Continued…
So we finally made it to Benin, the birthplace of voodoo - the country’s national religion. We needed to find a ride to Ouidah, once a capital of the slave trade and the current center of voodoo worship. While we were looking for a car, guess who showed up! None other than the original taxi driver who did/ did not steal our bags. We decided that since he waited for us at the border we could trust him to take us to the town. It took us awhile to find the hotel. It was raining and smelled like gas in the backseat. We drove on a shitty road (not suited for cars, supposedly only motorbikes). Once we made it to the hotel, the cabdriver threw a fit about the price. Wanted 3000 more CFA. He was being irritating and overly dramatic about it. Big confusing mess. Miriam and I were ready to pay him off (What’s $7.50?) but the others were angry and didn’t want to give in. Everyone was yelling – French. English. Twi? The driver refused to reason and refused to take the money we had agreed upon. It was getting late and already dark. Frustrated and tiered Miriam and I sat on the steps of the hotel and watched the others argue. Even the hotel people got involved. The cab driver ended up taking Rebecca’s backpack from the hotel steps and tried to lock it in his car. Everyone was yelling. This was going too far. Miriam gave him the extra money after Matt ripped Rebecca’s bag out of the driver’s hands. He drove away. What a day…
After a midnight swim in the huge ocean front pool, we went to sleep (the worst night of sleep ever – 3 people in a full size bed. I was in the middle. I have never been so hot in my life!) Woke up early. We paid the bill and learned that the only way to town was by motorbike. Ugh. I’ve always been semi afraid of motorcycles (well just the possibility of crashing and burning). We found 3 motor taxi driver - fit 2 people on each bike. One bag on the drivers lap and one on the person in the back. I had to completely disengage my brain in order to get on the back of that bike. Without a helmet. The dirt road was empty but bumpy. It was actually a really great ride. Felt almost like flying. We were dropped off right across the street from the temple de serpents. The voodoo python temple. A kitschy, semi touristy, semi legit place. We were told a bit about the history of the temple and the religion. People who believe in the worshiping of the pythons have scars on their cheeks and foreheads (which looking like fang/ bite marks). People come to the temple to for ceremonies, to pray, and to get baptized. We were lead into the temple - a small circular shaped room filled with over 40 pythons. This was of course, after he draped a huge, slimy, scaly python around my shoulders (I now have much more respect for Brittney Spears). Apparently all the snakes are defanged and not poisonous. It was pretty cool to see all of these snakes in one place. We wondered what they ate… Turns out they are let loose in the town at night to find food for themselves. People who live in the town are paid to bring them back to the temple in the morning. Crazy.
We walked around the small town looking for food. Cool town - Small and quiet. Found the perfect place to have egg sandwiches and pamplemous (grapefruit juice). At this point we realized everyone was beginning to run out of money. We were told there was an atm in Cotonou – second largest city in Benin. The guidebook describes being in Cotonou “like being locked in a car with a chain – smoking speed freak.” We found a cab and told him to take us to hell. It was a long ride, but we met a police officer that said he would sow us where an atm was. Our cab followed him on his motor taxi. Again we had to fight with the driver about prices. Even the police officer demanded a bribe for his “service”. Corruption at its finest.
Next on the agenda: Spend the night at a stilt village. From Cotonou we took 3 motor taxis to Ganeive. Almost got into an accident (several times actually). The motor taxi was insane. Zooming between cars off the pavement. It was what I imagine motocross or off roading to be like. Up mounds of dirt, and back down. We finally reached the end of the road, and were dropped off at the boat loading area. The stilt village at Ganvie houses 27,000 Tofinu people living in bamboo huts built on stilts, several kilometers out on Lake Nokoue. We hired a boat – a wooden dugout canoe-like sailboat with no motor. Two men paddled us out into the middle of the lake and put up a “sail” – a coloful snoopy bed sheet held up by two crossing wooden poles. Slowly but surely we sailed across the lake. The villagers survive mainly by fishing: Piles of dead foliage are left in the water until they decomposes. When the fish come to eat and “fall asleep” the people can collect them. We were also told why the village was built – the Tofinu people fled to the swampy lake region in the 17th century. They fled from the Dahomey slave hunters who were banned by a religious custom from entering into the water. We finally made it to the hotel at nightfall. It was a big, red, expensive, obnoxious floating mass surrounded by modest wooden houses. We had dinner (couscous) on the patio and played cards on the bed under a mosquito net. We got up at 5:30am the next morning and took a canoe tour of the village at sunrise. We even got to see the village market, which was just like any other market accept each seller was on a wooden boat instead of a wooden stall.
We left the stilt village after the tour and found a cab for pretty cheap to take us all the way to Lome (the capital city of Togo). The drive was smooth and shorter than expected. Nothing to worry about, except when we stopped for a fruit breakfast - our driver passed on pineapple for a couple shots of gin. We were dropped back off in “France” aka: le Hotel Galion close to the Ghana – Togo border. We had one last nice lunch and talked about our favorites part of the trip, which was coming to a close. We had no problem leaving Togo, although it took awhile, but we did run into some problems getting back into Ghana.
All the girls were fine - we all had multiple entry visas. The boys on the other hand were not. They had only purchased single entry Ghana visas and hadn’t checked or noticed before we left. The man stamping the visas was a jerk and would not let us through. He said we would have to spend the night in Togo and get another visa at the embassy in the morning (only technically we couldn’t get back into Togo because we had a single entry Togo visa). Earlier I had seen that the officials checking passport stamps were often bribed. I told Rebecca we could go around the building and make a run for it (so to speak). She and I mapped it out – did a test run and told the boys. Worked like a charm. We snuck around the immigration office and walked calmly to the border gate where the officials were checking passports. They saw our US passports and said “Hello America. Yay America. Keep your passports.” And just waved us through. We hurried to the Afloe station – found a trotro that was going to Legon and literally jumped in. We were free! We spent the whole ride back making jokes, talking about the trip and laughing. I guess technically (according to their passports), Kevin and Matt are still in Togo. Well actually they are in “no mans land” (out of Togo but not into Ghana). I guess we could have left them there to fend for themselves, but as Rebecca would say: If you come together, you leave together. It was an awesome trip. Great people. Great memories.
Love from Accra.
Sunday, November 30, 2008
Tuesday, November 25, 2008
Togo Pictures
Beautiful beaches of Togo (just past the border, near Lome)
View of Cathedral from the Grand Marche in Lome
Clay pots in the Friday market in Vogan
In the market
Checking out the Voodoo section... Skulls, Teeth, Skins oh my!Sunday, November 16, 2008
Adventures in Togo and Benin
As usual, a lot has happened since my last post. For one thing, school has ended and finals are beginning. Exactly one month from today I will be on my way back home to California Togo (the country bordering Ghana to the east) and Benin ( to the east of Togo
October 24th …
We (Miriam, Rebecca,
After walking through
We were dropped off at the edge of
The market in Vogan was truly breath taking. I have never seen a market as picturesque. Everything about it was beautiful. The colors, the people. It was so easy going. Crowded but manageable. Somehow it felt safe and calm. Women wearing large brimmed straw hats. No one really even noticed us (the only foreigners). It was as if they were too busy going about their normal activities that they didn’t have time to give us special and generally unwanted attention. There were people selling everything you could ever want (well, need). It was an outdoor market organized into sections – beads, livestock (goats, chickens, etc), fruits and vegetables, clothes, and then we came across the voodoo fetish section… It was like nothing I have ever seen. Live chameleons for luck. Skulls – birds, alligators, monkeys. Skins, bones, teeth, turtle shells. It was right in the middle of everything. Just another part of life in
While we were exploring, we got separated from the boys. We found matt in the voodoo section, but couldn’t find Kevin and unfortunately our phones weren’t working. While walking around searching for the “tall obruni man in a bright pink shirt” we found a man with a bullhorn – preaching the gospel or trying to sell something (I couldn’t understand the French). Somehow Rebecca convinced the man to give her the bullhorn and she began shouting for Kevin. When there was no sign of him, she handed back the bullhorn. As we were about to walk away, the Togolese man decided to help us. He started yelling “Evan! Evan!” We all laughed and joined in trying to enunciate the K in Kevin. Before we knew it the whole market was laughing shouting “Evan! Kevin! Evan!” Man shouted. Needless to say, we finally found him.
After exploring the market, we decided it was time to head on to
The trotro driver helped us find another car to take us into
To be continued…
Love from Accra!
Wednesday, October 29, 2008
Photos! End of Ramadan in nima
Pictures from the festival...
Miriam, Becca, and I. Ready for the festival.
(Yes we are wearing pants and scarves in 90 degree heat! crazy!)
Candidate for the NDC (National Democratic Congress),
John Evans Atta Mills, waves to the crowd
Togo and Benin adventures coming soon!!
Miriam, Becca, and I. Ready for the festival.(Yes we are wearing pants and scarves in 90 degree heat! crazy!)
Breaking of the fast. A day of sharing and eating...
Candidate for the NDC (National Democratic Congress),
John Evans Atta Mills, waves to the crowd
Togo and Benin adventures coming soon!!
Wednesday, October 15, 2008
Eid al-Fitr and the black stars
The past couple of weeks have quietly come and gone. I have been keeping myself busy here in Accra and making trips to other parts of Ghana since class takes up only a small amount of my time.. I have also begun playing the bamboo flute and the Kora (kind of like a guitar made with a calabash gourd). The days are full of mini adventures and at the end of everyday, someone always says, "Man. That was a strange day" so i guess strange has become the norm while living in Legon.
Two weeks ago marked Eid al-Fitr (the end of Ramadan and the fast).
On Tuesday, Rebecca and I went with Miriam to Nima (a predominantly Muslim town in Accra) to celebrate the end of Ramadan with the principal of the school where she is volunteering. Before heading to the street festival, we were invited to his mother's home to have lunch. We sat on a wooden bench in a dirt courtyard surrounded by small cement houses. In one corner of the courtyard was a goat pen constructed from left over scrap wood. An older man was sitting in front of the makeshift gate door, choping up food with a machete. In another corner sat a series of pots, which bubbled over with oils and juices, filling the whole courtyard with delicious smells. We were brought a huge bowl of rice and chicken with 6 spoons and were not allowed to get up until nothing but bones were left.
After walking around Nima a bit, visiting Kofi's family and friends, we walked to the street festival. It was similar to the parade in Cape Coast. The chiefs were carried down the street like royalty. They were raised high in the air and protected from the sun by large red umbrellas. Hundreds of peole filed in after with a sense of organized chaos. In true Ghanaian spirit, all the people were dancing as the followed the drummers down the street.
We also followed the crowd until we reached a big stage that had been set up for the event. I realized that everyone around us was sporting red, green, and black clothing - the colors of the NDC political party. A man whose body was painted like an NDC flag ran up on stage and started dancing. People were cheering. HOw did we get in the middle of a political rally? My initial trepidation was swept away in the excitement. Put in a trance by the chanting - "Youth, power, action". Part of me was completely alert to the fact that a fight could break out at any moment. There has been some election related violence in the northern part of Ghana, which has put the whole country on alert. A man in a pink polo shirt appeared from the sunroof od a black SUV. It took me a second to realize it was none other then the NDC presidential candidate just 10 feet away from me. He waved and smiled. Obviously a bit surprised to see the group of obrunis at the celebration. It was definitely one of the biggest crowds i have ever had to push myself through, almost mob -like. That is until i went to the black star match last Saturday.
The Black stars are the national soccer team. I traveled 5 hours to Takoradi on Saturday morning to watch them play Lesotho in a world cup qualifier. We arrived at the stadium about half an hour before the game was scheduled to begin. We didn't have tickets. We joined the huge crowd at the front of the gate waving money at the men scrambling behind the glass window. Before we could figure out what was going on, we heard someone say "They are finished" (a phrase we here often in Ghana). After hearing the same thing from other fans, security guards, and ticket holders, we were still optimistic. We had managed to buy one ticket off of someone else and were waiting around outside the stadium for some kind of divine intervention. Sure enough, we mwt a man who showed us how to get inside the walls of the stadium through a gate that had been unintentionally left open.
On the other side of the wall, we tried again to get tickets from security, but no luck. Just when we were about to lose all faith, we saw an official take money from a couple of fans. We ran back over to the glass window. About 30 other people running after us. I pushed to the front (thank goodness for my height), shoved the money through the upper slot in the glass. "Mepaakyew. Mepaakyew boss." The men inside the booth were once again scrambling while other fans tried to break open the door (and eventually succeeded). The man took my money and quickly handed me three more tickets. WHOOT WHOOT! What a rush. We were jumping up and down. We bribed the man collecting tickets to let us all go in the same section and somehow were able to find "seats" in the aisle.
We definitely had to fight to keep our pseudo seats on the steps. By the end of the game i was literally sitting in some Ghanaian woman's lap with another mans feet in my face (yes he had taken off his shoes!). People were hanging on the side of the stairwell and sitting on top of the roof. It would have been a really uncomfortable afternoon, but one of our friends had brought a waterbottle full of gin. We took shots everytime there was a shot on goal. So by the end of the first half, it didn;t matter that i was sitting on someone or that someone's coke had spilled on me or that some guys feet were in my face. By the end of the game i had a black star painted on my face, a flag tied around my sholders and a bandanna on my head. We were all having a great time. The whole staduim went wild everytime Ghana scored. jumping up and down. It was great! we won 3 to 0.
I'm travelling through Togo and Benin with some friends next week and then mom and dad will be here the following week.
Pictures to come soon...
Love from Ghana!
Two weeks ago marked Eid al-Fitr (the end of Ramadan and the fast).
On Tuesday, Rebecca and I went with Miriam to Nima (a predominantly Muslim town in Accra) to celebrate the end of Ramadan with the principal of the school where she is volunteering. Before heading to the street festival, we were invited to his mother's home to have lunch. We sat on a wooden bench in a dirt courtyard surrounded by small cement houses. In one corner of the courtyard was a goat pen constructed from left over scrap wood. An older man was sitting in front of the makeshift gate door, choping up food with a machete. In another corner sat a series of pots, which bubbled over with oils and juices, filling the whole courtyard with delicious smells. We were brought a huge bowl of rice and chicken with 6 spoons and were not allowed to get up until nothing but bones were left.
After walking around Nima a bit, visiting Kofi's family and friends, we walked to the street festival. It was similar to the parade in Cape Coast. The chiefs were carried down the street like royalty. They were raised high in the air and protected from the sun by large red umbrellas. Hundreds of peole filed in after with a sense of organized chaos. In true Ghanaian spirit, all the people were dancing as the followed the drummers down the street.
We also followed the crowd until we reached a big stage that had been set up for the event. I realized that everyone around us was sporting red, green, and black clothing - the colors of the NDC political party. A man whose body was painted like an NDC flag ran up on stage and started dancing. People were cheering. HOw did we get in the middle of a political rally? My initial trepidation was swept away in the excitement. Put in a trance by the chanting - "Youth, power, action". Part of me was completely alert to the fact that a fight could break out at any moment. There has been some election related violence in the northern part of Ghana, which has put the whole country on alert. A man in a pink polo shirt appeared from the sunroof od a black SUV. It took me a second to realize it was none other then the NDC presidential candidate just 10 feet away from me. He waved and smiled. Obviously a bit surprised to see the group of obrunis at the celebration. It was definitely one of the biggest crowds i have ever had to push myself through, almost mob -like. That is until i went to the black star match last Saturday.
The Black stars are the national soccer team. I traveled 5 hours to Takoradi on Saturday morning to watch them play Lesotho in a world cup qualifier. We arrived at the stadium about half an hour before the game was scheduled to begin. We didn't have tickets. We joined the huge crowd at the front of the gate waving money at the men scrambling behind the glass window. Before we could figure out what was going on, we heard someone say "They are finished" (a phrase we here often in Ghana). After hearing the same thing from other fans, security guards, and ticket holders, we were still optimistic. We had managed to buy one ticket off of someone else and were waiting around outside the stadium for some kind of divine intervention. Sure enough, we mwt a man who showed us how to get inside the walls of the stadium through a gate that had been unintentionally left open.
On the other side of the wall, we tried again to get tickets from security, but no luck. Just when we were about to lose all faith, we saw an official take money from a couple of fans. We ran back over to the glass window. About 30 other people running after us. I pushed to the front (thank goodness for my height), shoved the money through the upper slot in the glass. "Mepaakyew. Mepaakyew boss." The men inside the booth were once again scrambling while other fans tried to break open the door (and eventually succeeded). The man took my money and quickly handed me three more tickets. WHOOT WHOOT! What a rush. We were jumping up and down. We bribed the man collecting tickets to let us all go in the same section and somehow were able to find "seats" in the aisle.
We definitely had to fight to keep our pseudo seats on the steps. By the end of the game i was literally sitting in some Ghanaian woman's lap with another mans feet in my face (yes he had taken off his shoes!). People were hanging on the side of the stairwell and sitting on top of the roof. It would have been a really uncomfortable afternoon, but one of our friends had brought a waterbottle full of gin. We took shots everytime there was a shot on goal. So by the end of the first half, it didn;t matter that i was sitting on someone or that someone's coke had spilled on me or that some guys feet were in my face. By the end of the game i had a black star painted on my face, a flag tied around my sholders and a bandanna on my head. We were all having a great time. The whole staduim went wild everytime Ghana scored. jumping up and down. It was great! we won 3 to 0.
I'm travelling through Togo and Benin with some friends next week and then mom and dad will be here the following week.
Pictures to come soon...
Love from Ghana!
Friday, September 12, 2008
Cape Coast Festival - Gods, Priests, and Blood
Walking back in an awestruck daze, Rebecca’s high-pitched voice sang from behind me, “You have dirt on your shirt”. I stopped in the middle of the street, my back still turned to her, thinking about what I had just witnessed. The brush of her hand on my back woke me from the solitude of my reflection. The street was crowded with people, but less congested than it had been only a few minutes ago. We walked in the opposite direction of the decapitated bull, which was now being paraded through the town of Cape Coast on a rusting wooden wagon. “It’s not dirt” she said both disgusted and intrigued. “It’s blood”.
We arrived in Cape Coast on Thursday evening. We stayed in the Savoy hotel. The agenda for the night: To watch the fetish priests dance. It was late and I was tiered, but the town was excited – alive. Part of me wanted to fall asleep to the whooshing sound of the ceiling fan, the other part of me craved adventure and experience.
We walked through the streets of cape coast, towards the sea, in the direction of the cape coast castle. A row of ducks following our student leader at a pace no quicker than a slow meander. The streets were lined with people and stands – popcorn. small shops – hair weaves. clothing. cloth. Drinks and biscuits. Music blared. The horns of taxi cabs filled the streets along with the sound children calling out, “Obruni. Obruni” – A greeting that I now answer to on a regular basis. A name that I have taken as part of my own. We finally arrived at the sacred site where the dancing was to take place. It was an alleyway, only slightly wider than the two parallel roads it connected. On the corner was a small enclosed area, 15 by 15 feet, surrounded by a brick wall between five and six feet tall. A single tree stood proudly in the enclosed area, adding a hint of greenery to an otherwise filthy, garbage littered road. As we moved closer, I noticed wooden benches had been set up creating a rectangular pin in the street. Men and women draped in beautiful fabric sat on the benches directly in front of the brick wall. A group of three younger men sat opposite them, tightening the heads of their drums.
A woman dressed in a dark, shiny robe, holding a small bowl moved toward the open area, formed by the benches. She reached into the bowl and began to sprinkle what looked like white sand on the ground in front of us. She moved quickly, with precision, drawing a large ring, which marked the space where the dancing would take place. She painted a second smaller circle directly in the center of the first, indicating the center of the second circle with an X. She sat back down. A tall, muscular man, who had a build more like a roman god than a mere human being, walked to the center holding a glass bottle. He held the bottle high above his head and poured the liquid onto the X drawn on the dirt.
I had just read about this in a book – he was offering alcohol to the ancestors, who are believed to be the intermediaries between the human world and the divine. In African culture, both the Gods and the ancestors are believed to be inside the earth. In the ground. The fetish priests are thought to be possessed by the Gods, presenting themselves in the form of dancing and movement. Once the offering had been made, the dancing begun. One after another, priests and priestesses, danced in a circle, accompanied by the sound of drums. Heel to toe. Heel to toe. The movements were quick and stilted, each person using a stick to direct their bodies. Although claustrophobia and exhaustion caused many of us to leave early, the dancing went on late into the night.
The following day a bull was to be sacrificed in honor of Tabir.
I learned that Ghana has 77 total deities and that each God is assigned to one particular region. Although the powers of the Gods are not limited to that particular geographical area, each region is responsible for celebrating a specific god once of year. The God of Cape Coast is Tabir, the God of protection and a sacrifice must be made for those who have passed away as well as those who will pass away that year.
The bull was tied to the railing of a white washed cement staircase in the courtyard of the castle next to a pile of cannon balls left over from the days of the slave trade. The bull was large but thin, not like the heartily feed bulls I saw in India. It was strange looking at this bull as a sacrifice instead of a holy being. Only two months ago I was in a country where this animal would have been treated with the utmost respect.
A small group of students were invited to go down to the altar, which was located in one of the old cells, previously used to hold prisoners during the slave trade. It was dark and damp – just as I remembered it from our last trip to Cape Coast although this time the smell of blood now filled the room. The altar comprised of four white cement stairs. On the top stair, sat the head of a small goat. Eyes open staring into the distance, past the cave-like entrance. In the corner, two men hunched over the body of the bloody kid. The sound of a machete echoed against the rock walls. I placed a cedi on the bottom step of the altar, along with other offerings. The priest, dressed in unremarkable clothing stood on the step of the alter, a small bowl raised up in the air. He began a series of libations. Unrecognizable words spewed from his lips as he spattered a blessed mixture of alcohol, water and the goat’s blood from his hands onto the altar. Once he had finished the prayers he offered to bless us. I stepped forward and reached out my hands. He poured the liquid into my palms – prayers slipping through my fingers.
The bull was then led from the Cape Coast Castle, to where the fetish priests danced the night before. We waited with the children at the castle entrance. The bull finally came through the gate, led by a young man with a rope around the bulls neck and another in back, controlling a rope tied to the hind legs. The bull was forced into the gated area with the tree and the group of priests and priestesses. Men and women in red and black robes – calm & beautiful. Hundreds of people gathered around, climbing on top of the wall, on top of each other, to catch a glimpse of the sacrifice. One swift downward motion with the machete and the bull was on the ground. I was in the middle of the crowd. Slowly, the mob pushed me to the front (because I’m white and foreign and a woman). The guard at the gate opened the rod iron bars slightly and pulled me through. Into the courtyard. Blood everywhere. A small river on the ground. A priest cleaning the bloody machete in front of me. Men and women dressed in black and red with green wreathes atop their heads. The same picture i painted only 5 years ago, hanging in our living room. I was seeing it come to life.
I don't think it really hit me - how real it all was - until we walked back. Away from the crowd and the bull and the blood. It didn't really hit me until I turned around to see the fibrous red clump of particles resting peacefully on Rebecca's index finger. The "dirt" she had removed from the back of my shirt.
Love from Accra.
We arrived in Cape Coast on Thursday evening. We stayed in the Savoy hotel. The agenda for the night: To watch the fetish priests dance. It was late and I was tiered, but the town was excited – alive. Part of me wanted to fall asleep to the whooshing sound of the ceiling fan, the other part of me craved adventure and experience.
We walked through the streets of cape coast, towards the sea, in the direction of the cape coast castle. A row of ducks following our student leader at a pace no quicker than a slow meander. The streets were lined with people and stands – popcorn. small shops – hair weaves. clothing. cloth. Drinks and biscuits. Music blared. The horns of taxi cabs filled the streets along with the sound children calling out, “Obruni. Obruni” – A greeting that I now answer to on a regular basis. A name that I have taken as part of my own. We finally arrived at the sacred site where the dancing was to take place. It was an alleyway, only slightly wider than the two parallel roads it connected. On the corner was a small enclosed area, 15 by 15 feet, surrounded by a brick wall between five and six feet tall. A single tree stood proudly in the enclosed area, adding a hint of greenery to an otherwise filthy, garbage littered road. As we moved closer, I noticed wooden benches had been set up creating a rectangular pin in the street. Men and women draped in beautiful fabric sat on the benches directly in front of the brick wall. A group of three younger men sat opposite them, tightening the heads of their drums.
A woman dressed in a dark, shiny robe, holding a small bowl moved toward the open area, formed by the benches. She reached into the bowl and began to sprinkle what looked like white sand on the ground in front of us. She moved quickly, with precision, drawing a large ring, which marked the space where the dancing would take place. She painted a second smaller circle directly in the center of the first, indicating the center of the second circle with an X. She sat back down. A tall, muscular man, who had a build more like a roman god than a mere human being, walked to the center holding a glass bottle. He held the bottle high above his head and poured the liquid onto the X drawn on the dirt.
I had just read about this in a book – he was offering alcohol to the ancestors, who are believed to be the intermediaries between the human world and the divine. In African culture, both the Gods and the ancestors are believed to be inside the earth. In the ground. The fetish priests are thought to be possessed by the Gods, presenting themselves in the form of dancing and movement. Once the offering had been made, the dancing begun. One after another, priests and priestesses, danced in a circle, accompanied by the sound of drums. Heel to toe. Heel to toe. The movements were quick and stilted, each person using a stick to direct their bodies. Although claustrophobia and exhaustion caused many of us to leave early, the dancing went on late into the night.
The following day a bull was to be sacrificed in honor of Tabir.
I learned that Ghana has 77 total deities and that each God is assigned to one particular region. Although the powers of the Gods are not limited to that particular geographical area, each region is responsible for celebrating a specific god once of year. The God of Cape Coast is Tabir, the God of protection and a sacrifice must be made for those who have passed away as well as those who will pass away that year.
The bull was tied to the railing of a white washed cement staircase in the courtyard of the castle next to a pile of cannon balls left over from the days of the slave trade. The bull was large but thin, not like the heartily feed bulls I saw in India. It was strange looking at this bull as a sacrifice instead of a holy being. Only two months ago I was in a country where this animal would have been treated with the utmost respect.
A small group of students were invited to go down to the altar, which was located in one of the old cells, previously used to hold prisoners during the slave trade. It was dark and damp – just as I remembered it from our last trip to Cape Coast although this time the smell of blood now filled the room. The altar comprised of four white cement stairs. On the top stair, sat the head of a small goat. Eyes open staring into the distance, past the cave-like entrance. In the corner, two men hunched over the body of the bloody kid. The sound of a machete echoed against the rock walls. I placed a cedi on the bottom step of the altar, along with other offerings. The priest, dressed in unremarkable clothing stood on the step of the alter, a small bowl raised up in the air. He began a series of libations. Unrecognizable words spewed from his lips as he spattered a blessed mixture of alcohol, water and the goat’s blood from his hands onto the altar. Once he had finished the prayers he offered to bless us. I stepped forward and reached out my hands. He poured the liquid into my palms – prayers slipping through my fingers.
The bull was then led from the Cape Coast Castle, to where the fetish priests danced the night before. We waited with the children at the castle entrance. The bull finally came through the gate, led by a young man with a rope around the bulls neck and another in back, controlling a rope tied to the hind legs. The bull was forced into the gated area with the tree and the group of priests and priestesses. Men and women in red and black robes – calm & beautiful. Hundreds of people gathered around, climbing on top of the wall, on top of each other, to catch a glimpse of the sacrifice. One swift downward motion with the machete and the bull was on the ground. I was in the middle of the crowd. Slowly, the mob pushed me to the front (because I’m white and foreign and a woman). The guard at the gate opened the rod iron bars slightly and pulled me through. Into the courtyard. Blood everywhere. A small river on the ground. A priest cleaning the bloody machete in front of me. Men and women dressed in black and red with green wreathes atop their heads. The same picture i painted only 5 years ago, hanging in our living room. I was seeing it come to life.
I don't think it really hit me - how real it all was - until we walked back. Away from the crowd and the bull and the blood. It didn't really hit me until I turned around to see the fibrous red clump of particles resting peacefully on Rebecca's index finger. The "dirt" she had removed from the back of my shirt.
Love from Accra.
Monday, September 1, 2008
First Week of School and an African Sunrise
No, I have not fallen off the face of the planet!! I’m still here. still healthy. still happy. In typical African fashion, so much and relatively very little has happened in the couple of weeks since my last post.
For one thing, school has officially begun! We are entering into our second week of class and I’m still slightly uncertain about which courses I am taking, where they are held, and who is teaching them. I have spent the last two weeks crawling through the web of organized chaos that defines registering for courses at the University of Ghana.
The process requires a map of the campus, 6 passport photographs, and a whole lot of patience. In order to take courses in a particular department (economics, political science, history, etc) you have to physically walk to the department, fill out a form, attach a passport photo and sign your name next to each course title you are interested in taking. Sounds fairly simple, until you realize that you will be taking 6 classes in 4 departments and the course schedules don’t come out in any particular order. It’s kind of like a big scavenger hunt except, you don’t know exactly what you are looking for and aren’t quite sure about the rules.
The first week, I managed to make it to eight classes (missing two others because I couldn’t figure out where the classes were to be held). However, only one of the eight professors showed up. Apparently some were on strike and others felt they needed a longer holiday. I guess it happens every year. I should have known something was up when I began to notice that the only people in my classes were Ghanaian freshman (who, just like at any university, are expected to know nothing about anything) and “Obrunis”, meaning white people in Twi (who know even less).
Slowly however, things are falling into place and my schedule is shaping up to include: Literature of the Black Diaspora, International Conflict & Conflict Resolution, Refugees & International Relations, Colonial Rule and African Response, Twi, and Intro to African Drumming.
In an instant of impulsive insanity, I also agreed to join the cross-country team which means 5:30am runs 5 days a week. Training has only just begun but I have a strong feeling that this time in the morning will be my saving grace. There was a moment this morning during the last quarter mile when I felt invincible, like nothing could touch me. Maybe it was the endorphins, or the realization that I am in Ghana, or the feeling that if I pushed a little further I would be able to go on forever. Whatever the reason, in that moment, I could not imagine being anywhere else in the world missing that beautiful African sunrise.
It was like all of the good energy and happiness from every corner of the earth was wrapped up into a glowing circle peeking from behind a horizon lined with trees.
To steal the words of Mr. Mayer:
You should have seen that sunrise
With your own eyes
It brought me back to life…
Love from Accra!!!
For one thing, school has officially begun! We are entering into our second week of class and I’m still slightly uncertain about which courses I am taking, where they are held, and who is teaching them. I have spent the last two weeks crawling through the web of organized chaos that defines registering for courses at the University of Ghana.
The process requires a map of the campus, 6 passport photographs, and a whole lot of patience. In order to take courses in a particular department (economics, political science, history, etc) you have to physically walk to the department, fill out a form, attach a passport photo and sign your name next to each course title you are interested in taking. Sounds fairly simple, until you realize that you will be taking 6 classes in 4 departments and the course schedules don’t come out in any particular order. It’s kind of like a big scavenger hunt except, you don’t know exactly what you are looking for and aren’t quite sure about the rules.
The first week, I managed to make it to eight classes (missing two others because I couldn’t figure out where the classes were to be held). However, only one of the eight professors showed up. Apparently some were on strike and others felt they needed a longer holiday. I guess it happens every year. I should have known something was up when I began to notice that the only people in my classes were Ghanaian freshman (who, just like at any university, are expected to know nothing about anything) and “Obrunis”, meaning white people in Twi (who know even less).
Slowly however, things are falling into place and my schedule is shaping up to include: Literature of the Black Diaspora, International Conflict & Conflict Resolution, Refugees & International Relations, Colonial Rule and African Response, Twi, and Intro to African Drumming.
In an instant of impulsive insanity, I also agreed to join the cross-country team which means 5:30am runs 5 days a week. Training has only just begun but I have a strong feeling that this time in the morning will be my saving grace. There was a moment this morning during the last quarter mile when I felt invincible, like nothing could touch me. Maybe it was the endorphins, or the realization that I am in Ghana, or the feeling that if I pushed a little further I would be able to go on forever. Whatever the reason, in that moment, I could not imagine being anywhere else in the world missing that beautiful African sunrise.
It was like all of the good energy and happiness from every corner of the earth was wrapped up into a glowing circle peeking from behind a horizon lined with trees.
To steal the words of Mr. Mayer:
You should have seen that sunrise
With your own eyes
It brought me back to life…
Love from Accra!!!
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