Love Is In the Air

Relationships are carried out by very different rules here. I have been here for one and a half months now, and I have only seen a couple (guy and girl) holding hands in public TWICE. However, guys hold hands with other guys all the time [side note: homosexuality pretty much doesnt exist here. I saw a book in the UNIVERSITY BOOKSTORE about how to do an intervention and cure someone you love who is gay] and the same goes for girls.

I live in Volta Hall, an all-girls dorm (and the ladies of volta, who have bags and bags of both vision and style, are some of the most intense, motivated, well-dressed women I have ever seen in my entire life. No joke, and very intimidating sometimes) that will not let any men be inside from the hours of midnight to eight am. No exceptions, and anyone caught breaking the rules will get beat up by the security guards or the porters, and if you think I am joking, remember what they do to theives. So relationships here are very unlike those in America, where you sometimes find yourself in a relationship with someone before you really even know them, or else you are best friends forever, and then fall into love. Either way, there is a certain physical and emotional freedom that is allowed by our society. It is gauche to make out in public, but it happens all the time. And there is no body of authority figures in place at any university I have ever attended to maintain the virtue of their model female citizens. All of this makes for some very interesting phenomena. Like this:

My roommate Mikaela is pretty much going out with a guy from our program, and they spend tons of time together all the time. All day and sometimes all night. Last night he was leaving our dorm room to go to class at maybe six pm. She followed him out to kiss him goodbye, and one of our Ghanaian neighbors opened her door, saw them kissing, covered her eyes, and fled back into the sanctity of her room. Public afection is aparently a no-no here. (although the re-enactments of this small event went on long into the night) or this one:

In the evenings when I come home from class there are tons of guys hanging around Volta Hall. They lean against the railings, stand outside doors, or promenade around with their girls, sometimes holding hands but more often not. And they are everywhere. Later in the evenings, getting toward midnight, they all drift out of the entrance to Volta Hall, and sit on the steps in front talking to their girls, grabbing those last few precious minutes with them.

Relationships between men and women of my age here tend to follow old-fashioned rules of courtship. And it is quite touching in some ways. But it is still weird to see more guys holding hands with guys than with girls...

Oh, and there is a pretty good sized percentage of the Ghanaian male population that has two wives. Not a majority, but still a good chunk. Two wives.

Epiphanies

this is a quick and dirty adaptation of an email I just sent to Ana...

Remember how I am going to do my special long research project on the relationship between these two forts back in the 1800's? and it involves being in the library all the time? and how the program leader called me into her office and pretty much made me doubt my right to be a historian? (this is to get you caught up on this because I don't know how much I told you) and how I don't have an adviser yet even though we were supposed to like two weeks ago and I have been secretly freaking out in my brain because the leader (Aunty Irene) totally killed my excitement for the project...[GASPBREATHEGASP] well, I totally changed my project, and this is why:

I live in Volta hall, on the third floor, with a bunch of obrunis and a bunch of Ghanaian girls. One of the Ghanaian girls, Reggie, was instrumental in the recovery of our kitten, who had wandered onto the (fifty foot long, shared between all the rooms) balcony and was in danger of a) starving to death or b) getting killed by one of our neighbors, who are mostly cat-hating Ghanaians (they think cats are pretty much literally the spawn of Satan and most don't keep them as pets) or c) general doom. SO Reggie was helping me go door to door and look, and was all nice and kind, and her own pet cat just died about two months ago, so after the whole feline fiasco I invited her back to the room to visit with her new surrogate kitten. and we got to talking about all kinds of things, including church (next day was Sunday) and god and the like. She is Christian, like about 75% of the country, so we were talking about her father's conversion (grandfather was the leader of the warriors of their village, a semi-religious NON CHRISTIAN ritual-requiring position of some authority) and the discussion of magic came about. Also, the discussion of mental illness/insanity. And Reggie told me that if a witch tries to put a curse on you, and you are Christian, you pray to god, and your prayers become arrows that will go straight to the witch's chest and drive them insane. So crazy people who wander along the side of the road begging for money may be witches possessed by the devil, and you have to say a silent prayer over the money (Dear god, please sanctify this 1,000 cedi note and BATHE IT IN THE BLOOD OF JESUS CHRIST) before you give it to them, or you will be possessed or cursed or something too.

Pretty much, Magic Is Real In Ghana. Not in a heehee, wouldn't it be funny if, witches and broomsticks kind of way. Not even diluted by an entire country of disbelief. It is real, present, and powerful, so powerful. I have written papers about 'fetish' worship, syncretism, African religions blending or not blending with Christianity. And to write those papers I had to suspend my disbelief in order to give the 'traditional' religion credence. I never had a problem with that, and by the end of my thesis I actually believed that Beatriz had been possessed by a spirit. Not that it could ever happen to a living person now, but that it had happened to someone at one point in history. But I will no longer have to suspend my disbelief. I have none to suspend. I have been pretty much knocked down and inspired at the same time. My new project is going to look at (surprise) the overlap between traditional religious beliefs/needs and Christianity in southern Ghana. Like everything else I have written about Africa, this ends up being as much about religion as it is history, and as much about me and my own personal faith (on the inside) as it is about the scholarship. What gives me such a personal connection to this continent? I think it has something to do with magic, this other level of awareness that I so badly want to reach, that I think might be missing from my life, and that is REAL, alive, present, accepted here. The undefinable thing that welcomed me to Ghana on every level since I have been here? That makes this the place I need to be even in those moments (all day today, ie) when I feel totally lost and alone? Something on this new level. I still cant feel it all the time, I don't know if I will ever be able to, but it is enough to KNOW it is there...I came to Africa looking for something I couldn't quite name and maybe didn't know I was missing, and I found my faith.

so, pretty much, I am in the right place and on the edge of something so powerful....only I am walking along my path, through the woods and across the desert and over mountains. And maybe its not clear, and I don't know where its going, but I am committed to it now, and nothing is going to make me turn back. Being a historian is part of that, but there is, and always must be a balance between the conscious academic and the subconscious spirit. Ghana is full of un-looked-for surprises, gifts, kindnesses and stories that are all getting folded into my experience of life. Which means I get to take them with me wherever else I go.

One Man's Trash, or How to Punish Thieves

Something I have noticed since I've been here is that there isnt much that is new. Things are used until they are used up, and everything has a utility value. I have been into three bookstores since I have been here, and NONE of them have had very many books. Which makes me sad on some level, because I love books, and I would love for everyone to have access to all the books I love. Not the case. And the books they do have are all used. There are a few (six or eight) new books in the history section at the University Bookstore, which is to the bookstore at santa cruz what Motel Six is to the Ritz. It really feels like what the rest of the world doesnt want gets sent here, through charity chanels or however it gets here. And the thing is that this is how life works here, so it feels right. If I turned a corner in Cape Coast and saw a Borders or even Logos, I would look first for the security guard standing in front making sure the place isnt stolen, and then for the used books, because there is no way there is enough money to support that kind of establishment in Ghana, even in Accra. It makes me think a lot about how we live back home, and the ammount of extra money we have to spend on luxury items. Things are cheaper here, because they have to be, but there also isnt as much to go around. So, while everyone is invited to what there is, people get a little weird about their stuff.

The boys on our program live at Legon Hall, a co-ed residence hall that is close to Volta. They live in Annex A at Legon, which is a six-story rectangular building with a row of rooms on one side, balconies open to the air. The boys live on the fourth floor, mixed in with Ghanaian men, and the water is on there on average one day per week. Last year one of the boys on the program (drunk) decided it would be a great plan to light a fire in the bathroom trashcan, since the lights were out. There is no sprinkler system, no fire alarm, no fire escape, so when someone smelled smoke and called "Fire!" people fled the building any way they could, which included jumping off the fourth floor balcony. When it was discovered a) who set the fire, and b) that it was meant to be a prank, the woman in charge of the program [an AMAZING historian], Aunty Irene, had to come in her car to rescue the boys and take them to live at her house for the remaining (month or so) duration of the program, because the Ghanaians wanted to enforce their own justice, which would probably not have involved cops, trials, academic sanctions, or any of that. It probably would have involved physical violence. But I did not realize what exactly that would ential until the other night, when Michael was over for tea, and he told me a story:

Mornings at Legon hall are ususally as noisy, if not more so, than mornings at Volta. People wake up early here in order to get everything done in their day (things like laundry or cooking, for instance, take about 300% more time here than they do in the states). In addition, Legon has been blessed lately with an early wake-up call from a preacher with a bullhorn who treats them to sermons every day at 5:30 am whether they need saving or not. So there is a generally high ammount of noise starting pretty early in the day. But the morning of our conversation, Mike was awakened by shouts that started on the ground floor or the first floor and got louder. Paul (student guide) shares a room with him and Tristan, and he went out on the balcony and yelled down to see what was up. He came in all excited, pulled on his sandles, and ran downstairs, calling as he did so, "They caught a thief!" Mike and Tristan moved out onto the balcony and looked down on the parkinglot/pavement below. As they watched, they saw heads popping out over balconies all over the building. After a few minutes more of shouting, they saw a group of about ten Legon residents pulling another Ghanaian out of the building and onto the pavement where everyone could see. They surrounded him in a circle, and over the next few minute the circle grew to fifteen, twenty-five, fifty guys, all in a circle surrounding one man.

Some people picked up sticks, and began whacking the guy, whose shirt and shoes had been removed, all over his body. Others took off their belts to join in, and the group kept growing and continued to administer a beating, whaling on the thief, who cowered on the ground. Someone picked up a table, with the obvious intention of dropping it on his head, but was dissuaded. After twenty minutes or so, two campus security guards showed up in a taxi from the campus entrance, and pushed back the circle a little wider. One of them bent down to speak to the thief while the other held back his attackers, and at one point the guard slapped the thief on the head. After parading him around naked for a while, the comotion died down, and when Paul returned to the room, Mike asked him about it. He said that this is a pretty common punishment for thieves caught, and that if he had been caught at Commonwealth Hall (known for the highest academic standards on campus and the high level of partying/shenanigans that goes along with that) he might have been lynched. As in killed. In a place where resources are scarce, and where authorities can not be counted on for whatever reason, and in a place where community is so important, I can see where sins against the community are punished using what ammounts to vigilante justice.

Dont Let it Rain on Your Parade, part 2 (musings on religion and the actual parade!)

After the sacrifice, we gathered ourselves into a loose group and trudged back to our hotel through the drizzle. On the way I asked Desmond about the yellow paste I saw. He told me it was special god-food, made of yams and palm oil. And he also told me a little about the purposes of the ritual. Aparently the bull was killed as a sacrifice to the main god of Cape Coast, who would oversee its distribution to all the lesser gods of villages, families, and clans. The body was dragged off to the palace, where the president would eat the head, and 'everyone' else would get a share. I guess its symbolic, because there is no way a skinny bull could feed a whole African extended family, let alone a city. The street our hotel was on was lined with shops, like every street. One of them was called God Is Good Seamstress and Tailoring, and right next door was God Is Great Shoe Repair. I think Christianity in Ghana has to be a little felxible, because God is Good, God is Great, and I had just watched a ritual that was deeply important for the residents of this city and this region, and, if the turn-out is anything to judge by, the entire country.

That night was Desmond and Elena's birthday celebration, complete with Palm Wine (it tastes awful at first, but has an aftertaste like apple cider. I dont like it much) and music. It was fun, but the crowds and the general stimulus had left me exhausted, so I went to bed early. The next morning was the counterpoint to the sacrifice, the real party part of the festival: a parade. Of course it was raining harder today, and the Senior chiefs did not want to be out in the wet, so they were waiting at the staging area. And most of the parade-goers and chief-followers, drumers, dancers, etc were otherwise occupied watching the Under 17 Soccer World Cup, where Ghana was playing some other country and doing very well. So, of course, no parade could happen until Ghana won (which they did!)

Now, when I think parade, I think cars with minor local dignitaries, the dog-training project dressed as christmas presents, and six-year-old baton twirlers moving down the street throwing candy to a crowd politely seated on the curb watching. Like so much else here, though, the boundary between observer and observed doesnt seem to exist. Consequently, this parade was very different. For one thing, the dignitaries were chiefs of villages carried in palanquins that looked like canoes, draped head to foot in gold cloth, with crowns, pendants, rings of gold, and carrying ceremonial machete swords of office, carved with elaborate designs and edinkra symbols. And, naturally, covered in gold. The average chiefly panaquin, also draped in fabric, is carried on the heads of four men. Behind them comes the umbrella-bearer, who carries a two-inch-thick dowel supporting about 7 yards of heavy cloth in yellow or green with a red skirt. In time to his steps, the music, or some other rhythm, he moves the umbrella up and down, a rainbow silk jellyfish soaring and dancing above the crowd. Behind him are the drums, large and small, also carried on men's heads. The drums are followed by the drummers, who beat out a complicated rhythm, different for each chief, and loud to be heard over the cacophany of other drummers. Behind the drummers are dancers and hangers-on, wearing printed t-shirts with the name of the chief, or just in the color of the chief. And the hangers-on are not just walking. They are shouting, dancing, singing, dashing out of the parade to greet a friend, eat some food, pull someone from the audience into the flow of human beings moving past at a very slow rate. Every fifty feet or so the entire operation grinds to a halt while the chiefs wave their swords or flywhisk animal tails and receive general adoration from the crowd, and his dancers and drummers do their thing. Boys and young men in ill-fitting dresses and bad wigs do rounds in the crowd collecting donations in little boxes from the crowd and dancing and hamming for the audience. And this parade isnt short, either. It goes for almost three miles, with the weight of the chiefs (no light-weights, let me just say) resting squarely on the heads of their villagers.

Most of us ended up behind a chief who was cool enough to have a brass band, complete with drums, trumpets, and trombones, playing jazzy tunes with enthusiastic vocal assistance from the crowd. And the fact that they were marching AND playing wind instruments did not deterr these men from dancing with all of their followers, in the very physical way that everyone dances here. At one point one of the dancers, dressed in very bright colors and a mask and gloves gave me the animal tail flywhisk he had been dancing with, and I got to lead the little section of our parade. Except I didnt know what to do. One of the women dancing next to me showed me, and I danced along for a good ten minutes or so to cheers and laughter ("Look! An obruni trying to dance! And lead the parade! Hahhaha!"). It was a blast. But eventually I got tired and made my way out of the crush of people to the slightly calmer edges and walked along next to the parade for a while. I got separated from everyone else, and the rain got much worse, so I was soaked (and couldnt see, thanks to foggy AND wet glasses), and all by myself. One of the student leaders found me, with an umbrella (he is an angel, by the way), and gave me a corner of his t-shirt to clean my glasses. I headed back to the hotel to change and clean up a little bit (dancing in mud and whatever else for hours in sandles had made my feet absolutly disgusting) before coming back, and I ended up laying down on my bed and waking up hours later. It was without a doubt the best parade I ever hope to be in. I recomend that everyone at one time or another in their lives goes to a festival in africa. And the amazing thing was that it didnt matter that we were obrunis, with no idea of the significance of this ceremony or the required actions. Everyone loved having us there. We were invited, welcomed like always.

The next day, Sunday, was our day to visit Kakum National Part and Preserve, and drive back to Accra. Getting on the bus in the morning was the antithesis of the day before: a parade of tired obrunis, most of whom were ill in some way or another (all day out in the rain, with no water, eating food off the street or not eating at all, and some of them went out at night too, because the whole city was one big block party). I was feeling fine, but that was a rarity. Becky went and bought a bunch of plastic bags and distributed them to those in need, and we began the drive to Kakum, leaving the worst of our ill party behind. When we got to the rainforest preserve, it was, of course, raining, and we had to wait before beginning the hike to the canopy walk because the path was unsafe. When we were finally allowed, we began trudging up the (very very muddy) path to the start of the canopy walk. It was hot and steamy, muddy, and uphill. But when I got out onto the walkway it was incredible. There are I think eight canopy walks in the entire world. This one is a series of eight rope bridges strung between very tall trees and giving a view not just of the trees below but of the entire park for miles around. And while we were up, it was raining. Watching the rain fall and being up so high in the middle of the trees, I understood something about rainforests that no nature program or science class can convey. I dont even know if I can put it into words, but it felt the same as looking out into the ocean does: there is a vastness, and something is very definitly alive, with all the attendent life, death, and strife involved in that process, and yet there is peace because it is happening on a scale I can not really understand, something larger than just me hanging by some ropes from a tree. And there was a circular completeness to being there while the rain fell gently grey all around, dripping from one tree to the next until it reached the ground (which I could not see, up so high in the trees). I felt apart from and yet a part of this really amazing place. Oh, also, it was beautiful.

It was on the bus ride back that I got sick. Everyone else was already ill, but of course I waited until an hour into the bus ride to feel really sick, and then I didnt just have a stomach ache. I had full on intestinal cramps that hurt so badly I wanted to die. My legs were cramping because every muscle in my body was tense because I was in so much pain. Michael said my face was so white he was scared, and that I could not stop moaning and crying, but I dont really remember. I do know that Becky sitting next to me rubbing my back and warning me of upcoming bumps was what kept me from passing out, which would not have been good. I was fully recovered by the next day, but it was without a doubt the longest and worst bus ride of my entire life. I never want to live through that again. Ever.

One more event happened on the way back. About ten minutes away from campus, our bus got stuck in mud. We had to take trotros for the last few legs of the trip. It was at the same time the most amazing and the most miserable trip, but it was worth every moment. I will never stop being surprised by this place, in ways both really good and really bad. And I never want to.

Dont Let it Rain on Your Parade, part 1

It has been a while since I last posted, for various reasons. One of which is that I was sick for a while, from our Cape Coast adventure last weekend. More on that later. Another reason is that I sat down to write this post three times, and every time the power went out in the middle, which wipes all my writing away, of course. The trials and tribulations of living in Ghana. So. This is my adventure from last weekend, in which I return to Cape Coast, meet some chiefs, get wet, get sick, and walk through the top of a rainforest. Probably will be LONG. Oh, and rated R for some violence, death, and blood, but as tasteful as possible.

Cape Coast is a three hour bus ride from the University, through and hour and a half of really bad traffic and an hour and a half of absolute beauty. The last twent minutes is right along the coast, complete with palm trees, surf, quiet beaches, and all the greeners and picturesque villages you could ever want. We (the sixty or so people on my program) made the journey in two buses, which only left an hour late for the trip, surprise surprise. We arrived in Cape Coast at about noon. Let me set the scene: the city's main landmark is the huge eighteenth-century slave castle/fort/palace built by the british, which I explored on my previous journey here. To get to the castle you have to drive through narrow streets lined with little stands, shops, and chop bars painted in bright colors or not painted at all. It was raining off and on, so everything was splattered with orangey-red mud, including vehicles, children, houses, dogs, feet. Behind the shops, climbing up the hills like ivy, are red-brown paths, rendered impassable by the rain, which lead to houses that lean and huddle together, wood slats sodden, and roofs (made of tin, tarps, used umbrellas, or anything that might once have repelled water) dripping. Wet trash, mostly black plastic bags (called rubbers, tee hee hee) and wrappers from sachets of water, sort of oozez along to clog drains and ditches and get tangled around everything. [side note: it is most unpleasent to feel clammy damp used plastic clinging to your ankle. Trust me on this one.] Women still sell things, piles of fruits and veggies stacked hopefully on tables, brightly-wrapped heads bearing loads of rolls, water sachets, fruits, anything saleable. And across the street from the castle is a trade-faire set up for the tourists, selling african jewlery, clothing, food, etc. We went to Cape Coast because the last weekend in August is the Cape Coast festival, which is huge, massive, incredible, and starts on Friday with a sacrifice, which we arrived in time to see.

We disembarked after our busride in front of the Castle, and fought our way through vendors and hawkers and beggars and children to the front gate, entered, and made our way down to the main courtyard. Where we found a brown and white speckled bull tied to one of the rusted canons by his impressive horns, a little white sack of coins tied around his neck, aparently unaware of his fate. We stood around for a minute, some people wearing shocked looks ("How can they kill such a poor, defenseless animal? Is it going to happen here? So barbaric!"). After a while we started walking around, looking out over the castle walls to the ocean, slamming up against the rocks right below us, supporting the very vulnerable-looking fishermen further out on the water. It made me miss Santa Cruz, in a strange way. I realized that almost every day for the past four years I have looked out at the ocean at some time, and then I was away from it, and in Cape Coast I could look again, reach for the horizon, and meet no resistance. The peace and restfulness in that expanse of something is hard for me to describe, but it felt good to be back on the coast, looking out over the water again and just letting my mind drift. Like the ocean, though, it slammed back against the rocks when my stomach started to rumble, and I joined the group of people who were going to explore the trade faire in the hunt for lunch.

When I got back to the castle courtyard, the bull was gone, so I found a group [it is an unspoken rule that obrunis can not go anywhere in groups of less than three or four, and that no group bigger than one can make any sort of decision. You do the math on our efficiency.], and we proceeded to follow in the wake of the sacrifice-to-be, which had been led up a hill, through a square still filled with dancers, drummers, vendors and trash, and on down the main strees of the city (lined with wood and concrete buildings), which still sported the remnants of a small parade. We fell into step behind a chife or some Important Person, who had his own umbrella-bearer (for ceremonial purposes, as I will go into later). He led us to a big teeming crowd all gathered around a shrine. One of our student guides, Paul, was with us, and he made sure we watched our belongings, as this was the biggest weekend for pickpocketing all year long.
The shrine is a wooden enclosure, carved with designs and painted white and black, the colors for celebration and mourning. There is a hut/roof thing over one end, and a very large old tree in the center, which was also draped with white and black cloths. Inside, above, and around the shrine was crowded the entire population of the Cape Coast region or province, all here to witness the show. People sat on the walls and the roof, and loitered around outside, craning necks and sitting on shoulders to get a glimpse of the goings-on within. Every child in Africa was tugging on my sleeve or my skirt or hanging on my arm, trying to get me to lift them up, or maybe just for the novelty of touching an obruni. I was about four people deep, so maybe eight feet away from the wall, and all I could see was a sea of heads. The bull had already been led inside, along with the Important People who would, presumably, be performing the sacrifice, after saying prayers and doing whatever it is they were going to do. I could almost feel the general hum of so many bodies so close together, when all of a sudden there was a moment of silence.

Then the hum started again, a slightly different vibration. The gate opened and let out a handful of old men draped in red cloth, their minion/lackey/attendants bearing umbrellas, drums, and empty schnapps bottles (schnapps is poured here as libations to gods, cheifs, and at important occasions). After the men had left, the crowd pushed forward to get in. I was propelled along on a sea of children, unable to stand up straight. When the horde reached the gates to the shrine, we were caught up in the crowd pushing out, and I was shoved from behind, some stranger's hand on my back and voice in my ear forcing me forward, while children pushed me back as they shoved their way out. I lost my shoe, and almost went down, when one of the old men still inside pulled out a switch and started chasing children away. I was falling forward again, when the very welcome hand of Desmond, anothe student guide, grabbed hold of my shoulder and pulled me inside and under the roof overhang. I had a front row seat for the aftermath.

The tree in the center, draped with cloth, was now also smeared with a yello-orange paste. There were dark spots on the dusty ground where libations had been poured. And there were leaves scattered everywhere, vibrant, shiny green and suprisingly clean in the dirt. Over all of this, the yellow paste, the white and black cloths, the green leaves, the floor of the compound, was a spreading pool of bright red blood coming from the throat of the bull. There was a crowd inside the compoud too, made up of Ghanaian and obruni spectators, children, and the two priests who had performed the ritual. They were a wizened couple, a man and a woman, with lined faces, dressed in long, dusty black robes. On their shaved heads were crowns of dead vegetation, and they held their staffs regally while they posed. If I believed in their gods, I would have been terrified when the woman walked past me, she had that much power. For all that it was full of people, the compound was silent, but not in a shocked 'we have just witnessed an act of cruelty' way. It was more reverent, curious, and not disturbed at all. And over everything hung the smell of blood and damp earth, which didnt seem horrifying or barbaric at all, somehow.