Going Going Ghana

Oh Ghana. What an experience. It all began to the beat of African drums outside my 3rd deck window. We docked in Takoradi, Ghana, a very industrial port. The walk from the ship’s gangway to the end of the pier took around twenty minutes. A peaceful and odorous (from the cocoa beans stored in the warehouses) twenty minute stroll to the entrance gates of the pier where there awaited a mob of taxi drivers and people asking for your name to embroider on a bracelet. Everyone fighting for your attention, pulling you in one direction, then the other. Draping their arms around you like you’re old friends. So chaotic, you can’t even think, can’t even locate the other members of your group. “No thank you” seemed to have no effect on these salesmen. Slowly we picked up on the method of dealing with them and eventually ended up outside the massive mob to regroup and begin the walk into town. The trick is to look them directly in the eye, say “no” with confidence and continue on your way. Indecision is deadly. They jump on that like a swarm of vultures. This was our first taste of Ghana. It didn’t quite begin on the best note. So far my impression of the Ghanaians was that of distrust. It seemed as though they were all out to take advantage of the wide-eyed, fresh-off-the-boat American.
        My impression was only reinforced when myself and three others tried to snag a taxi to the Cape Coast Slave Castle. We were told on the ship that cab fare to the castle would be around 22 cedis. As it turned out, not a single one of the 6 taxis we haggled with would drop the price below 40. They threw every excuse in the book at us for why they wouldn’t drop their price including “I’m a Christian,” “Gas is 7 cedi a gallon,” and “They wouldn’t make a profit.” Nonetheless, we finally hopped in a taxi after an hour of having the same conversation over and over again began to wear on us and grudgingly paid the 40 cedi (10 cedi per person). We ended up getting scammed again and utterly lost on the way home. When our cab driver said he knew how to get to the port in Takoradi, he actually meant he was going to make frequent stops along the way to catch up with friends who would then feed him directions until the next abrupt stop in the trip. We left the castle at 6 and got home around 8:30pm. The lesson learned was if you’re going a good distance away from port, just hire a taxi for the day. Our classmates did this and were able to go anywhere they needed to at any time throughout the day for a grand total of around 40 cedi per person. So for 30 more cedis we could have avoided this stress.
        The Cape Coast Slave Castle was amazing, all white-washed and overlooking a bustling beach front where small fishing boats were being pushed out to sea, boys were playing football and women were washing clothes. This was one of the two slave castles I visited in my time in Ghana. The other was called Elmina Slave Castle. Obama and his family actually visited the Cape Coast Castle recently to pay their respects to their African ancestors. We saw the memorial wreath they left behind in one of the dungeons. The stories the tour guide shared with us just blew my mind. Slaves were divided by gender and strength and were stored in cramped dungeons 250 at a time for up to 3 months, forced to live in their own, sweat, tears, vomit, and waste. There was one tiny hole in the ceiling for light and as a result, many went blind or died from the horrendous living conditions. Even more disturbing is the fact that in both castles a church was built directly above the male slave dungeon. So while the Europeans and Portuguese and Dutch were praising God, 250 men that they were holding captive were just beneath the brick floors drowning in their own bodily waste. We had the chance to walk through “The Door of No Return.” This was the door the slaves walked through before they were loaded onto ships and sent off to the Americas and Europe.  The level of dehumanization of the slaves is disgusting, especially in contrast to the life of the slave traffickers. They lived on the premises in enormous rooms full of natural light and beautiful ocean views.  It was quite an experience seeing first hand the actual origins of the slave trade I’ve learned so much about in history classes growing up.
        The bright side of having such a difficult first day was that things could only improve from there. And they did. Tenfold. My next three days were spent in a small village to the northwest about 7 hours called Senase. A group of Semester at Sea kids from the Fall voyage had done the same trip and highly recommended it to our voyage. Basically it was a homestay where we had the opportunity to live in a rural community and get a true look inside the life of a Ghanaian. Our tour guide Fred, grew up in Senase and began his company Can Do Land Tours only a few years ago. He is literally the most selfless and giving person I have ever met. Without a second thought he was willing to lend money and accommodate us in whatever way we needed. His only desire was for us to have a great experience living with and learning about his culture. Apparently, he makes almost no profit off of his tours. He charges just enough to cover transportation and other unavoidable fees and I believe it. We got a lot for our cedi, air-conditioned bus, slave castle tour, meals, lodging, and unforgettable memories. When he’s not giving tours, he’s volunteering at the local schools and I don’t get the sense he’s giving a lot of tours. Ghana isn’t exactly a tourist hot spot. Oh yeah and did I mention he is only 20 years old?! This guy is absolutely my newest role model, right up there with Nelson Mandela and Gabby from my trip to Haiti. The group of SAS kids from last semester were so touched by their experience in Senase that they started a non-profit to improve education in the region. It’s hard not to be touched by the people of Senase. They were all extremely welcoming and so genuine, so unlike the people I had met in urban Takoradi. I have a stack of torn sheets of paper full of various names and addresses from all of my new friends in Ghana. It was amazing how quickly they were able to accept you and then call you a friend.
        We arrived really late on the first day of our three-day tour and left mid-afternoon on our final day so the only full day we had was the second day. It was a ‘full’ day in every sense of the word. We were stuffed with delicious Ghanaian food for breakfast, lunch, and dinner (porridge and bread, cassava and some vegetable and tomato sauce, beans and jollof rice, fried plantains) and even were lucky enough to sample some freshly picked bananas and papau (sp?) during our tour of Fred’s mother’s farm. We were given the chance to visit several local schools and were able to teach a class. My friend Sarah and I taught a class of 6-9 year olds math and English. It was so much fun and the kids were so well behaved. I had a chance to chat with their teacher while they were doing an assignment and learned a lot about the local education system. The public schools are a total joke and completely unreliable. The kids will show up for school everyday and the teachers may not.  As a result, most parents try their best to send their kids to private schools but sometimes the fees force their kids out of school for periods of time until they are able to pay. The teacher pointed around the room at the various empty desks. He said that there were students in those desks that morning until the headmaster came around and sent those students home for not being able to pay tuition. He said most of them will be back but it’s difficult to keep everyone on the same page when there is so much flux in attendance. This explains the reason why 6 year olds are learning the same material in the same classroom as the 9 year olds. It is such a different life in Ghana. After the kids were released from school for the day, many of them followed us home to watch our drumming and dance rehearsal. The next morning we would be performing in front of the entire village. The only problem, we soon found out, is that we had no rhythm whatsoever. Our 6 drummers were really good but our dancers were a mess. All of us were on different feet, missing the change of the drum beats that signaled we were supposed to go from the bend and shuffle move to the spirit fingers side to side move. It was hilarious. At least to us it was. Our director was not happy. He was taking this very seriously. He wouldn’t even let us take water breaks. After two hours of practicing, we got it to a semi-presentable level and called it quits for dinner. Dinner was followed with a night at the club where we danced to hiplife, the Ghanaian music genre that I am absolutely hooked on at the moment. Fred burned us all CD’s of his favorites. Look it up if you get the chance (especially Make it Clap by Westlife). This club had one bathroom and it was built for men only so my friend Gabby and I asked Fred’s friend Jo Kevin if he knew of another bathroom somewhere. 30 minutes later (!!!) we arrived at a public toilet. Apparently, this was the closest toilet with stalls. We still had to squat and go to the bathroom in a hole in the ground flanked by two wooden boards. Though by this point in the trip we were experts at this method. On the way out, a woman cleaning up her little shop introduced herself to Gabby and I and within 2 seconds she had named me her friend and given me a sheet of paper with all of her information on it.
        The next morning we were surprised with another opportunity to visit a school. And then further surprised to find out that we would each be placed in a classroom by ourselves and expected to teach for a half an hour. I was terrified. We all were. What were we supposed to teach for 30 whole minutes? I woke up mentally preparing for our African dance, not a lesson plan. I was put in the Level 3 class full of 13-15 year olds. The moment I entered the classroom, I saw 20 sets of eyes all staring at me waiting for me to do something. I went up to the teacher and asked if she had anything in particular that she wanted me to teach them. She just looked at me like she didn’t understand English. So I clarified. Do you want me to teach math--- Before I could finish, she  abruptly turned to a cupboard nearby and pulled out a math textbook, handed it to me along with a piece of chalk and then settled into the back of the classroom. I scrambled through the pages trying to find an exercise while the class sat in silence staring at me, waiting. I went for something easy, addition and subtraction. As I grew more comfortable and the kids started raising their hands to answer questions and come to the board to solve problems, I kicked it up a notch and taught them how to simplify fractions. My lesson was a little all over the place but I was just glad I was up there making an attempt. I could have just completely froze and neither them nor I would have gotten anything out of that 30 minutes. After talking with my other friends, their teachers were a bit more helpful, providing at least a little bit of guidance as to what to teach. Never would I have imagined I would be teaching in a classroom in Ghana. Twice.
        Never would I have imagined I would be dressed in indigenous African garb, dancing to the beat of drums, in front of 400 villagers. With no chance to refresh our memories on the routine we had practiced the night before, we were thrust into the hot African sun in the middle of the dusty courtyard, our stage. We made it through the first few moves fine. Then the second cycle of moves arrived and everything crumbled. No one was sure what they were doing so they looked to someone else who had no idea what they were doing. The villagers made serious attempts to contain their laughter but it was impossible. I was dying of laughter just performing it. I can’t even imagine how funny it was from the spectator’s view. Our director threw in a few local school girls to try and resurrect the dance and it helped a little bit but we were pretty much a lost cause. We all just started having fun with it. The villagers would clap and cheer when any one of us would finally start getting the move right. We captured this debacle on film and I promise I will post it on facebook when I get a chance. What made this even funnier was our outfits. The boys wore  only shorts, in crazy, bright African patterns. The girls wore knee-length skirts and very revealing bandeau tops. We looked ridiculous especially since some people didn’t remove their t-shirts and instead just tied the bandeau over their shirt. Others kept their sports bras on because the fabric was see-through. Some even wore pants under the skirt. We were the local comedy act for a good 20 minutes. I’m just glad the villagers and elders found it as funny as we did and at least seemed to appreciate the fact that we had tried.
        After the dance, we said our goodbyes and then paid a visit to Fred’s 110-year old grandmother still going strong while our bus was being repaired for our long 7-hour trip back to port. On the way out of Fred’s grandmother’s house, there was a parked car with a Penn State bumper sticker on it. Of all the places I would be visiting, Ghana was the last place I would have imagined to find a Penn State anything. But there it was, back windshield. I got a few shots with it. I happened to be wearing a Penn State T-shirt at the time. It was picture perfect.
        Fast forward through a sleepy ride back to Takoradi with a little Disney karaoke and some successful souvenir shopping mixed in there and we were back at the ship. Home sweet home. Place of toilets that flush, nice warm showers, and plenty of fresh, clean drinking water………….. Or so we thought and dreamed about all 7 hours of our trip only to find out that after THREE days of not washing and tramping through dust and farmland in the sweat-inducing hot African sun, we would have to wait another 8 hours until we would be able to flush a toilet, take a shower, and drink fresh water. It was like one of those cruel jokes except the “just kidding” never came. I slept in my filth for one more night and awoke early the next morning for the best shower of my life.
        The final day was spent at an FDP (Faculty-Directed Practica) on fishing and agriculture in Ghana. FDP’s are required for each of my classes. They are basically field trips while in port led by our professors and a few expert locals. We have to write papers and do presentations on what we’ve learned when we’re back out to sea. For this FDP, we traveled up to Cape Coast and watched fishermen go about their daily business taking a small canoe out to sea, dropping some net, and returning two hours later with some fish. We saw the catch and mixed in among the fish and crabs and sea snake was a lot of trash. Around Ghana, there are no trashcans so people just throw their trash anywhere they please. The beach was covered in it and the ocean is filled with it. We also saw the gender divide. The men take care of the fishing and farming while the women stay at home and process what the men bring back. We witnessed women grinding cassava into powder or something called Garry (Sp?) and frying fish on a huge grill. Most of the villages in Ghana are self-sustaining. They hardly ever make a profit but they almost always break even. Once again, I was reminded of how unnecessary a lot of things in my life are. These Ghanaians possess only what they absolutely need, nothing more, nothing less. Many don’t go hungry and are able to grow or collect most of their food supplies by themselves without spending a single cedi. They lead a very self-sustainable lifestyle. It was a very informative field trip but I was anxious to head back to the city and spend my final hours wandering the market place once more before we pulled out.
As my roommate and I were about 5 minutes into the 20-minute stroll down the pier, two men who worked at the pier offered to drive us to the gates. We hopped in their truck and they ended up taking us to our intended location, the market, free of charge and bypassing the mob of taxi drivers and bracelet sellers. So relieved! And of course we each acquired two new friends and sheets of paper with contact information. The marketplace brought yet another hysterical and memorable moment. I was on a mission to purchase a banana. I had tried one at Fred’s farm and because it was so good, I wanted one more before I left Ghana. Down a really narrow and busy street, a young girl passed by with a tray of yellow bananas balanced on her head. I stopped her and asked how much for one. She said 50 cents. I gave her 50 and she placed one in the bag and then two and then three and then four… until I had about 8 bananas. I was confused but I took the bag anyway and continued through the marketplace. As we were exiting the narrow street, a women pulled me aside, started speaking in Twi, and making peeling motions as if she were peeling a banana. Of course she was referring to my purchase. I told her that I only speak English and she quickly picked up what she was saying in English and asked me what I was going to do with my bananas. Once again, I was confused and I said, now unsure, “I’m going to eat them?” She looked at me, laughed and walked away. How strange. As I continued walking down the street, people kept looking in my bag and making weird faces. Taking a closer look at the bananas I had just bought, they really didn’t look too edible. I decided I wasn’t going to eat them and began the search again for some healthier looking bananas. That must be why everyone’s staring at my bag. They realize I bought rotten bananas. I found some better looking ones on the main street and once again asked how much, making it clear that I only wanted one and that I only had 25 cents to spend. They gave me one but for some reason the woman seemed resistant to do so. I started walking away and began peeling my banana. The outside of the banana looked great. The inside had an orange tinge and when I went to break off a piece to share with my roommate, it was almost too stiff to even break off. Immediately, four different women came at me from all angles, all speaking at once in a mix of English and Twi. A girl suddenly approached with a tray of green, unripened bananas balanced on her head. Then finally someone explained to me that I had purchased plantain and that the green unripened bananas were what I was seeking. Someone snatched the plantain out of my hand, concluding that I obviously wasn’t going to be eating it and I yet again purchased a banana, but this time it was the real thing and exactly what I had been craving, just as sweet and delicious as the one on the farm. How amazingly embarrassing yet extremely hilarious the whole ordeal was, but something I will never forget. Never will I mix up a banana with a plantain ever again. Rookie mistake. Next stop South Africa.