Sacrificing a Goat and my Patriotism

In my last post I mentioned that Keesha had a worm in her foot. I decided to leave out my worries that I had one too, blaming it on being a hypochondriac. However, after more than a week of itching my big toe, and the obvious migration of a linear lump across the pad, I admitted that I too probably needed to be checked out. The good news is that the little buggers (coetaneous larva migrants) are easily treatable. I’m two days into a four day regime of albendazole 400 mg and the itching is vastly improved. All the locals are flabbergasted by our worm catching abilities. Apparently our feet scream ‘foreigner’ too. In other happier health news—I am now free of my walking cast and down to a small aircast!

We had a great midweek adventure with Doris last week. She grew up in a village near Akwatia and offered to take us to show us around and meet her mom. Though we live in a secluded small town, there are definitely many less accessible really rural villages off the beaten path. I was really interested in getting a chance to learn more about rural life, so Doris’ offer was a great treat! Thursday we wrapped up early at work and headed out. Doris explained that in the last 10 years or so the village has become much more accessible—now tro tros run several times a day from the small tro tro station in Boudua, through and beyond the village of Dwenase (pronounced je-nas-ee). Even at the tro tro station in Boudua my skin color generated comments and lots of grins, the limited obrunies in the area apparently don’t often venture on this route. The tro tro took off in the direction of Kade, turning east not far from Boudua, cutting deep into the rippling hills of dense jungle I described off to the East in an earlier post. The first 20 minutes or so were spent on a smooth road paved for the first time in recent years. Dense elephant grass lined the road, broken only by the occasional footpath, notable only by watchful eyes discerning broken reeds recently parted. Several times passengers signaled the mate to stop when nothing but jungle and elephant grass was visible on the roadside. They would disembark, gather there things, and step confidently through one of the hidden passages. Doris explained that some people live in what she called “cottages” isolated in the jungle, stating that the footpaths usually lead a single home or two well off the road. We came across a few villages, mud and stick homes along side dilapidated cement dwellings, with far fewer roadside vendors than main thoroughfares. On the top of one the rolling ridges running perpendicular to the road, the pavement stopped abruptly and the road narrowed, making it difficult for any opposing vehicle to squeak by. All the while, the beautiful views of the rolling hills of jungles we’ve been admiring from afar came closer and consumed us. We journeyed, past a few bulldozed dirt inlets to the jungle, which Doris explained were private gold mining areas. While Akwatia is known for diamonds, this area to the east is known for gold. The last sizable village before Doris’ had an active little village centre, including a strange entertainment venue created by a pool table awkwardly placed out in the open just a few feet from the road, occupied by a few young men engaged in an intense game. I wonder how that got there…? The dirt path continued on, shared with a number of pedestrians used to trekking without the aid of frequent tro tros.

The first sign of the town of Dwenase is a clinic, large enough for just a few rooms, on the side of the road. It closed a few years ago, and now sits vacant. The dirt road opens into the center of the quiet village, lined by a handful of cement buildings with rusted tin roofs, nestled amongst picturesque fog capped jungle hills. At first glance the place appeared virtually deserted, with a just person or two sitting by the roadside, or carrying loads expertly atop their heads. Doris was beaming at this point. So, excited to show us her home town. The people who were out all greeted her warmly in passing, “Ma Doe!” (short for Mama Doris!). Our first stop in Dwenase was Ma Doe’s mother’s home. From the main dirt boulevard we turned south toward a beautiful view of an imposing peak lush with foliage, down through a washed out alley between wooden and cement shacks to a two room cement structure, with a well worn roof, and small shaded porch. There sat Doris’ 78 year old mother, dressed in an unbelievably white robe, her eyes looking wise, but cloudy, sad, and well-worn. A few other relatives, and Doris’ skinny elderly step-dad, with his toothless grin greeted us from the porch. We said our hellos, exhausted our limited Twi vocabulary, and then tried a short conversation with Doris’ mom, translated through Doris. Her mom knows some English, and Doris playfully tried to get her to rack her brain for phrases, but frankly I don’t think she felt up to it. She’s not been feeling well, and keeps telling Doris it is her time. It was an honor to meet her—I can’t imagine the life she’s led. We returned to the house again just before leaving the town and took Doris’ picture with the available family and her mom at Doris’ request. Now I just need to find a spot to get it printed for her!

After meeting the family, Doris was determined to track down one of our study participants that we had had a follow-up interview with over the phone the day before. Doris had mentioned to her that we were coming to the village and would try to stop by to check in. As there are no road signs (or footpath signs for that matter) or addresses, the way to find people is to ask locals. Doris wandered into the mission housing, and asked a pretty young women if she knew where we could find this woman. She said she did, and dropped what she was doing to take us there. We walked a little further down the road, then cut off across a footpath, winding through banana trees, deep off the road, behind and through a number of small well maintained clearing with little huts, down into a valley, finally stopping at a row of three huts, connected by full cloth lines, separated by a large cast iron caldron. The woman approached the door, and called the participants name, and vola!, out she came. As far as villages go, this one is considered relatively accessible, but in that moment I was thoroughly impressed that this woman had delivered at St. Dominic’s. She and Doris exchanged pleasantries, and Doris asked to see the baby. She was a little hesitant to bring her out, but did so briefly. Doris later explained that the traditional belief is that the baby must stay in the house for the first week of their life, which is a little funny since the baby was born at St. Dominic’s and had already obviously been out of the house to get home. But, that aside, the belief has been adjusted to account for hospital births, but still remains that once home the child must stay indoors for the first seven days, until the naming ceremony occurs.

Upon leaving the women, Doris decided we needed to find a truly rural Ghanaian treat- palm wine. She inquired with the neighbors, and soon lead us into a nearby yard. Doris introduced us to an elderly scrappy looking gentleman, with stubs for teeth, no shirt, lean well defined muscles, and pants many sizes too big held on with a rope belt. He greeted us warmly, and was happy to oblige my many questions about the wooden bowl with a pointed base he was chiseling out of a large piece of tree trunk. Through Doris’ translation he explained that it was used in gold mining, going through the motions of how one might sift through handfuls of dirt diluted by water using the bowl. Doris used the yard as a mini-teaching station, showing us the reed cooking hut, the clay mortor and pestle, the pots used for boiling palm oil, and finally a cocoa tree. Ripe cocoa fruit, hung directly on the trunk of the bushy trees, looking like large yellow avocados. One was plucked, and a machete was used to hack it open. I must confess that the inside looked decidedly un-tasty. The inside of a cocoa looks like a giant white larva, slimy and segmented in the shape of a grenade. Sections the size of gumballs divide off, and are considered a succulent treat. I wasn’t warned that I should simply suck on the fruit, and instead crunched into it, easily breaking open the bitter cocoa seed inside, turning my mouth purple, and giving our hosts a good laugh. When done correctly sucking on the slimy treat gives off a taste similar to a mango, leaving you with an almond sized cocoa seed to spit out. At one point Ghana was one of the world’s leading cocoa producers. It is still a popular crop, explaining why Cadbury has an office in central Accra.

After finishing off the cocoa, we were led around the back of the hut where another shirtless elderly man was hard at work hacking away at a downed thick trunked palm tree with a machete. Again, he grinned ear to ear and happily told us about his work through Doris. He was working to clear away the bark and expose the wood of the tree high up on the trunk. He explained that once the bark was cleared a tool like an ice pick was used to hollow a rectangular notch several inches wide and deep into the wood, exposing sticky yellow sap. Another tool is then used to pound a smaller hole in the center of the notch all the way through to the other side of the tree. An empty jug is placed under the hole. Given the wide trunk and root system exposed at the lower end of the trunk, the upper shaft of the tree is angled toward the ground, employing gravity to drain the sap out of the palm into the waiting jug. According to Antoe (the palm wine preparing old man) an average tree gives about 4 gallons of wine. Our gracious host, excitedly pulled a jug out from under a nearby tree, after exposing the smelly yellow sap hole to show us the finished product. Someone ran to get a little bit of mesh, and fresh palm wine, straight from the palm was poured out of the jug, through the wide mesh fabric, into a bowl, which was proudly served to us. This is real rural Ghana! We took a few swigs of the cloudy yellow substance that tasted a bit like very fermented pineapple (aburbay in Twi!) juice. The two older men beamed, offered me a job making palm wine, and in the true spirit of Ghana asked to marry us. Doris laughing all the while to the point of tears at the hilarity of the whole scene. A gold connoisseur and a wine maker- one could do worse eh?!

Our tour continued. We collected a large empty white snail shell from the many shells scattered on the forest floor for Keesha’s shell collection much to the continued amusement of Doris, then ventured through more winding paths to say hello to more of Doris’ friends and family. In some of the yards a mossy green grass was growing, bright, and short, making it seem that we were walking on Astroturf or a golf course. We were gifted more cocoa fruit, by the endless acquaintances of Doris. And came across a Ghanaian little person (is that the correct term?) carrying a full bucket of plantans atop her head. Doris greeted her warmly and said she had delivered all of the women’s three children, one of which ended up being our taxi driver on the way home. Doris is the bomb.

As if the day could get better, we wandered back toward the center of the village and happened upon recess at the school yard. A stampede of kids came running toward me pointing, waving and yelling. They were overjoyed and amazed to see an obrunie in their village! The scene was unreal. Doris again laughing, me approaching the kids like an alien pledging that I come in piece. I said hello and then was mobbed by this excited throng of screaming children all wanting to shake my hand and touch my skin, jumping up and down, wanting to pose for photographs, partying like this was the coolest thing to happen in Dwenase since bag water. When school let out a little while later and we had finished walking around, I felt like I was leading a parade, all the school kids in their blue uniforms mobbed me again and walked all the way through town with us, jumping into pictures whenever we tried to snap a shot, all the while were all laughing so hard we can barely walk, and the kids are having just as much fun. When we’d walked far enough for the crowd to thin, Doris doled out candies, further fueling the excitement. During our stay we’d acquired gifts including a large stalk of plantans, a jug of palm oil, and the cocoas, which kids proudly carried for us through the street. They pressed up against the glass of the taxi and ran behind us waving goodbye, capping off our truly rural experience in Dwenase.

Friday afternoon I set out on my next adventure, my first solo trek in Ghana. Keesha decided to stay home for the weekend, while I went into Accra to drop off some paperwork, and then head out on a day trip with Ella and Nicole. At this point I’m fairly comfortable with getting back and forth to Accra, and know the basic lay out of the city, so I wasn’t too worried about going it alone. I found tro tros without a problem, and was quickly on the road. Unfortunately, none of our trips to the city ever seem to go without mishap. This time a ways into the trip our tro tro hit a large goat while going full speed. The tro tro was passing a car going through a village, and the goat trotted out from in front of the car as we came around to pass it. I was sitting in the front sit, as we mowed the poor guy over sending him tumbling and very much dead directly underneath our speeding van. The passengers got riled up, making lots of the frustrating clucking noises that are so popular here, as the driver slowed, peered in the rear-view mirror helplessly and then continued. Just before reaching Accra we got stuck in an hour long traffic jam off cars trying to mud-bog through the mudhole of a construction zone flooded with rainy season rains, but without hitting any other innocent goats, we made it to Accra.

The afternoon was a bit of a mess—me trying to find a copy place through countless misdirection by people on the street, resulting in several marriage proposals, and more than a few “I love you’s” from the less than helpful male vendors. Keesha and I have to renew our visas after 60 days (which is coming up quick) so I needed some copies for that, as well as to fax information to the safari we booked in Kenya (more adventures to come!). I ended up finding the place after deciding to go along with a conversation with a helpful male, in trade for being led to the copy place. Just before we got there he pulled the classic Ghanaian line of best used immediately after meeting someone briefly on the street: “I will never forget you, you are so wonderful, can I have your number?” to which I replied that I was married. By the time I made it back to the tro tro station it was getting dark, my plan had been to take a tro tro to the station near where Kofi was staying to drop off the paperwork, but my plan was foiled when I reached the area where that particular tro tro should be and instead found a line 50 people long waiting for the next van. I waited in the growing darkness and drizzle for 20 minutes before springing for a cab. I ended up having to call Kofi twice to direct the cab driver who, though nice enough, knew his way around Accra about as well as I do.

Exhausted from a day of work and an afternoon of being perpetually turned around, I crashed at the hostel in preparation for an early morning with Nicole and Ella. We left at 6 AM, bought street food at Kaneshie market for breakfast (including a push cart with Nescafe!), and were then on the road to Tema. After bumper to bumper traffic out of Accra , we arrived in Tema (the home of Katie, Megan and Ajab), found amazingly clean porta-potties for 20 pesewas a pee, and hopped the next bus to Ada. Since Nicole and Ella had been before, I had the luxury of kicking back and following their lead on directions.

Outside of Tema the crowded feel of Accra fades away quickly, giving way to scrub brush type lands-- green grasslands with scattered shrubbery covering the fairly flat topography. Much of the roadside is hand tilled farm land, with the occasional small herd of long horned cattle being shepherded along the roadside by a boy on foot. A few old bikes were parked by the roadsides, as there presumed owners, broke their back hoeing the long crooked rows of plants. One of the most popular crops, at least in terms of the roadside stands, were delicious looking watermelons.

After an hour or two we reached Ada. Ada sits on a peninsula at the mouth of the River Volta, where it opens into the Atlantic Ocean—one side of the peninsula is washed by the ocean and the other by the river. The tro tro dropped us at the last stop, an empty tro tro station in the village of Ada-Foa. Honestly, without Ella and Nicole I wouldn’t have had a clue what to do next, as there is were no other tro tros or water in site. The next task turned out to be bartering for a boat. The actual peninsula continues for another mile or two. In order to get down-shore where the beaches are, one needs the help of a local boat. The boat driver we found wandering in the tro tro station marched us through a mud hut village and market, through a few back yards, to a little beach where a handful of kids were washing their clothes in the river. He told us to wait for his return with a paddle boat, but instead allowed ourselves to be easily coaxed onto a sturdy motor boat offering the same fare. The drivers mentioned a nearby sugar cane rum factory (?) and crocodiles, but we stayed the course to the beach in the interest of time. The river’s width as it nears the ocean makes it appear more like a turbulent lake, but the opposite shore line appeared thick with palms, and picturesque from afar. The beach on the river’s edge was beautiful, as were the tall palms that shade the wooden huts topped with dried palm fronds. Our boat sped past a number of docked fishing boats with the same construction and colorful paint jobs we’ve seen before at Kokrobite and Elmina. Along the shorelines children romped mostly naked, people bathed with ample suds, clothes were scrubbed, goats romped freely and fishing nets were hauled in and repaired. The shore had a number of inlets, creating little almost-lakes on the peninsula, fed by the river, erecting natural barriers between clusters of huts on the shore. In stark contrast, the huts also shared the coast with a few mini-mansions, with drive in boat garages and covered gazebos over the river.

The boat dropped us at Maranatha Beach Camp on the river side of the peninsula. The camp consists of a few tables and chairs shaded by palm roofs, 20 or so one room cabins made of woven reed walls and palm roofs, with wooden doors painted in honor of a variety of national flags, and a bathroom constructed with the same woven siding, no roof, and a hole in the sand covered with a toilet seat. At this point on the peninsula, the ocean side is essentially a desert of sand and the peninsula is only wide enough to take about 5 minutes to walk from the river across the sand to the ocean. After some much needed food, we spent the remainder of the afternoon walking from the camp around the tip of the peninsula, and back down the ocean side. Thankfully there was a strong breeze, which kept me cool enough to prevent me from being tempting into the shistomiasis laden river water. Instead, we walked along the beautiful river side beach barefoot collecting thick, heavy shells in a variety of shapes and sizes, and scaring the speedy sand colored crabs back and forth across the beach as we walked. Ella found sea glass that made her day, and Nicole happened upon a sizable handsome cowie shell that she was pretty stoked on. The tip of the peninsula narrowed to a pointed strip of sand, washed over with the rough clash of the river current trying to flow out in to the ocean, while strong ocean waves tried to roll inward. The result was a criss-cross of waves with impressive surges. Continuing down the ocean side the strong pull of the tide and crash of the waves has created shear sand cliffs that stretched well above our heads as we walked on the beach below. My aircast and I tested the strength limitations of them by standing on the upper edge, and were rewarded by an avalanche of sand below us, leaving me with more than a little sand in my swimsuit, but no other injuries to report. Unfortunately, the ocean side of this otherwise gorgeous spot was pretty depressing. From the tip of the peninsula onward, the coast was thick with trash. Even the waves rolling in were visibly caked in plastic bags and scraps. Midway down the beach some kids a ways up in the sand started yelling obrunie and waving, all while still squatting in a row relieving themselves in the middle of the coverless beach.

We returned to Maranatha, soaked up a bit more sun, and then headed back to the mainland on a strict timeline to avoid missing the big football match that evening. Our boat driver dropped us off several beaches too early and then turned to a random passenger disembarking and asked him to drive us up the road. It ended up being an incredibly lucky incident. The man was a Ghanaian engineer, and his passenger was a family friend from North Carolina, here in Ghana to visit family. Once we were in the truck and the driver found out where we were headed he insisted on driving us all the way to Tema, where the pair were headed. Thus we lucked out on an incredibly cushy, free, air-conditioned ride in a nice new truck, complete with thoroughly entertaining commentary about Ghanaian life from the well-traveled driver. We made it back to Accra in record time, and were settled in at home long before the game started, despite a lengthy thwarted attempt to eat at an essentially non-existent beach side vegetarian restaurant billed by the guide book as a popular back-packers lodge and eatery. What we actually found was a rundown house hidden behind a crumbling old school yard, where several children introduced us to their high-as-a-kit maybe father who informed us that his ex-pat wife who apparently runs (ran?) the place was out.

Instead we settled in to watch the game with the Accra hostel staple, rice and chicken from His Place. For those who aren’t following the world cup, Ghana is the last African team left in the running. Saturday night Ghana went head to head with the United States, in a single elimination round. Though I’m not a sports watching fanatic by any stretch of the imagination, it was a great game. I surrendered my patriotism and rooted whole heartedly for Ghana—football is such a big deal here, and the World Cup is after all on African soil for the first time! Plus, the longer Ghana is in it the more we get to experience Ghana all hopped up on football frenzy! The game went into overtime (2-2), and was then clinched by a goal from “the hope of Africa”. Though we were in the hostel for the game, every time Ghana scored, and for an hour after the game you could hear the entire city, scattered around TVs and radios absolutely roar, in thundering jubilation.

And that my friends is the latest!
Love from Ghana! (And Go Black Stars!)