Dis Ting Called Ghana

Imagine a beer-loving former Marine turned commercial deep-sea diver, his Lebanese wife, her crutch-wielding polio-afflicted bearded brother, a paint/steel-selling young Indian businessman, and a weight-lifting tattooed Puerto Rican Marine. Ok, have that square in your mind? Well then throw Jillian and I in the mix, some homemade Lebanese mezze, many bottles of wine, and you get our Christmas Eve dinner….in the port city/town of Tema....Ghana… Surreal? Can’t quite wrap your mind around that? Well try picturing a bespectacled American political chief, his nose-ringed Bangladeshi wife, a large red-head Brit – who builds rural dental clinics – and his family, an ice-cream loving large fluffy white dog named Chiquitin, four Sri Lankans and a young blonde from Seattle. Now, once again, throw Jillian and I in the mix, along with some turkey, bread sauce, samosas, double-baked potatoes, stuffing, Christmas pudding, key-lime pie, pumpkin pie, and champagne. And presto! That was our Christmas Day dinner.

Fast forward 8 hours. Boxing Day. The Day of Boxes. The Day when boxes were born…. For whatever reason it is called Boxing Day, boxes did not figure much in our day. “Why?” you ask. For starters, St. Nicholas and his reindeers did not stop at our home. It might be because we lack a chimney. Then again, perhaps our night guard fended off the jovial plump fellow as he attempted to land his reindeers in our front garden… actually, as you can see from below, it was more likely that our night guard Kwesi aka “Dennis”, was making snowmen and igloos in Lapland IN HIS DREAMS! I will rant about him a little later on in this instalment, but let me get back to the dearth of boxes chez Bonnardeauxs.

Well, it could have something to do with the fact that it is the harmattan season here, and so long-distance visibility is severely impaired due to the sand coming down from the Sahara… uhm… which means…. Uhm… that… that the usual southerly migration of wild boxes from the northern Sahel has been interrupted…. Ha, imagine?! [Well, actually, on a train from Jo’burg bound for Bulawayo way back in ‘95, my good friend Rhian once had us all look out the window in order to feast our eyes on a – and I quote – ‘herd of brown envelopes’! Boxes, envelopes… all that’s left is for a flock of stamps…dare I say… a stampede… I digress.] Of course, that wasn’t the reason for the lack of boxes in present day Accra. The reasons, could be, I’m afraid, manifold:

1. The large hawks, vultures, bats, ravens, and other assorted species of bird that circle and criss-cross the skies over the city clogged up the airwaves, impeding Santa from doing his rounds.
2. The harmattan and low visibility in the sky caused Santa’s reindeers to veer off course and land in Cap Vert…
3. Santa was conned by a fraudulent internet scam, thereby giving all the presents to a Ghanaian entrepreneur who assured him that he was starting up an orphanage in northern Ghana, but instead sold the presents and bought himself a one-way ticket to Topeka, Kansas, USA to live the American Dream.
4. The stifling humidity was too much for poor heavyset Santa and his fur-laden reindeers, and so they turned back.
5. Santa was struck by one of the numerous low-flying jet planes that take off from the closer-than-you-ever-want-to-get-to-a-developing-country Kotoka International Airport.

Honestly, planes shake our house to its foundations on a daily basis. And, oooh-weee is it humid over here in the Gold Coast, although I must say; the humidity has loosened its sweaty grip ever so slightly in the last few weeks. But only allowing enough space for the sand-filled harmattan air to take its place. And counter to what one might think, this does not dissuade the birds of prey and other feathery friends from taking to the skies. Nor does it dissuade corrupt activities from taking place. I dare say the season of giving and making merry probably adds to the corruption and fraudulence that is becoming rampant in these parts.

For example, just the other day we heard that as the Christmas season nears, some policemen lend/rent out their uniforms to friends, so that they can put up road blocks and extort money from innocent passers-by and gullible obrunis (white people/foreigners). Somewhat similar to the taxi-drivers lending out their cars to others so that they can earn a quick cedi here or there… More and more ‘legitimate’ police barriers are set up as Christmas nears, and so they are coined ‘Christmas Tolls.’

But, Christmas season or not, fraud and corruption are very much commonplace here; rife, one might say. Ghana is learning very quickly from its semi-neighbour Nigeria. Alas, let me not dwell upon the few negatives that Ghana has to offer, but rather open your eyes to its beauty; its comical nature; its rawness and vibrancy.

Oh, but wait. Boxing Day! It was never about the boxes. Well, not for us at least. Think lounging on the sofa, DVDs, saltine crackers, copious amounts of toilet paper, long sittings on the toilet, dehydration, Imodium, more DVDs… potential salmonella or perhaps giardia…yes, we are at the whim of developing world sanitation. OK, now back to the positives again:

While in Southeast Asia, I was intrigued and baffled by the squatting ability of Thais and Cambodians, not to mention, their ability to balance 32 chickens (and their extended family) on a moped. Well, I have been equally dumbfounded at what Ghanaians are able to carry on their heads! From the standard buckets of water or bottles of palm wine; to the more fragile glass cabinet full of foodstuff and the stack of mirrors; and from the light but v wide Styrofoam with one hundred and six pairs of imitation sunglasses or leaning tower of kapok-filled pillows; to the utterly bizarre including car batteries, wheeled luggage, mens trousers, whole schools of fish…

Whatever you need… however random or bizarre; it is being sold on the roadside in Accra. In the space of two minutes, while stopped at a non-working traffic light in Accra (with buffoon traffic warden making matters worse), you are presented with a literal traffic jam, and the other, the metaphorical jam or choice/predicament/dilemma: which one of the 31 useless items dangled in front of your windshield should you purchase in order to get the hawkers off your back? Perhaps the ice cube trays, or the magic chalk for ant control… how about a soft toilet seat or VCD of Celine Dion Live… perchance you have been looking for a toilet brush or steering wheel cover, a pair of very wide trousers, a surge protector, a cell phone charger, a basketball, football, volleyball; map of Ghana, map of Togo, map of the world, map of Uranus. Well, what better moment than the few seconds (OK, sometimes minutes) you are waiting at a traffic light? How about a 4 kilo hunk of fish? Some green rollerball pens? Blue, red, black ones? A fire extinguisher would come in handy, as would an emergency traffic triangle… recently the Christmas tree lights were a hot selling item.

Which brings me back to Christmas in Africa. Well, Christmas in Accra to be exact. Where else can you go shopping at the Lebanese-owned ‘Koala’ supermarket (let me assure you, there is nothing resembling a koala for thousands of miles), cruise the short aisles passing Africans in red and white bobbled santa hats, listen to ‘Jingle Bells’, by the high-pitched trio of Alvin, Calvin and Theodore – the Chipmunks – bellowing out of the speaker system; see non-descript meats sold next to high priced imported prosciutto and emmental cheese? Where else do you have to hand over bags of cash to pay for three day’s worth of food, and then walk out to find out it is ‘snowing’ (well, at least right at the entrance to Koala… thanks to some contraption on the balcony above) and there is a poor woman toting her ill-fed child on her back, asking for some change by your car? Where else can you drive back from your Christmas dinner and see prostitutes brazenly standing at the street’s edge, “tsss, tsssing” you over to them – more a command, than an invitation – while standing below a huge billboard that poignantly advertises “AIDS KILLS, ACT NOW” which, incidentally is adjacent to the local police station, which in turn is next door to the EU Delegation offices, and across the road from the Togo Embassy, which is on the opposite side of the circle to the British High Commissioner’s Residence? And to think that the average 12-18 or so prostitutes we see in this 400 meter stretch of street late at night is a far cry from what it used to be not long ago! You see, and you thought I had reverted back to naming the bad things about Accra…. that is positive progress (well, positive unless you have a predilection for Ghanaian roulette with AIDS-afflicted buxom Ghanian women…)!

And we have managed to actually get out of Accra too, although way before the Christmas season began, as the traffic and lawlessness on the roads can literally drive you crazy! That said, at the same time, driving on Ghana’s roads can be very entertaining, let me tell you. Not least due to the multitudinous pot holes, cars driving without headlights at night, pedestrians walking on the verge, goats crossing, random police checkpoints, and tro-tros (mini-buses/vans) of all sizes, shapes and different stages of decrepitness. What makes it that much more entertaining is reading the shop names that one passes: ‘It’s a Long Story Auto Shop’, Good God Nail & Hair’, God is King Benz Shop’, ‘Messiah Motors’, ‘God First Fitting Shop’, ‘God is Good Cement & Hardware’, ‘Great Jehovah Auto Parts’, ‘Jesus Parlour’, ‘Don’t Mind Your Wife Chop Bar’, ‘Inshalla Allah Fitting Shop’… you get the picture.

I had the fortune of heading out to the far Western Region, to a little town called Beyin, near the Cote d’Ivoire border. My main goal was to visit a nearby ‘floating village’ in the Ramsar designated wetland of Amanzuri. A two-hundred and twenty-strong community lives on floating houses on a lake which can only be reached by dugout canoe through mangroves and a canal. The village of Nzulezu, was reputed to have been settled by people from Walata, a part of what once was the great Ghana Empire (and is now present day Mali). They were fleeing from their enemies and were guided to this lake by a snail... must have been a really speedy retreat...

Well, that was somewhat embellished, or should I say, codswallop, as actually the village is made
up of stilt shacks, with a main boardwalk, on the edge of a lake. But I did have to get a dugout canoe to get there… Once on the village, it felt as if I were entering a wild-wild-west frontier town that once was booming but now was long forgotten; except in this case, there was no sign of there ever having been a boom… well, perhaps a baby boom, as there were plenty of raggedly dressed and naked children running around. All asking for a pen, which was a refreshing change (but still, many asking for money). All around adults and kids just lay on their sides on the ‘floor’ half naked, either asleep or too weak from malaria to do anything.

As fortune would have it, my visit there coincided with the local annual festival, known as a Kundom (no relation to the latex prophylactic), the Nzwama Paramouncy Kundom to be exact. You see, Ghana still has a semblance of a Kingdom structure in place, mostly known in the outside world by the very strong and wealthy Ashanti Kingdom. There are however nine other kingdoms, with smaller paramouncies, where a chief presides over his underlings. I happened to score myself an audience with the chief of the Nwazama paramouncy at his palace. Ok, so actually he wanted to speak to the people I was with, and I was just a random bystander, cling-on (Calm down Trekkies, I haven’t sprouted a ridge along my forehead and pointy ears…). The chief and his henchman, when I was introduced, laughed heartily at the fact that I came to Ghana to follow my wife! Unheard of, although this is a much more gender balanced society, with a woman always represented in the community meetings, sitting alongside the chief, as was the case here. His okyeame was also present, that is, his spokesman, who you must address rather than speak to the chief directly. Contrary to what you might think, the ‘palace’ I speak of was actually just a pea-green one-storey bungalow, with mosquito-netting for windows. Very modest.

Less modest was the apparel people sported at the actual village square (or rather the open space at the foot of the castle/fortress in the town). There was clothing of all flavour and pomp – 50 Cents t-shirts mingled with ‘God will Shine Upon You’… Barcelona and Brazil star Ronaldinho’s face beaming off the back of one, Cleveland Indians off another, Snoop Dogg off another. There were knock-offs of all kinds, from Nike, Adidas and Reebok to Phat Farm. There were bell bottoms, frayed bottoms, bare bottoms; and of course, beautiful kente cloth of all colours and patterns, blending together in a wonderful kaleidoscope. There were white painted faces, smiley faces, scarred faces; dancing, scooting, sleeping, staring, laughing, selling, and saying hello to the oboroni (Noun: foreigner, usually of the white complexion kind, i.e. me). I spied multiple outies (belly buttons), bow legs, distended stomachs. Kids wrestled in the sand, as the elders watched on, while the chief sat on his stool – his throne nevertheless – with his okyeame at his side holding the staff/sceptre, and a comical looking guard standing watch. And drumming; throughout! From beginning to end, in no particular order, in no particular rhythm; kids, older generation…anyone seemingly smacking away at the drums. The latter were tall, short, homemade, or just bamboo trunks laid on the ground. ANYWAY WORKS! Whistles punctuated the afternoon air. All this while the male elders calmly watch the ‘show’ until, without warning or rhyme or reason, they all get up, preceded by a lady dragging a fabric in front of the chief’s hallowed feet… with a man toting a huge ornate umbrella, spinning his royal tool above the chief’s hallowed wreathed head…and the meek (and still comical) guard pushing errant flippant flip-flops out of his way…. 20 women dressed to the nines shuffled behind him, as they circled agonizingly slow around the drum ‘circle’ (more like a melee of drums, sticks, arms, legs and harmony). And to add more bizarro elements to this otherwise already totally extraordinary

affair, there were duelling makeshift mini brass bands!

It was a veritable homecoming, with kids and young guys seemingly having walked straight out of Jay-Z or G-Unit hip-hop videos, shuffling onto the sand and into the mix. ANYONE GOES! And all this under the shadow of the Apollonia Fort – one of many vestiges of the slave-wracked Gold Coast – in its flaky state of disrepair, awaiting a facelift courtesy of the espresso-swigging Italianos. A small facelift really, considering its size was more befitting of a Lillipudlian landscape…

Speaking of Jay-Z… although we missed seeing him in concert here (tickets were $100 US!), we did however get to meet many noteworthy and eminent Ghanaian singers, songwriters and producers. During the week that we hung out with Serena Williams, Jillian was introduced to a TV personality called Black Coffee… yep, that’s her name. Anyway, Black Coffee organized a private party for Serena (and her entourage including Mrs. Marion Berry, Mama Williams, and two of Serena’s non-tennis playing sisters), including notable Ghanaian stars such as Reggie Rockstone (godfather of ‘hip-life’), Batman Samini (award winning upcoming African star), Black Prophet (Rasta reggae singer), Tiny, etc., etc. Well, since we were invited back stage to see Samini perform, and kicked it with Black Prophet a couple of times, before his big album launch at the Alliance Française here. And more recently, we were invited to Samini’s big invitation-only birthday bash by Samini himself. For all those ladies out there (ok, and men) who go weak at the knees when they see hunky African men with dreads, please sit down if you are standing before seeing what is below these words (I must say, he is definitely a good-looking man, and v humble; and only 25!).

And so we enter the New Year, this year of 2007, with empty bowels, an ever-expanding cell phone contact list, dust in most orifices of our body, jobless (well at least me) and a great contact for getting auto parts for our Nissan Xterra… ah, a bit of a non-sequitir… apologies. Suffice to say, we ended up celebrating the New Year in quite a grand style. We were chilling (or rather convalescing after both having gone five rounds against The Mighty Runs) at a ‘beach house’ in Ada Foah, actually on the banks of the Volta River, about 1.5 kms up from the mouth of the Volta, where it empties its riverine load into the Gulf of Guinea. And at about 10pm at night on New Years Eve, a speedboat appeared out of the darkness, and whisked us off downriver to Subhi’s private island, at the mouth of the estuary. Subhi is a very well-off Lebanese man who owns Nissan and VW franchises all over Ghana, or at least Nissan and VW Autoparts… I didn’t pay enough attention, as the music blaring out of the many huge speakers impaired my hearing, the fireworks and beautiful women impaired my concentration, the fireworks, tiki torches and lanterns impaired my sight, and the free flowing alcohol impaired my judgement. Stunning place, albeit surreal in the middle of all the poverty and ramshackle infrastructure on the mainland. In fairness to Subhi however, he has a community of about 100 people living on his island, in thatched huts. So, what if about a third of those are employed by him, driving his boats, cleaning his pool, sweeping the ever-encroaching sand, removing the algae that collects on the water’s edge, cooking for huge parties, cleaning the huge house, nannying the children… oh, did I mention we have our own gardener… comes twice a week… ha! Different playing fields we and Subhi play on… different orbs we circumnavigate…but for that one night, we were IN with the big boys. We were small minnows swimming with the barracuda, but OH how we flapped our little fins to the Arabic music! And so 2007 begins: with a veritable BANG! Or should I say, an Al’hal BANG!