Alas, I have now been in Ghana for over a month (hard to believe), and my blogging has faltered noticeably. I chalk this up to questionable internet connections, the continuing process of mulling over things in my mind and considering new ones rather than jotting down the thoughts immediately, and the odd fact that I actually go to sleep at a relatively normal hour now, thereby drastically cutting down on my work and writing time (which generally took place in the wee hours).
Tonight, however, is different. Tonight is Game 7 of the NBA playoffs, 9pm Eastern Standard Time… aka 1am in Ghana. Thus, Kofi and I are eagerly - though sleepily - awaiting the start of what ought to be an epic battle. While we wait, Kofi has opted to nap, and I have opted to fulfill my blogging duties and denote to any readers that I am, in fact, alive and well.
As you can see, yes, the prodigal son has returned to Accra – two weeks ago, really, I’m just slow in announcing the fact. Upon my greeting him at the airport, he looked at me with a vaguely surprised and bemused look, exclaiming “You look tan…! …and oddly accustomed to Ghana.” Tan I was not (though spending a day exploring the village of Aburi last weekend has helped bring out my farmers’ tan a bit), but how well accustomed I’ve become is up for debate.
If food is any sign of things, I’m proud to say I’ve relatively settled in. Rice porridge or koko for breakfast, banku or kenkey for lunch, jollof or stew or whatever of that sort for dinner (I have not yet tried my hand at fufu), maybe some kelewele for dessert. Bofrot, roasted plantains and kelewele, sugarbread, and fresh mango and pineapple have won me over, hands down - all of which, by the by, you could find pretty much anywhere, if you look hard enough and strike it at the right time (bofrot in the morning, kelewele in the evening, breads and fruits 24/7).
When not exploring Ghanaian culture via food, however, I’ve been busy at the office, editing away the days as I plow through the social studies textbook, childrens’ tales, and a Ghanaian version of a Sweet Valley High sort… or so I’ve been informed, never actually having read the series myself. Meanwhile, Ghanaians continue to stay true to their reputation for friendliness, both in and out of the office, and I’ve received permission to venture out with the sales guys for their next notable outing. Staring at my computer, editing Word documents for hours upon end, can, as one may expect, prove both boring and wearying (especially pending the quality of the writing, which at times ups the ante to a full-blown “horrifying”), but there is the occasional entertainment in the reading, from my coworkers, or in the form of a stroll around the neighborhood.
Meanwhile, the weekends have featured a bit more sight-seeing on the side, though much down-played due to Kofi’s old man hip and knees (thank you, athletic over-exertion via soccer and basketball). On the first weekend of his return, we headed out to the market in Tema, after which we strolled around the Kwame Nkrumah Mausoleum and Memorial Park in Accra and swung by Independence Square on the way home.
The drive to Tema was orchestrated for the very down-to-earth purpose of grocery shopping, centered around a trip to a wholesale store at which patrons leaned into a small window to recite a list of goods (and respective amounts), then stood off to the side awaiting their number, at which time the food had been gathered from the cramped shelves within the building and spontaneously delivered to the bustling larger window. While in the waiting stage, however, my inability to understand the conversation at hand (not being fluent in Twi) inspired a general observing of surroundings, which in turn yielded an intriguing sight of people filing into one mysteriously dark pathway, which sporadically spat people out, as well – some with bags in hand (universal here), some with trays atop their heads, some wielding ungainly wheelbarrows. What was this mysterious opening? The door to Narnia? I had to know.
Turns out it was the passageway to the market, not a magical land of C.S. Lewis creation.
Putting the question to Kofi and his cousin Obed, who joined us and the driver, Atta, on our day’s outing, my intrigue quickly escalated: it was the pathway into the market - and not just stands grouped along the road sides, or the lines of street hawkers temptingly lofting drinks, plantain chips, and phone credit packages into the air. No, this was a no-nonsense market, as was confirmed by the presence of a butcher hacking away at a large slab of meat just as you entered through the darkened pathway.
People, people, people… everywhere there were people. People and smells. The ubiquitous butchers making short work of goat or advertising pig’s feet, perhaps roasted fish, a bowl of live crabs, or shrimp – all of this was well offset by stall upon stall of fruits (the first time I saw agreen orange. Seriously, oranges here are green. Identity crisis.) or cassava and plantains, fabric dealers, trays loaded with candy or breads, a young woman making peanut butter (ground nuts = peanuts, but Ghanaian peanut butter ≠ American peanut butter).
Obed steered us around the market well, which is quite something, as one could easily become disoriented and wander in the cramped, heavily peopled alleyways for any period of time. ...And of course, you’ll have those various encounters of a different sort due to my obroni status, ranging from fascinated children persistently following us through the market to a declaration of undying love to various comments and compliments from any number of people we passed (staring and ogling always assumed part of my being in public).
The Kwame Nkrumah Mausoleum and Park was quite the sight, well assisted by beautiful weather, little of which we’d caught while dodging through the darkened and bustling pathways of the market. A visit to the national park was 2 cedis ($1 = 1.4 cedis) for Ghanaian nationals and 6 for foreigners – after one look at me, the woman at the gate could not be convinced that I was Ghanaian, regardless of Kofi’s attempts – and was very much worth it. The setting was idyllic, the fountains calming, the statue fittingly triumphant, and the museum small but informative.
Brief history lesson: Ghana, previously ruled by chieftancies within tribes such as the Ashantis, was colonized by the British as the “Gold Coast” (a country high in natural resources), celebrated its independence on March 6, 1957, and appointed Dr. Kwame Nkrumah as its first president in 1960. Since then, the country has been swept up in various overthrows of government, particularly in the form of military coups, until the establishment of a democratic constitution in 1992. While there has been relative peace since that time, cries of corruption continue, as does the overbearance of military (which seem ubiquitous and outweigh even the police in terms of influence, able to dodge the law like nothing else) and a culture of bribing.
Still, it is a relatively peaceful and gradually progressing state of affairs, considering things in a comparative light. The people are hardworking and notably hospitable – and loud while they’re at it, in what seems to be a typically Ghanaian, fun-loving kind of way. They may never be on time, but never in a consciously rude manner.
On Sunday, however, Ghanaians threw habit to the wind and insisted upon observing one time: 2pm, kickoff of Ghana’s first match in the World Cup. Decked out in red, yellow, and green, the entire country was in an uproar, and with the first score of the match, I wouldn’t be surprised if the nation-wide cheering was heard all the way in South Africa; there’s no doubt it was by the end of the game as the Black Stars were declared triumphant over the Serbians. Note on the now-controversial vuvuzelas: one particularly excited young Ghanaian felt the need to utilize his as he ran by me in a celebratory lap, and I am convinced that the ulterior motive of those things is to rupture ear drums….. and make as much noise as humanly possible, so it is only fitting for a people that already revel in being loud.
Upcoming: last weekend, which was spent attending a traditional Ghanaian funeral and wandering about the village of Aburi and Aburi Botanical Gardens; once we’re caught up, will have to see how it is that I will be spending this Saturday exploring the Volta Region with two Danish men, both by the name of Lars.
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