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.
Subscribe to:
Post Comments (Atom)
No comments:
Post a Comment