Summer 2010 in Ghana

Friday, July 30, 2010

We spent the morning typing up the last few straggler exams, and discovered, to our chagrin, that Reuben and Stella had stayed late the night before, re-formatting all the exams we’d typed.  Despite our protestations and explanations, Mr. Kabutey insisted that our exams were not spacious enough for the children to “relax between questions,” so he had instructed that our extensive work to shorten them be undone.  This was disappointing, but we couldn’t do much about it, so we helped undo all our work from the day before.

After school, Will, Annabel, Kelly and I had decided to head to Kumasi for the weekend (Connie wanted to stay at home and spend more time with the kids).  Kumasi is the business and trade center of Ghana, capital of the Central Ashanti region, and about 3-4 hours bus ride north of Accra.  Kumasi also has the largest open-air market in Ghana, so we were excited for the prospective shopping.  When our cab dropped us off at the bus stop around 2pm, however, we were informed that we would have to wait till morning for a bus to Kumasi, because they had canceled all the ones for the rest of the day.  The lady also told us that the state-owned bus station, a five-minute walk down the road, provided only bus rides to Kumasi, so we might try there. 

When we arrived, the big room was packed with people, some sitting, many standing in a long line that knotted and snaked around the room.  We went up to the ticket counter, and the man told us to get in the line if we wanted to go to Kumasi.  When we asked where the line went and what it was for, the man, as well as all the Ghanaians within earshot of our silly obruni question, laughed heartily.  We finally devined correctly the location of the end of the line, and a sympathetic British man (who had overheard our interaction at the ticket window) came over to explain the situation. “The buses to Kumasi are supposed to come every half-hour,” he explained, “but something’s a bit off, I think, because I’ve been in line now for four hours, and not a bus has come by. The line does not go anywhere, per say, rather you just stand in it till the bus comes, and then everyone rushes to buy tickets, and then you wait again in a separate line outside, hoping enough buses come so that you’ll get to use the ticket that you’ve bought, if you were able to get one in the initial scramble.”  We thanked him, and waited for about a half an hour in the line to nowhere.  We soon realized, however, that even if the bus arrived soon, and we somehow got on it (this was merely to humor ourselves, for the notion was exceedingly implausible), and it somehow arrived in Kumasi without breaking down for any of a number of reasons, we would still not get there till at least 8pm (it was almost 4pm by that time).  Since we would have to leave extremely early on Sunday morning to assure that we were back in time for the 3pm PTA meeting that Mr. Kabutey had told us about, this would mean that we had only one day in Kumasi, and perhaps it was not worth the trip for so short a time.  And anyway, it seemed very unlikely that we would get a bus anytime soon, if at all.

We soon resolved to spend the night on the beach in Accra (in a hotel this time, for a change), and a cab driver brought us to “the Rising Phoenix.”  The Rising Phoenix was a hotel with seven small guest houses perched at the top of a huge, craggy cliff, overlooking the ocean (the beach in Accra is not really accessible for sunbathers). The view was breathtaking, and I imagine it would’ve been priceless in the US, but we managed to secure one of the small guesthouses (with a bed, an extra mattress for Will, and a bathroom!) for only 40 cedis for the night.  The rest of the hotel was a vast, open cabana, with dozens of tables, chairs, and decks made out of what appeared to be a cheaply-painted bamboo with a coconut-grass roof for shade.  The place had live music a few nights a week, and the size of the deck seemed much more appropriate to a large crowd than to the seven small bedrooms in the back.  However, there was no music tonight, and it seemed rather empty.  The menus had both Ghanaian and American offerings, and the luscious delicacies got us all quite excited.  We ordered a vegetable pie, guacamole with pita, hot chocolate and Irish coffee from the extensive menu.  Unfortunately, we were informed by the stout, somewhat odd Dutch proprietor that none of those particular items were available at the moment, so we soon left to get dinner at another restaurant, Osekan, which was a few minutes walk along the cliff. 

As we headed in that direction, we stopped to buy a snack of plantain chips (we prefer the yellow, which are made with unripe plantains, to the brown, which are made with ripe ones).  We also passed a tent with singing coming out of it and an enormous crowd assembled around.  When we managed to peer in, we saw a half-dozen middle-aged women, faces covered with intricate patterns of white paint, chanting loudly.  Each had a purple cloth tied on as a skirt, and nothing on top, and they danced vigorously as they sang.  The other onlookers explained that the women were fetish priests, and we were intrigued that on a street corner in Accra, the performance of their rituals might draw such a large crowd.

Because the path down to the restaurant was invisible from the main road, we were unable to find it at first, and three Ghanaian men eagerly offered to walk us there.  We felt somewhat uncomfortable and did not particularly want their company, but they walked with us for about ten minutes nonetheless, until we arrived at the steps that lead down the edge of the cliff to the restaurant.  Before we descended, their friendly banter changed sharply into demands for us to buy them drinks and give them money.  Annabel flatly refused, and angrily criticized their false generosity.  They immediately called us all “evil racists” who would not be kind, would not be friends, etc.  This was very frustrating, we felt quite uncomfortable, and they were causing a scene, so Will handed them each a cedi or two and bid them leave us in peace.

Dinner was quite pleasant, and Will joked with the men at the table next to us about how many goats they would offer him in order to marry Kelly and Annabel.  In the bathroom, another man approached Will and told him that I “look like I have a kind heart” and asked whether I was his wife.  Will explained that I was not, in fact, married.  Kofi (he later introduced himself) then asked if I were “complicated,” because he liked things to be simple.  Will regretted to say that he could not weigh in on this particular attribute, and concluded the conversation.  After our meal, the waiter approached our table and told me that a man at a nearby table wanted to buy me a drink.  Will pointed out Kofi, who was jumping up and down and waving eagerly.  I ordered the largest beer on the menu, and a few cups, and we all enjoyed it during the 45 minutes while we waited for our check.  Kofi eventually approached the table and introduced himself.  He was shy and bashful, so I resisted telling him that, unfortunately, I was, in fact, quite complicated, as he had feared.  He insisted that we put his number into our phone, and then left.  We soon returned to our hotel, and, since there was no live music, we spent the night quietly reading (how curiously civilized for four Dartmouth students!) and went to bed early.