The Orphanage and 'Two White Men at a Ghanian Funeral'

As promised, I will describe the orphanage.

The grounds are enclosed by an outer wall, maybe six feet high. Inside, three cinderblock and cement buildings make up the compound.

Here is a quick description of the building. I tried to insert a picture to help, but it will not work. Sorry.

The Main House: Everyone lives in this building. The first floor is shared by the children and Mama and a common sitting area doubles as Mama's sowing room as well as a TV lounge. The second floor is reserved for volunteers. Doors line the long corridor and one bathroom is shared by all. Josh and I have taken his old room, Room 1, which has a double bed (Josh's) and a bunk bed (I took the bottom). At the top of the staircase a sitting area is filled by a long table, two cushioned chairs, a small shelf filled with old games and school materials and, finally, a bookshelf with a small collection of donated books. This is where we take our meals and come to relax every evening.

The Kitchen: Self explanatory, I would think. Although, I guess it is very different than any kitchen I've seen back home. The room is bare except for a sink, a camping-style cooking range, and a large cauldron-style cooking pot. Definitely not the full kitchen one would think is required in order to feed 30-odd people on a daily basis.

The Dining Hall: A small doorway separates the kitchen and dining hall and much like the previous room there isn't much to look at. A long, wooden table with bench seats is where the children take all of their meals. After dinner, when all of the plates have been washed under the spouts of one of the large water tanks on the premises, this room becomes a study hall. The children bring out their schoolbooks and we help them finish any homework they may have for the night.

Cheeney's Room: Cheeney is the oldest one here, having just graduated from high school not even one week ago, and therefore, gets her own room away from everyone else. If I had to describe her in one word I think I would choose “grown-up.” She appears older than her age, mostly because she has the attitude and whit or a twenty-odd year old women. More to come later.

Although I haven't used the outdoor shower yet, Josh has whenever the water decides to stop running (which is often).

By this point the children's very distinct personalities are no longer a mystery to me. I could probably spend a whole blog post describing each but that would take me into next year, at least. So, I think what I will do is describe individuals when certain events, injuries and accidents occur. More to come, I promise.

THE FUNERAL

Josh and I had decided to visit Doctor, the man who runs one of the local private hospital, called St. Patrick's. Doctor is an older man, maybe in his very late fifties or very early sixties. He wears thick glasses which make his already large eyes appear even larger and at times he mumbles, making it hard for me to follow along in conversations. We sat around and spoke about the clinic, about the Cuban doctors that had left the clinic on very short notice (some tension here), and finally, after two beers Doctor stood up and announced that we should get going if we were going to make it the funeral on time. Josh and I just looked at one another, a little shocked at the pseudo-invitation, but we both silently concluded: I guess we are going to a funeral...

A few weeks before leaving for Ghana there was an article in the New York Times about Ghanian funerals. With a large diaspora living in NYC it seems that they have become quiet popular weekend events in the city. The more I read the less funeral-like the events sounded. On average, the funeral is the most expensive “purchase” in a Ghanian's life – or, afterlife. More is spent on the elaborate, handmade caskets than the cost of a car. Last year in Kpando, one man's family had a brand new house constructed just for the funeral and guests included Nigerian movie stars. You see, death is celebrated on a scale we reserve for weddings and graduation parties.

The funeral we attended was in honor of one of Doctor's former patients, a woman, who had recently passed away. By the time we arrived the funeral had already been in full swing for three days. Two large tents overflowed with guests, some eating, some dancing in a large circle to the rhythm of drumming, and some just talking. Our party was led to a patio and a table and chairs appeared out of a back room. It seemed that Doctor was a 'guest of honor' because not long after we sat down bottles of expensive whisky and gin were brought to our table and drinks were poured. Then, one by one, the family members came over and shook our hands, starting with Doctor, and some words were exchanged.

If I had to describe the atmosphere, I would liken it to a graduation party back in the States. Purely and and simply, it was just one big party. Very anti-funeral... All around people were laughing and dancing and most of the women were dressed in matching, bright yellow and red dresses. I just sat there and took it all it.

As we left, Doctor told us to come by the clinic the following day. There was a surgery scheduled and he promised it would be very interesting...and it was...

STAY TUNED.

Kumasi and Meeting the Children

[If you prefer to read the 'Meeting the Children' part first skip below – it's more tear-at-your-heartstrings...,]

From Cape Coast Josh and I travelled to Kumasi, the capitol of the Ashanti Region and the second largest city in the country. Kumasi reminded me of a less congested, more relaxed Accra. Traffic was manageable, the streets were less crowded and the smell coming out of the drains was not nearly as strong.

Josh suggested that we stay at the Guestline Lodge because he has spent a night there last year and said it would be inexpensive. Now, remember what I said about expectations... After hearing the suggestion I checked out the Lodge in our Brant Ghana guidebook and the description painted a interesting picture:

This backpacker-oriented lodge attracts plenty of travelers but receives mixed feedback, with the broad consensus being that it is very friendly but the rooms could be cleaner & seem poor value at the asking price...

Perfect!

Upon check-in we were greeted by a nice Indian man, whom we assumed was the hotel owner. We made small talk and were surprised to find out that he was actually born and raised in Kumasi – a fact stated on his passport, which he insisted we examined.

Our room turned out to be as advertised: not too clean. The paint on the walls, which I assume used to be white, was now a grayish-brown color and there was a thick layer of dust and dead bug on everything. And the bathroom! The sink swayed every time we turned the faucet on and off, so much so that we thought it may fall off the wall. At first we couldn't find our toilet seat, but we soon realized it had been left in the 'under the sink' position and in order to turn on the shower you had to stick your hand into the wall and turn a release valve on the pipe. Like I said...perfect [Note: I am not being sarcastic.]

We had dinner at Vic Baboo's Cafe, a small, diner-style restaurant also owned by the same family who owns Guestline. The menu very diverse – Ghanian, Indian, pizza and hamburgers – which came in handy the following night because we were both craving a hamburger. I know, I know... I travelled all the way to Ghana and I chose to eat a hamburger. Well, I've eaten rice or some combination of grains and plantains every night since, so let me have it.

After dinner, things at the Lodge took a turn for the epic... Josh and I were sitting on the bed, both reading. From out of nowhere we heard a HUGE CRASH! I mean HUGE! Immediately I looked out the window, thinking that something had fallen off of the building into the street below. Josh, on the other hand went straight for our bathroom.

“It's our sink...it fell!”

He was right. Our sink lay shattered in hundreds of pieces on the bathroom floor. Epic!

We had to re-tell the story a few times before the manager seemed to understand that our sink was no more. She said she would send someone up to take a look and she would notify the owner when he came in first thing in the morning. We thought this was odd since the Indian man we met when we checked in was standing right there... As it turned out, he was not the owner. He is family and just lives at the Lodge. Oh well, a few minutes later our sink was swept up and we were back to reading.

The following day Josh and I went down to the front desk to find that the owner would not be in until later on so we decided to find breakfast. Not far from our lodge, we found a little coffee house that advertised “American-style” coffee so we tried it out. It was definitely better than Nescafe – the instant coffee we've been living on – but a few levels below the “American-style” we are used to!

After breakfast we decided to visit the Armed Forces museum. The museum is located in the center of town, inside an old British fort modeled after the Cape Coast Castle. Exhibits showcased wars and conflicts fought in Northern Africa – sabers from WWI, guns from WWII, flags and uniforms, documents. I thought the most interesting exhibit was the one donated by the United Nations. Over the last few decades Ghanaian soldiers have been a part of the peacekeeping force deployed to war torn African countries and some of the artifacts brought back were both disturbing but very interesting. One weapon in particular, the “Head Basher,” stopped both Josh and I cold. The “Head Basher” is a heavy club, about two feet in length, carved out of wood. Rusty three inch nails stick out of the head of the club making it quiet obvious how the weapon got both it's name and its reputation for being one of the most brutal weapons used during the Rwandan conflict.

As I'm sure I don't have the required amount of audience interest locked-in at this point to give an adequate history of the Ashanti people (Ghanians of this region) and their King please visit this site to learn more: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Ashanti_people. Briefly, the Ashanti's have a rich history, famed for their large collection of gold and for their continued defiance of the British colonial rule. Their most famous possession is the Kings Stool which is made out of solid gold. During the colonial rule, the British tried unsuccessfully to capture the stool in order to showcase their total control over the Ashanti people. When the Brits demanded it be handed over the Ashantis' made a fake while hiding the real one in the mountains. Great, right? A few decades after the Brits had pulled out of the region one room at the fort remained sealed. This room, filled with holding cells, had been where the Ashanti Queen had been held before she was transferred to Cape Coast. The room remained sealed because the Brits had left a sign which hinted that there may be a bomb set to detonate if the room was opened. In the 90's, with the help of the bomb squad, the room was unsealed without incident. Inside they found gold, the King's gold that had been seized during colonial rule. Imagine that...a room full of gold.

Seeing as I'm running out of room and still have so much to say I will start to be more brief.

After leaving the fort Josh and I walked around the outer rim of the Kejetia Market, the largest open air market in Western Africa. The word 'market' does not do it justice, it's a city! I was instantly reminded of the pictures I have seen of the Favellas outside of Rio – tin roofs covering what seemed like miles upon miles of space. Even on the periphery the volume of people was amazing. As we were pushed into the stream of shoppers and vendors, open spaces disappeared. Every person walked shoulder to shoulder. A few times Josh and I became separated and I was sure I would not find him.

The last event worth mentioning is that I ate fufu and grasscutter stew (please see picture of grasscutter: www.jovanafarms.com/ pic/Fish%2002.jpg). All I want to say about grass cutter is that it does taste exactly how it looks...

When we got back to the Lodge our Indian friend from earlier was there and obviously intoxicated. At first this was very amusing, but when we tried explaining why we had still not paid for the night – our missing sink – his slurred interjections just confused the new manager. It got very awkward very fast. The manager didn't understand why we wanted a discount, our Indian friend said something unintelligible, we said it was our lack of sink...and around and around we went. After

a few minutes our friend disappeared into the back office, telling us he would explain our situation to the owner. FAIL! The owner came out a few minutes later, shook our hands and asked us to please explain what was going on. We did. He didn't want to give us a discount. So, around and around we went...

Finally, after we couldn't get a discount he agreed to put us in a new, cheaper room. We went upstairs to collect our things and halfway through the manager came up and said we could stay in our room for our asking price. I think the owner finally realized that by putting us in a new room he would be left with a room he couldn't rent. The better buisiness decision was to just leave us there, sinkless, and rent the other to some future paying costumer.

Josh spent all night sick – bad food – so, we decided to skip our 4 a.m. direct bus and take a detour through Accra. Twelve hour later...we finally made it to Kpando.

[Meeting the Children starts here]

The orphanage is located a short walk down a newly constructed dirt road. The closer we came the faster Josh walked, excited to finally be back. We turned onto a long driveway, front gate in sight. Fifty-yards, forty... “JOSHUA,” a young girl called from our right. The distance and darkness made it hard to make out any facial features, but Josh knew exactly who it was. They exchanged a quick hello and Josh asked about a baby.

“Yes, she had the baby and named it Joshua.”

I wish I would have had my video camera rolling, to capture the confused look on Josh's face.

“After me?”

“Yes.”

He looked at me and smiled and I stated the obvious: “You have a namesake!”

Thinking back, this was the perfect introduction this part of Josh's life – the orphanage, Kpando and the Children. I finally got it. For me, this may be a trip to a new place, but for Josh this was a homecoming.

As soon as we cleared the gate screams filled the air: “BROTHER JOSHUA, BROTHER JOSHUA, BROTHER JOSHUA...” Before I knew it twenty children – ages 3 to 16 – completely swallowed Josh in hugs. As an outsider looking in I was floored by this reception. He had been gone for six months. Six long months. And he had been missed.

With the kids out of the way, Mama was next. Mama Esi is the woman in charge and she looks the part – every bit the motherly figure with a loud 'Santa Clause' laugh. We both received big hugs from Mama. As soon as she let us go we were shepherded upstairs and shown our room, Josh's old room, and fed for the first time all day.

I've gone on long enough. In the next entry I will describe the orphanage, but for now I will just leave you with this flash forward of sorts: We've been living here for the better part of two weeks (yes I'm a little behind in my posts) and I'm feeling more at home every day. 

Part Two: Slavery

“What do you mean the bus left? We had a reservation for 3:30...”

Our 3:30 bus to Cape Coast had left the station at 2:30. It didn't matter that we had made a reservation online and even printed off the receipt. The bus was gone, long gone. As the next bus to Cape Coast wasn't leaving until the following day at 2:30 we were left stranded in Accra.

We hailed a cab and asked to be taken to Osu, a busy commercial district in central Accra. There we found a restaurant and began to strategize. Two beers and a chicken shawarma wrap later we had it all figured out. A Wayne State study abroad group was flying into Accra later in the day and we knew that they would be traveling to Cape Coast the the same night. We knew the faculty and were sure they would take pity on us.

The Catch: A third party, ProWorld, was technically in charge of the groups transportation and we weren't sure if they would allow us to hitch-a-ride.

The Plan: Find the ProWorld staff member, befriend them, plead our case, get on the bus.

Long story short, we succeeded. Four hours later we were in Cape Coast. [Bonus: we also got a free room for the night!]

The next day Josh and I woke up early, ate breakfast and caught a taxi to the Cape Coast Slave Castle. As soon as we stepped out of our taxi we were surrounded by the many sellers of touristy trinkets. I am sure some of you are shaking your heads right now because you know exactly what I mean: the very crafty, very persistent salesmen and women who will stop at nothing to sell you a homemade necklace or shell-bracelet because, naturally, those trinkets will always remind you of the wonderful time you had...

After some effort on our part we finally managed to make it within the Castle's tall, fortified walls. We payed a small fee, and with time to kill before our tour, we headed for the museum. The museum reminded me of the African American Museum in Detroit, with each room showcasing a different era in history starting with the regional history (pre-slave trade) and ending with present day, post-independence, Ghanaian cultural.

12:30, time for the tour.

The first room we visited was the Condemned Cell. It was here that the men who resisted or fought back were locked up and left to die. The room seemed carved out of one large stone and I immediately felt as if I had become a prisoner in Dumas' The Count of Monte Cristo, like I was stepping into Dante's cell. With the door closed behind us the room began to shrink from its 20 ft. by 20 ft. diameter until, finally, I had to fight to breath. The smell. The smell will always linger in my memory – a combination or urine, feces and dead bodies. I can't say it wasn't my mind filling in the smell of this rooms history – men so tightly packed that even the dead remained standing – but whatever the cause, I could smell all these things. I could smell death.

Back in the courtyard I could finally breath again. I took in the sea air in gulps as walked to next room, a large assembly hall. A long, rectangular room, this was where the slaves would be presented to prospective buyers. Another long hallway lead us to the main administrative offices and the apartment of the Governor. The Governors Office was made to seem larger because all of the furniture had been removed. Hardwood floors creaked underfoot as we walked through the room and large windows, thrown open, let in the suns rays and the fresh sea air. The Governors Apartment was more modest than I would have imagined and not as well preserved as the rest of the fort, which seemed ironically appropriate.

The Governor's Waiting Room opened up into the southern-most castle wall. Rusty cannons remained pointed at the sea, protecting us from the waves as they attempted to crash through. Stairs led us down into the main courtyard where we were left standing in front of the Men's Dungeon. The door was wide enough that six people could pass easily through at one time. A small stone ramp seemed to extend endlessly into the darkness of the cavern below and the same smell from Condemned Cell seemed to follow me as I stepped very cautiously down the uneven path. At the bottom there were three rooms, each no larger than 30ft. by 30 ft. but capable of holding 200 men each. I wish that I could capture what it felt like to stand in these rooms. Images play across your mind – men chained to the wall, the dead pushed into the gutters filled with human waste, the living left to wonder what would follow. Words just seem inappropriate to describe this large, dark, empty space. As we began to walk toward the second room I noticed a small hole in the upper corner, emitting one ray of sunlight into the cell. An ironic symbol of freedom in this prison.

The saddest moment in the tour occurred while we were standing in the second room. Here, the tour guide informed us that not even 20 feet overhead was the floor an Anglican Church. What disgusting irony. A mere 20 feet and a stone ceiling separated 200 men – human beings – from the Sunday churchgoers. Just imagine the scene: Gospel hymns being sung, Bible verses being read just loudly enough to drown out the groans of the starving and sick men below. I guess piety has a color. White.

A small door, now blocked, leads into a tunnel which runs through the inside of the forts outer wall and stops before a large wooden door: the Door of No Return. As the door opens you are immediately swallowed by light. It was like a movie. Like the scene when a person is dying and the screen is black except for the small light somewhere in the distance. As I stepped over the threshold I tried to imagine what must have been going through the minds of those men and women, taking these same steps so many years ago. How did they feel? Were they pulling back? Did they understand what was happening? I don't know. I can never know. I'm not sure how to feel about that.

Stepping through the door was like entering another world. My feet sunk into soft sand and fishing boats, painted in bright, vivid colors, dotted the the coastline. Old men, shirtless and wrinkled like dried fruit, sat in the shade of the outer wall repairing their fishing nets. It was almost comical. It was beautiful – a beautiful juxtaposition. Had this place served a different purpose it would have been one of the most beautiful places I had ever visited. But it was a slave castle. No, it is a slave castle. Just as the smell still lingers it's history can never be erased.

A new sign has been posted on the outside of the Door of No Return. It reads: The Door of Return. The symbolism is inescapably powerful – an entrance into a place where there are only exits. For decades the direct decedents of those men and women who passed through this very door have been able to return, to do what was impossible those many years ago: return home.

The tour ended in front of the Men's Dungeon, where we were left to read the following plaque:

IN EVERLASTING MEMORY

Of the anguish of our ancestors

May those who died rest in peace

May those who return find their roots

May humanity never again perpetuate

Such injustice against humanity

We. The living. Vow to uphold this

As I read these words again and again, through the watery lens forming in my eyes, I couldn't help but think: Often times, as far as we've come, we forget the lessons learned from our past.

Airport Security and Southern Hospitality

Hello all,

Today marks my eleventh day in Ghana.

In eleven days I have traveled to three different cities, attended my first Ghanian funeral, observed one surgery (perifomosis + circumcision), visited four schools, washed my clothes by hand (twice), discuss politics and religion [together, in the same conversation] with a African Traditionalist, showered using a bucket, and got offered an honorary position as a Village Chief (ceremony pending).

Those of you who know me are probably worried this will be a very long entry. You are right. However, since I would like people to actually read what follows, I will break this entry down into parts.

PART ONE: AIRPORT SECURITY AND SOUTHERN HOSPITALITY

Let me start at the beginning: For the first time in my life I was flagged by TSA as I moved through security. The agent, a women in her fifties, pulled my bag off of rollers, took my water bottle in her hand and shook it, smiled and asked me if there was liquid inside. Maybe?... I guess I had forgotten to empty the water bottle the night before and now I was a tough position: throw out my favorite water bottle, or, go back out past the security checkpoint, pour out the water and start all over? I'm curious...what would you have done? It's a stupid bottle, right? Not worth going all the way through a second time, possibly missing my flight, right? Wrong. As I was escorted out of the security area I unscrewed the lid to my bottle and drank the remaining water and walked straight to the back of the line.

I was lucky. Very lucky. Flint Bishop Airport should make a commercial starring me: Flint Bishop...you can arrive 1 hour before your international flight, go through security multiple times and still make it to your gate...

Two more layovers, 20 hours and one Bailey's (don't judge, everyone was drinking it) later we landed in Ghana. Airport security on the Ghanian side was much more thorough. All the important questions were asked, like: Do you have any drugs or firearms? No? Great, enjoy your stay!

As soon as we exited the terminal three different taxi drivers swarmed us. Josh, being a veteran, just kept walking because he knew we would find a much better price farther away from the terminal. The air was thick, raindrops had started to fall, yet the air was still hotter than I had been expecting. My pack became heavier as we continued to walk and I started to sweat, really sweat, sweat like I hadn't in the very many cold months preceding this very moment. We finally found a taxi driver that agreed to our asking price: 6 Ghana cedes (exchange rate: 1 USD = 1.5 GCD).

Let me digress for a moment. It is my belief that all travelers, especially those traveling to a foreign country, land with two things: luggage and expectations. I mean think about it, what do we do before we travel? We visit the CDC website to check that we are up to date on our vaccines; we order the updated Frommers travel guide...we do our research. Case in point: When I landed in Zimbabwe two years ago I expected the worse. Just a few months before Zimbabwe had made international headlines when their national elections turned violent. The government had split power between two parties, inflation was the worst in the world and there was no food on grocery store shelves. I expected the worse.

Flash forward two years to this trip, Ghana, where I landed with a very different set of expectations. Ghana is hailed by the western world as Africa's great success story. Ghana has been a nation of firsts: free and fair elections followed by the first peaceful exchange of political power, a young, flourishing democratic state, economic stability marked by expansion in the market and in foreign investment. In 2009, President Obama chose to visit Ghana on his tour of the world in order to praise their success. A metaphorical pat on the back, to be compared with the success stories we see come out of Detroit: have you heard of [insert name of business, student, non-profit, community organizer, etc]? Yes, they are doing so well. And look where they grew up...What an inspiration...More people should follow their example. So, what were my expectations? Not the 'City of Gold', but one or two levels below, at least...

Our five mile trip took us roughly 40 minutes, which was great because it gave me plenty of time to take in my new surroundings. Immediately I began to compare Accra to Harare – the architecture, the walls, the government buildings, the traffic. Just as I had been shocked when I found Harare was not the war-zone I had been expecting, but rather a city with large boulevards shaded by massive trees, and very friendly people; I was equally shocked to find that Accra was crowded, fast paced and less colorful than I had imagined. The air was thick, mostly due to the partially combusted petrol spewing from the very old Asian-made taxis. Everything seemed used, in the 'Salvation Army-sense' of the word – things I would still buy, but that showed they had lived through some 'stuff'... The roads we travelled were all one lane, some extending half a lane either way for motorcycles, and traffic was endlessly stagnant. Thankfully, large traffic circles – one example in many of something useful the U.S. has not adopted – help to move cars around busy intersections and into the less crowded secondary and tertiary roads. Once out of downtown traffic, Ghana started to look more like the Africa I had previously known: narrow side roads, houses surrounded by high walls, Embassy compounds and red soil. However, the one major difference were the gutters. The gutters are dug down one or two feet on either side of all roads and inside most public properties and are only covered at driveways or places where people and/or cars need to cross. In a big city like Accra, the smell – a mixture of decaying trash and urine – becomes apparent even to those suffering a moderate cold. Luckily, outside the main city center or market areas the smell does not linger.

We finally pulled up to the Jones' (name changed for their privacy) house. Passing through their gate was like passing through a portal into another world. Their yard was neatly cut, palms and other tropical plants dotted the walkways and an above ground pool, barely visible behind the back corner of the house, looked like an oasis in the morning heat. The inside of the house was reminiscent of most homes in the U.S. The kitchen was large with a dinner table substituting as a center island, large dining and living rooms, satellite TV and high speed internet. What more could you ask for.

Both Mr. and Mrs. Jones were at work, so Josh and I were left in the very capable hands of their daughter, Sarah (name also changed). We had grand plans for the day. Go into Accra, visit the market and eat at this restaurant Josh had wanted to try from his previous trip. We failed. Instead, we showered, sat down on the very comfortable living room sofa's and proceeded to nap on-and-off for most of the day. It must have been a funny sight: Josh and I would be in mid-conversation discussing our plans for the day and one of us would just fall right asleep. I guess the 20+ hours we spent traveling served as a great tranquilizer. Good start to our trip!

Just like the house had seemed very out of place to me when we first arrived, meeting the owners just solidified my belief that I hadn't actually travelled to Africa at all – the Jones' are from the South, the southern part of the U.S. that is. And so they have very distinct accents and an even more distinct sense of hospitality. All of us, Mrs. Jones, Sara, their son Donnie (minus Mr. Jones who had a late night at work), sat around the kitchen table for the rest of the night eating and trading horror stories about crazy medical accidents – personal and witnessed (Mrs. Jones is a nurse).

What an interesting start to the trip. After getting pulled aside by airport security, spending 20+ hours in three different U.S. States, flying over the Atlantic, and drinking a mid-flight Bailey's, I landed on an island in the middle of an African capital – the Alabama of Ghana.

AM