Up Close and Personal

I am teaching tonight.  Marketing.  I need to be home by 3:00 to be ready for the 5:30 class, although my students are on Ghana time.  No self-respecting Ghanaian actually gets anywhere on time.  I have one punctual student; she is Israeli.

Once again, efficiency is important so we do the only sensible thing: hire a taxi for the day.  I cannot imagine doing this in the United States.  It would completely empty out my bank account.  Here, it’s different.  Janyn and I hired Joseph at an amazing low price for us, but an amount that likely made a big difference to him; a win-win.

Our first stop is the National Museum.  I have been waiting for Janyn to arrive to visit this museum.  It was opened in 1957, one day before Ghana received its independence.  It is filled with culture, arts, crafts and slave trade history.  As with almost every Ghanaian museum, pictures are not allowed.  The pictures here were lifted from the internet.  It is a small museum, but interesting.

There is an example of the first cloth made from pounded tree bark.  There is a display showing Kente Cloth weaving.  An older cloth is shown next to the new cloth.  Old Kente is made from thread colored with natural dies they could make.  The newer cloth is colorful using modern dies.

There are a few carved stools.  They are sacred and to be used only by important people.  There are displays of gold and wood carvings and masks.  There are also statues, carvings and various items from nearby countries in Africa.  There are displays of musical instruments and a hut depicting a typical kitchen in the “olden times”.  Nothing seems to have a date.  It’s just said to be the “olden times”.

The mood of this tour changed drastically as we entered the slave exhibit.  This was sobering and a deep feeling of empathy has come over me as I go through this part of the exhibit. There is a map on the wall showing people captured captured near the coast.  They were then forced to march deep into the forest for days to reach their processing destination. Most were young boys and girls. Many had no food or water.  Once processed, they marched back through the forest to the coast to enter the door of no return.  I wonder how many people died during processing.  To enter the door of no-return and the conditions endured on the ships is almost too much to imagine.  It is emotional.  It is devastating to see the chains used for legs and necks. 

Years ago, I went to the African American Museum in Los Angeles and experienced a slavery exhibit.  I stood in a boat that was upright to experience how much space each slave was allotted.  I listened on headphones to the words of slaves.  I know this history, but each time I see an exhibit, it is always the same emotional experience.

After over an hour we are headed to Jamestown.  I know little of it, other than it has a lighthouse and it is one of the poorest communities in Ghana.  I have no idea what to expect.

We arrive and meet the guide that Joseph found for us.  He will take us on a tour of the fishing village and up into the lighthouse.  The village sits on Government owned property.  It is densely a populated fishing village inhabited by Ga, indiginous people of Coastal Ghana.  Their language is Ga.  Our guide indicates we can take pictures, but we must ask him to make sure it is appropriate.  I understand why as I look at the colorless landscape.

We pass by the children’s orphanage.  It dark with no apparent electricity.  Children can be heard from the echoing walls within.  I try to imagine what it must be like inside those walls, but can't.  Instead, I reflect on my own life, knowing I will never be able to relate to the children within the walls of darkness in the orphanage.

We are taken down to the shore to see fishing boats in various stages of decay, although they tell us it is a “manufacturing facility”.

We move through the boats and into the area where fishermen are untangling nets and proudly showing us their catch of the day.  "Please take a picture!" one man says while showing us a rare large catch.

We pass by women making 'one pot' stews over coal fires.  It is a busy atmosphere in the heart of the village.  Music is playing, pots are clanging and people are talking.  

A woman pounds and kneads fufu, a traditional Ghanaian dish which I will talk about in a later post.  She smiles and asks if we have eaten the dish yet.  "No" I respond. "We are going to Kumasi tomorrow and will try it there".  She smiles and it is apparent she approves of our adventuresome attitude.

As we pass through a narrow row of homes, we come across a woman nursing her baby while sitting on a chair perched in the dirt.  She gently takes her breast from the infant and hands him to me. Both Janyn and I hold this adorable child.  

He is wearing little socks that have "USA" imprinted on them.  He is soft and content.  

The photos were taken before the mother said, "You can have him".

There are fish everywhere in various stages of processing and decay.  Women are smoking them, drying them, cleaning them, cooking them and eating them.  Some less desirable fish and parts are left on the ground for animals, but I see no animals, other than one pitiful cow baking in the sun. There is also a brand new litter of puppies.

I wonder where the animals are who will eat the scraps.  The smell permeates the village; a smell so pungent that I cannot relate it to anything I’ve ever experienced before.  My hair and clothes are being soaked with the smell.

There is a large pile of smoldering trash at one end of the village adding to the unpleasant smell and contributing to the pollution in the air.  I wonder about the average age in this village.  I cannot imagine living an entire life within the confines of these conditions.   

As I pass the villagers, to my surprise the word I hear most is "Akwaaba"; the Twi word for welcome.   I imagine the guide shares his reward with the people in the village, although I cannot be certain.

While the men fish, the women prepare food, do laundry and care for the children.  It is a hunter-gatherer lifestyle.  There are a few women who sell vegetables laying in the dirt next to the village "market".  I wonder where they grow vegetables.  There is only sand and gray dirt here.  The village is large and organized.

And then there is a surprise, sitting in the middle of this fishing village by the sea, something unexpected that brings a smile.

After a sobering experience, we walk over to the lighthouse, pay a small fee and climb to the top.  It is an amazing sight to see Jamestown from the top of the lighthouse.

As we climb down the stairs, Janyn wants to take one last picture of the steep spiraled stairs descending ninety-three feet to the base of the lighthouse.  As she points her IPhone it falls from the case and drops….at least thirty feet!  Our guide rushes to retrieve it.  It is in perfect condition and works as it had never been dropped.  A testament to Apple products!  

We must get back as it is getting late.  We miss the tour of Fort James as it is not open, a slight disappointment.  Fort James was built by the British and used as a base to attack the Dutch Fort Crevecoeur.  Ghana used it as a prison after gaining independence.  Many forts are still in existence in Ghana.   

As we drive home, Janyn reviews the pictures and says, "I think my IPhone is broken, all my pictures are black and white".  Upon closer look, her pictures are fine.  There are only small dots of color here and there in many of the Jamestown pictures.  Visually, Jamestown is colorless.

This has been a day that's been up close and personal.  It's been interesting, reflective, and deeply touching.  There are so many reasons to be grateful for this day.