Ghana: Castles and Dungeons and Lovers, oh my!

I was required for my Diaspora: History of Immigration class to go on the castles and dungeons trip. My thoughts were regrettably negative. I had to sell my ticket to go on a trip to waterfalls and Mona monkeys. My only threads of enthusiasm lie in the locations of the castles. Brianna’s friend, Amelie, suggested Cape Coast to be the best and most beautiful part of Ghana. But we have all been learning about the slave trade and slavery throughout our education. We have learned about the slave trade: its affects on ancient economies, the empirical conquests, the spreading of agriculture and religion. In social studies classes we have learned about slavery: the music, literature, and movements that have grown from their indentured cultures, the brave individuals that changed history, their significance in wars, and the cause and effect of their impact on American culture. I felt well versed in a well-rounded education of each aspect of slavery. Slavery lectures or monkeys and waterfalls? It was a long three-hour bus ride west to the dungeons.




Our tour was eye opening. What I did not realize was that the castles were the dungeons. We toured the infamous Cape Coast Castle built by the Swedes in 1653 and Elmina Castle built by the Portuguese in 1482. Each held the governors and military men of the western empires. The bottom level was the holding pen for the slaves. Our guide told us horrific stories of the conditions of the dungeons. He led us through the door of no return where Africans would take their last glimpse of their homeland as they boarded the ship that would take them somewhere in the new world. From the governor’s terrace we stared down at an open plaza. Here all female slaves were to stand on dismay for the governor to choose a bedmate. If they refused they were chained to the ground and kept under the hot sun with no food or water for all to see and learn to obey. We were taken into a room that had no sunlight and one hole of ventilation. Above it was a skull and crossbones. This is where certain slaves were taken and kept until they died a horrible death because they were given no provisions. We were told that sharks would follow the slave ships because they learned that fresh meat was always available when someone died, misbehaved, or was found pregnant due to the dungeon rapes. Ironically in the middle of one of the dungeon courtyards was a church. I found it unbelievable that a community lived within the moat protected castle walls and paid no heed to the humans kept like animals around them. Also, as Katie and I sat on a cannon and looked at the blue water, the tranquil waves, and the ease of the local fishermen coming and going in their handmade boats, it made me sad that such a beautiful place was scarred by it’s history.

 
The cape coast market place was the busiest market I have ever seen. A professor speculated that there were probably hundreds of thousands of people buy and selling and fishing and working in this area. This fishing village provides for much of Southern Ghana so people from all over come here to buy for their community. (This gave me a weird feeling as I remembered the fish being sold at that first market- how far did they travel unrefrigerated? How old were those fish? ) The area was striking. There was so much color: the fishing boats symbolically decorated with different patterns and colors, the flag waving marking different vending areas, and the fabrics worn by everyone there. I desperately wanted to get out and explore. Alas, as the bus continued, I was confined to my imagination wandering down the docks, beaches, talking to different locals, taking it all in.

Meena Gets Anotha Lova  

        Although tired and anticipating an early alarm the next morning, we went out. The phrases “C’mon we are only in ____ once” and “When will we ever get the chance to do ____ in ______ again?” are always in the back of my mind urging me to take advantage of every opportunity and I never regret it. At the Venus Café a hoard of SAS students gathered and intermingled with locals. Meena and I sat at a table that looked like a lacquered tree stump and chatted about our day’s experiences. We were approached by two (of course, friendly) Ghanaians. One noticed my new bracelet and told Meena she should have one. Great, more vendors. He put one of his bracelets on Meena, she refused, but he told her it was a gift. This is Meena’s second gift from a foreign boy. We chatted with them about our plans to head down to the beach for reggae night. We allowed them to buy us Stars. When they became too friendly we made up a story and left. They followed us! We assured them we’d see them at the beach but headed back to the ship. Two free stars and a bracelet for Meena. Success.

Ghana: It's A Small World After All

        We all stood ceremoniously on the decks and watched the ship come into our Ghanaian dock. The first image I had of Ghana was a symbolic image of the culture of the country that I would soon come to understand better. We were porting in Tema, the city closest to the point zero degrees longitude and zero degrees latitude. Tema is an industrial town, its port is mainly used to import infrastructure. Casablanca was also an industrial port- however it was much more organized. From our high view we could see the chaotic activity happening within the port. Everyone on the strip below us waved enthusiastically. Well, everyone besides the unusual amount of guards all carrying automatic rifles. The friendliness of the locals would soon be a staple memory of everyone’s Ghanaian experience.

      I had nothing planned for our first day in Ghana, no plans always means there is adventure to come. A group of San Diego guys and I ventured into Accra to meet up with Charlie's friend who was studying abroad at the University of Legon. We met her outside of Frankie’s a restaurant where we ate something that we called an African Burrito and had the local brew, Star. As we walked away, vendors shouted my name. I had introduced myself to one vendor and now it seemed the whole community knew that the girl in the neon shirt was Kate and she had already bought a bracelet.

        The six of us crammed into a ‘trotro, a van outfitted to hold maybe twelve people that often carried up to twenty five. How this works: the ‘mate’ hangs his head out the window when coming up to a stop and repeatedly calls out the trotro’s destination.  You negotiate a price (usually 30 pents for a 10min drive- this is about 20 cents USD). Then you cram yourself wherever you can and hope you can figure out when to get off. This alone is probably a reason that SAS warned us not to use this form of transportation, if we had not been with someone that was used to this, there is no way we would have gotten on the right trotro, gotten a decent price, or been able to understand the mate calling off destinations. On one of these trotro rides out of the city, I played the ‘do you know..’ game with Kaylie who goes to Santa Clara. Lo and behold, she is one of Emily’s housemates next semester! It is a small world after all.

        We went to a market that was a distance away from the city. The market was busy at 1500 when most locals were going about buying their dinner. Outside the market square there was a dance off to some American music. Once inside it was as if I had stepped into a national geographic documentary. There were storefronts everywhere in no apparent pattern. Kaylie told me that these storefronts were also their homes. That the bench the woman sat on and sold crabs was also her bed. There was a stench of the sea creatures being sold: every sort of fish, dried eel, live crabs, large snails, and pretty much anything from the sea that one could ascertain was also being sold. This was the case for many of the businesses and vendors; there was no limitation of the definition of a good. Some clothing stores sold new African cloth; some sold Salvation Army underwear and shirts. Some children sold beads; others were calling off prices for their rat hanging from a string. We bought pineapple for one cedi (about 80cents) this pineapple was by no exaggeration the most scrumptious piece of fruit I have ever tasted. It seemingly melted in my mouth and emitted sweet flavors, no hint of sourness.

        We split up at one point and had the hardest time reconvening. We powered through the market looking for our lost friends. The locals called us ‘brouneys’ (white people). We looked pretty ridiculous walking around in circles trying to find our way out. I was struck by the reaction of the children to our presence. One boy cried and his mother explained he had never seen our kind. Other kids came up and touched us or wanted a hug. As we traveled around the country we were often looked at in awe. In the United States, we know of different cultures and people because of media, school, and books. This is not the case in Ghana.

      We safely made it back to Accra. Here I met up with another group of SAS students, we went exploring for a place to eat. The group stopped in front of a fast-food type location selling pizza and burgers. I was in the mood for some local food, three of us went exploring. Andy had befriended a local vendor, Albert. We asked him to lead the way to a chop bar. We followed him without question down unlit roads and past huts. Once again, I found myself in a part of town where I would normally lock my windows. Albert took us to a chop bar where Anthony Bourdain ate on his travel channel show, how exciting! Except, to our dismay it was very Westernized and expensive. We decided upon a Chinese restaurant (there were several of these in the area for some reason). Albert joined us for dinner. Through our conversation I learned a lot about his generation in this country. Albert worked selling bracelets on the street in Accra. However, he lived about four hours away. He had graduated high school and loved American rap music. We asked him if he would come to America to study. He said he would love to study at Lincoln University because it is home to W.E.B. Dubois, an American civil rights activist who eventually was naturalized as a Ghanaian citizen in the 1960s. I was impressed.

Andy and Albert

Ghana: Disclaimer

It is hard for me to sit down and write a thoughtful, detailed, insightful excerpt about Ghana. I spent a cumulative of nearly twenty-four hours on bus rides. I am gung-ho about not bringing an iPod off the ship, rather I am partial to the thought that every moment should be taken in with all five senses in order to fully understand a culture. I did bring my journal on the bus, but after the second day I realized that there was not a single road in Ghana that was a smooth ride (i.e. potholes were tended to by throwing stones in them)- any attempt at writing was useless. Therefore these hours were spent inside my own thoughts. Bus rides are a great way to observe a country. A snapshot of a hoard of boys playing soccer in a dirt field is enough to spiral me into thought for a half hour. The panoramic scene of a fish market with hundreds of people selling, thousands buying, and a cluster of men heading back out into the ocean for another net full is a movie that I can replay in my mind for a four hour bus ride home. Thus, my thoughts have been born, processed, analyzed, reprocessed, and written eloquently into a mental blog in my head. Doing things twice bores me. Anyone that knows me knows that I cannot for the life of me tell a story twice. If my bus rides hadn’t been so long and if Ghana wasn’t so interesting, I would’ve written already and these blog pages would be brimming with original thoughts and ideas. The following is my attempt to do the wonderful country of Ghana and her amazing people and raw culture justice.

The 5 Steps

The evening of September 18^th.

Taylor and Meena’s Room.

2000: we are listening to music on my computer and making signs for George before heading up to the talent show.

2015: we are no longer listening to music. I ask Stephen (my friendly neighbor by association) to turn it back on.

2015.5: Stephen cannot turn it back on, the screen is blank.

2016: I restart my computer only to be greeted by a black screen with a blinking image of a file with a question mark.

2018: we turn off the computer after much discussion and head to the talent show.

2345: I am back in my room with my computer; I turn it on to see if it magically works. It does not. No big deal, I’ll figure it out tomorrow. Denial.

The morning of September 19^th.

The IT desk in the computer lab.

1000: “Excuse me; there is a problem with my computer. It flashes signs when I open it and it does nothing else besides that and turn off.” I draw out a cancel sign like the ones you see over Ps on no parking signs. I show him the flashing folder.

1004: The head of IT tells me, “This is not good. This is not good at all.” Oh, really?

1005: Andrew, my friend that works in IT, in told to Google all sorts of codes and key demands.

1010: Head IT tries a bunch of keys. To no avail. I am growing concerned for my computer. I stare at him as he continues to punch in different codes, stretching his fingers in strange ways across the keyboard.

1014: Head IT asks if I brought my Mac start up kit or if I happened to program my external hard drive with a reboot application. No, I did not. I learned how to use my external a few days before I left the country… I learned how to plug it in and to drag pictures over to it. This is ridiculous, why don’t they tell you to do things like that! Anger.

1020: Head IT tells me to go get my charger. I run through the halls to go get life support for my computer.

1023: Head IT tries to force feed my computer a cd-rom. My computer is not responding.

1035: I begin pacing the area around the computers. I talk to everyone I know about anything other than technology. Someone asks me how my two presentations for the following day are coming along... I bolt back to my computer. Head IT is now helping someone else.

1050: “What’s the update doc?” Head IT tells me he’s letting my computer rest before he tries a new strategy. I head back to the lounge to read and research things for my presentations. I pick up my things and begin ferociously underlining, analyzing, noting my articles on Vodafone’s marketing strategy in Ghana. Maybe if I work really hard on my presentations without technology, the computer gods will allow my computer’s life to be spared and I will just have to work hard and pretend like I don’t even need my computer. Bargaining.

1105:  I pull a chair up next to the operating table. I doodle intently on the “Sign Up Here to be Helped” paper. I doodle large swiggles and swirls all over the upcoming days. Swiggle. Check. Swirl. Check. Heart. Check. Swiggle. Stare.

1114: Friends come over to see how things are going at the computer hospital. I have no good news yet.

1115: Head IT listens to my computer’s internal workings. “The hard drive is still spinning” This is good news.

1116: The question mark is flashing again...

1125: I think of all the memories I have stored on my computer, all the good times captured in pictures, all the thoughts poured into documents, all the music that set the tempo, the tone, the mood of all my college days…Depression.

1127: I am still lost in my depressing thoughts when Head IT hits my computer.

1127.2: He hits it again!

1127.5: He slowly puts his ear to the keypad.

1127.8: Head IT looks up at me and sees my look of sheer horror.

1128: He hits it again! My computer flashes the Mac startup image of the stars streaming through the purple and black universe. My computer sees the light.

1128.2: He listens again and looks up at me.

1129: after a long moment, he says in almost a whisper, “it’s gone.”

1130: He flips my computer over and beckons me to come and put my ear down and listen to the failing hard drive. I hear it spinning, clicking, and stopping.

All of the first four stages overcome me at once. That’s not true! You didn’t do everything! I will trade something for the secret of computer resuscitation. Ohhh nooooo…

1132: I thank the doctor for all he has done. I unplug the life support and the dim light of the power flash stops. I take my computer down to my room and lay it on my bed. It is hard to believe that it is now just a piece of plastic.

My morning continues with a series of events that I almost expected. I walked around the ship with a cloud over my head. My laundry still hasn’t come- it has been three days. I try to call home for the first time, no one answers and two minutes from my expensive 13minute ocean phone card are gone. Unfailingly kind Taylor suggests we order a cookie basket. Orders must be placed a full day in advance. More Depression.

This whole situation becomes laughable as I reenact the scene. I call home again and I am so happy to be able to relay the situation with a smile because I am connected to home! A group of us treat ourselves to dinner on the pool deck. We watch the sun setting over the Atlantic. The humidity of the African summer is almost unbearable, we love it. There is ice cream for dessert in the dining rooms, a fantastic surprise.

2245: Taylor, Nick and I go up to starboard deck 7 bow to look at the stars. It is a beautiful clear night. The astronomy professor and his wife are out. He points out the constellation Sagittarius on his map which is secured around his neck and rests on his belly. Because of the new moon stage (by the way this also represent the end of Ramadan, go crazy morocco) of the date, our proximity to the equator, and the clearness of the sky he says tonight’s the perfect night to see this constellation. He uses his laser to point it out in the sky. He says, “That’s the center of our universe.” Whoa. We take it in, straining our necks looking at the Milky Way arching over the boat like a rainbow in the night. 

2315: On the port side, we hang our arms over the railing and watch a thunderstorm release its booming color over the African horizon. We cannot hear anything but we are far enough away that we can see multiple flashes over the distance of the storm.

Life is amazing. Acceptance.

Morocco: 'Exploring the Market', 'Meena Gets a Boyfriend', and 'Another Precarious Situation'

We spent the entire next day wandering through the biggest market in Morocco. Davy, a sas student who leads our morning meditations and preaches 'one love!' from behind is lengthy dreads, skateboarded around us as we made our way to the main square. The locals that this was a strange sight. The market was insanity at it’s finest. The moment we got there Katie got a snake thrown on her, then was hassled for money for touching the snake. I was cursed for getting video of a snake charmer. Farther into the streets of the market, a donkey ran into Meena. I perfected my bartering skills and ended up being able to get most things for 20% of the original price.

A few minutes before we left our riad home, there was a knock on the door. Our landlord said that she came as an interpreter for Mohamed, a local boy. He had fallen in love with the girl in the red shirt earlier in the day. It was Meena! We all had seen him hanging around us on the streets. I guess he had pestered our landlord, Dominique so many times that she believed he was actually in love and agreed to come over and translate. He bought her a pair of sunglasses; he wanted her to join his family for dinner. Meena appreciative of the fact that she now had a 15-year-old Moroccan boyfriend, still had to let him down. She kissed him on the cheek, but he tried to go for more! As we walked out, Mohamed had lined up his friends and they all chatted loudly as we walked past and waved a final goodbye to ‘Read Real.’

Three girls and myself took the late train ride back to Casablanca. No worries, it was serene as a fellow backpacker playing the acoustic guitar serenaded us.

Once we arrived, Meena and I thought we would avoid the pestering taxis by walking a block away and hailing a taxi from there. This attempt to be frugal ended up with us trekking through a ghetto at 2300. Imagine: I am wearing a pink shirt and a pink polo hat with a big backpack and Meena looks equally ridiculous. Please picture us walking down the middle of a street in the bad area of downtown anywhere, we stuck out like a florescent light in a dark hallway! We were thankful when a taxi answered our prayers and took us away from the hoards of shady men that lined the streets eyeing us down

Final Reflections: What I love about Morocco is how everything from the home designs to the markets is designed to allow everyone to be very social. My misconception that women here are discriminated against was burned to the ground. I learned that women choose to wear their traditional attire. I loved my independent experiences and feel like this trip was more of a cultural experience whereas Spain was more of an informative historical tour.

Morocco: Riad Real

Our taxi ride into the heart of Marrakech was a sure foreshadowing of the craziness to come. Moroccans have two-way lined streets. NO ONE CARES ABOUT THE LINES! It is a fast and careful game getting from one place to another. The only rule they abide by is stopping at lights; everything else is a free for all. We took two taxis, both blared Moroccan house music, holding dance-offs between taxis at stop lights, they raced each other weaving in and out of traffic, and we streamed by colorful buildings, souks, and dozens of busy people.

The taxi took us to Dar del Baccho. Following some friendly locals: We walked through the souks, turned under the red brick archway between the leather store and the American snack stand, down the alley past the eclectic collection of doors embedded into the stone wall, turned at the hole-in-the-wall mosque where a legless beggar sat outside and guarded the assortment of worn shoes that had been taken off for prayer. At the end of this alley we read the graffiti ‘REAL’ for real Madrid, the locals favorite futbol team. We affectionately called our home Riad Real (Ree- ahd Ree-ale). Here we found a wooden door with a hand-knocker. Considering the fact that we were essentially in an alley our expectations we low. At the time we ducked through the door our expectations were blown away. We walked into a three-story riad that opened up to the sky. We immediately celebrated on our rooftop terrace that looked out over all of the rooftops with the Atlas Mountains in the background.

Riad Real had a real name, Dar Badra, and was managed by friendly Dominique. I would suggest to anyone to stay here. There were eleven of us, eight stayed in the three story, five bedroom, three bath, retractable roofed villa. The other three of us stayed in a similar smaller apartment directly across the street (one step would take you door-to-door). In the morning, traditional Moroccan breakfast was prepared by Fatima, the housekeeper. I loved the crep’e like food:  a thin airy pancake that we spread jam and honey on, and rolled like a crepe and ate with our hands. It was interesting how resistant Dominique and Fatima were to tips after they were perfectly hospitable.  It cost me less than 20 USD for one night.

That night when we left the riad there were dozens of children in the street. We danced, sang, played futbol, and celebrated who knows what with them. As we made our way out to the street we ran into a friendly American from Boston. Joy came to Morocco in her twenties, fell in love with someone as well as the country and bought a place similar to ours. She let us tour it. I love the open ceilings of the Moroccan homes. It was surreal staring up at the bright stars through this retired hippie’s hideout. She was graceful and helped us bargain for a cheap taxi fare. Add a riad in Marrakech, Morocco to my list of future real estate locations.

Morocco: A random man predicts my future.

Our third day in Morocco, a large group of us departed for Marrakech by train. It was a three-hour ride across the Saharan desert. We rode second-class this time. This meant we rode in unairconditioned car that had separate cabins that I can only describe as similar to the Hogwarts Express. I wandered into Rachel and Katherine’s cabin and saw them playing with a three month old baby. The mother was very kind to let us all play with her baby ‘shaleem’.

There was also an older man in the cabin. Without prompt, he began to tell my future or rather ‘read’ me. Through his broken English, the woman’s knowledge of four languages, and my patience I received his interpretation of me.  He began by saying that I would have two babies within five years. After five years, I would be very prosperous and have my own home. He also read that I was very kind. He said that generations ago my ancestors visited his ancestors in his home village. He said that my ancestors were good people and helped their village; this was uncommon for people of my race. He said that I would travel just like my ancestors. He said that I had parents that had changed their lives so that I would be a good person. He said that if I didn’t have the parents I have that I wouldn’t be who I am, a person ‘who runs deep.’ He said that I will see many things in my life and will change people in different parts of the world. I will do this because I am motivated to make my parents proud because they are good people.
This was an incredibly random but incredible experience. I don’t know if I will have two kids by the time I am twenty-five. I cannot say how much traveling or service I will be able to do. But, I do know that my parents are my role models and have been amazing guides in determination and grace. Right on, Moulhad the innkeeper from Essaouria!