tell her I’m going to give it to the girls.  “Nooooo, don’t give them.  They urinate here,  they have urinals at the school but they come here.  See even now, they’re not supposed to be here,” meaning in the middle of the road playing games during school hours.  “The next thing they will do is climb over your wall to see what you have in your house.”  Man.  It’s pretty tough to know the do’s and don’ts.  I’m glad I have family to tell me, but who knew these kids were a “bad lot” as the neighbour said.  Who knew giving them water today might prompt trespassing or theft tomorrow.  I carried the water back in the house and didn’t come back out.  Seems my inclinations to integrate aren’t so wise.

 

My first show in Africa started off on the wrong note but I adjusted and sang anyway.  Quite characteristic of this entire experience.  Things are far from perfect here but people adapt and keep it moving.  They endure far greater challenges than any human being should, but persevere without much complaint.  I have been struggling to do the same, but fall short at times.  I get to the venue early to sound check with Baby in tow.  Everything sounds great, just the way we rehearsed the day before.  I’m a little disenchanted because the guitarist could know my music better.  But my attitude is, make do with what I have, so I’m don a cheerful countenance and hope for the best.  Slowly people start to filter in, then a steady stream of folks fill the spot.  This is a “talk party” where people gather to discuss a particular subject based on the film being shown.  “A Good Day to Be Black and Sexy” is the film of choice and starts the night off right.  The conversation that follows is spicy and thought provoking, covering everything from homosexuality in Ghana to infidelity.  I’m feeling comfortable among the crowd, which by now is standing room only and spilling outside.  The night air is cool, the people are chill, the vibe is cosy.  I’m almost lulled to sleep.  Suddenly the curator comes over and says I’ll be singing next. I peel myself from the back of the room where I’ve inconspicuously blended with the masses.  I grab my water, and begin scanning the room for my guitarist.  He’s there and ready.  The mic is moved to the center.  There’s a camera crew posted on the side of the room and others have gathered next to them with their phones to record me.  The curator introduces me and the dj plays a tune while I setup a plant next to the mic.  I give him a nod that I’m ready and turn on the mic.  “Peace everybody,” I say as my standard way of mic-checking and starting my show.  No response.  “Peace everybody,” I say again.  A few people say, “peace.”  I say it again and everyone is with me.  “This is my first time in Africa, first time in Ghana, first time in Accra, so I’m very excited and thankful to be here.  I’m gonna start with libation to thank the ancestors for bringing me home.  Is there anyone who doesn’t know libation.”  Duuhh Akua, this is only the birthplace of libation and all things ancestral.  Someone responds simply “we know.”  So I proceed and pour out a little water giving thanks for reaching Africa safely.  Instant responses, yelps, agreement.  Now I can begin.  Baby is sitting front and center, rocking out hard, bobbing his body.  Sisters are Rollin’ with me.  The entire crowd learns Approve and sings the chorus in unison.  Just Tryin to Live ends the set and I’m off.  The cheers feel like a warm receiving blanket.  On the way home, I pop in my cd for family to hear the full production of the songs I just sang.  They like Reach Higher and everyone is humming along.  Introspectively, I celebrate a successful infiltration of my music into the Ghanaian scene.

 

The next morning, Mami dresses early and leaves out to fuel up the car.  She returns with all kinds of treats; chocolate, my favourite soda, cake, yogurt, and Fan Milk which is ice cream in a pouch.  We are preparing for a day trip to Aburi, a small town nestled in the mountains known for its botanical garden.  We begin our journey and weave through several neighborhoods until we reach a more open road, now the mountains in plain sight.  Before we make our ascension, Mami turns off the main road and onto an undeveloped plot of land.  This is the land Husband will own one day.  I try to imagine myself here too.  I get out and take pictures. It’s open field now, but some have began building their houses in the distance.  We resume working our way up the steep incline to Aburi.  The road is smooth, new and modern.  My ears pop as I overlook a beautiful view of Accra getting smaller and smaller.  We pass Peduase Lodge, built by Kwame Nkrumah, which is used as a retreat haven for presidents.  Up and up into the hills, now getting into town, onto a more narrow street lined with house upon house.  We reach the garden and Mami knows the director so we are waved in.  The entrance is pillars of palm trees along a path.  We ride in, passing tons of people who have also come to relax.  We get out of the car and the air is fresh and crisp.  The director comes out to greet us and begins to lead us around.  He shows us sweet nutmeg trees, real cocoa beans, fresh shea nuts, and a spice garden. He also takes us off campus to show us Mami’s plot of land nearby.   The road to the plot is unpaved and we’re driving through thick bush.  The truck is practically mowing the grass it’s so untamed.  I’m worried we may get stuck but Mami patiently plows through.  We reach the plot and it is breathtakingly beautiful.  The most lush green hills, overlooking one side of the mountain, and a deep valley.  Mami walks her land and picks fresh greens for us to have for dinner.  There’s a stake in the ground with the family name carved in it.  This signifies the land is paid in full and ready to be built on.  Once she settles a bit of business, we climb back in the truck and head out.  On the main road, I spot palm wine, so we pull over and inquire.  I’ve never had it but I wanted to sample.  The reused bottle had bits of the plant caked up around the rim, so I was a bit turned off but I tried it anyway.  The smell is pungent to say the least, I wanted to hold my nose but I didn’t. The taste is a cross between beer and wine.  But the stank kept me from having another taste.  Mami rides a bit farther and stops to pick peppers from one stand, palm nuts from another.  People just pull up to the side of the road and make purchases here.  Vendors give the goods through the window and you’re on your way.  Our last stop is a corn seller.  She’s boiling ears of corn in a big cauldron.  She dips in with her bare hand and grabs several pieces for us.  This is real corn, not genetically modified.  It’s almost white yellow, and the kernels are firm and tough.  Later when I eat it, it’s not as soft as I’m used to.  But I appreciate that it’s real corn.  In general, it’s special the see raw materials and how they are made into everyday things. Along the road, woodworkers are making furniture and contractors are building houses with brick and cement.  In the States, things are rarely made hand anymore, everything is industrialized, machine processed.  Here, one really get a sense of the earth’s resources, bare bones, basic and simple.