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Whenever I visited a new part of the city or country, I did my best to describe what it looked like and, in some cases, what it smelled and sounded like.
Ashaiman is a suburb of Tema, with Lebanon as a district within it. All but the main roads are dusty and filled with potholes (yes, worse than Pittsburgh). It is hot, but my room has an air conditioner that I use sparingly because it is so costly to operate. I have been told that it will get cooler in February and that in March it will begin to rain a little. What I saw online suggested that June and July are the peak of the rainy season, and since I return to the States in June, I think the weather will get more bearable.
Today I was awarded the distinction of enduring a first gander into an African market. It was not entirely what I expected. I will try to describe it, but I do not trust my keyboard to fully do it justice. The ground was uneven concrete, and the width of the path was between one and two people wide, depending on where you were. In some places an open, concrete sewer divided the walking area in half, contributing to the overall smell of the market. Everything from produce to dress shirts to toilet paper was sold there, and I say with decent confidence that no individual item was sold at only one stand. Because it was so densely packed with shoppers, sellers, and stands, not too much light made it in, contributing to my feeling of being in an old movie about the back streets of London. The stands themselves were corrugated metal sheds (maybe 2 feet in all three directions) with their double doors open wide. Products were stacked on free-standing stools and hung on the walls. A couple of vendors sat in each stand. I cannot say how many stands there were, but I know that there was no space between them and that to walk through the entire market (though we might not have gone the whole length of it) could take 15 minutes.
I walked to school yesterday. I would gladly have restarted this discipline Monday, but my host father had different ideas. It is not easy to express how relieved I was that the 90-minute walk was enjoyable in round two, too, especially since I am hoping to make the trek every Monday and Thursday. This time, I was joined by classmate who lives in my neighborhood. My host father accompanied us for the first half, but once we reached the main road, he caught a tro-tro (functions similarly to a public bus) back to the house because he had a busy workday ahead of him. The classmate's name is Tilford, and he is a quiet 17-year-old who (as my interrogation revealed) likes biology, geography, and economics classes. Prior to reaching the main road, though, Tilford led us through a less prosperous area, on a path that seemed to go through several houses' backyards. This course was fascinating to me, so I will endeavor to relate some the sights. There were dwellings that looked neither as spacious nor as modern as a Port-a-Potty. Larger shanties often had concrete showers outside, with morning bathers' heads visible. Mothers cooked breakfast for toddlers exhibiting varying degrees of nudity. The land was uneven, packed, red dirt, except for the stream/gutter/sewer that fostered bright green banks. I observed at least one early riser urinating into this geographical feature. All around, faces turned to behold the obruni ("white person") trudging alongside the two men, with her school uniform and backpack.
Another telling tale about Ghana concerns a large, fenced plot of land we pass on the drive home every day. According to my host father, the absent owner of the grassy field recently complained about squatters inhabiting it. Therefore, last weekend, the government brought in a bulldozer and leveled all of the structures in the lot, save for a primary school that was full of children at the time. Some of the now-homeless had reportedly lived there for three decades. Whether or not they were legal residents, seeing groups of people standing around piles of debris that had been their homes and possessions, all I could think was, "I doubt this would happen in America."
This past Monday, AFS summoned all exchange students to Accra to get our foreign resident ID cards. Another neighbor--not my local contact person--escorted me to Accra. We spent two hours getting there and three returning. Embarking, we walked a ways from the house, boarded a tro-tro to the main station, walked through that parking lot, climbed into another tro-tro to Accra, and walked quite a distance from the bus stop to the AFS office. The main station was reminiscent of a market, except for the higher concentration of parked vans and accordingly wider pathways. Vendors balanced burgeoning trays on their heads and hooked merchandise on their hands. Products ranged from mangoes to Mentos, flags to flashlights, and bagged detergent to boiled eggs--the sight of latter, baking in the African sun, made my tummy squirm. Outside the market, we passed a trio of young girls, asleep on a doormat. One Arab-looking boy chased us, begging for funds and grasping my escort--Ernest's--hands, until he firmly shook him off. Once in Accra, I was treated by a joyful reunion with Leonie and Jenna--the latter of whom I had, admittedly, seen three days earlier. The three of us, together with Lance, whiled away the car ride with memories of our arrival, tales about glimpsing other white people, voiced longings for various junk foods, and general chatter. The government building we went to was nearly empty, and--several fingerprint scanners later--we left with our newly-minted ID cards.
We suited and lathered up for a sunny day at the beach, but the merciless noon-day UV was enough to redden our shoulders, despite our SPF 70. The 15- or 20-minute walk was not shaded, and Kokrobite’s residents’ calls to us were almost as relentless as the sun’s rays. Having finally escaped the village and its inhabitants, we entered the last leg of the route. At one point, this trampled path probably offered relief from loose sand on either side; now however, it is merely a way to avoid stepping in the mountains of trash flanking it. Composed mostly of plastic bags, this sea of garbage was impressive in size and smell. Enduring the fumes of a fire consuming some of the waste, we came into view of the real ocean. Although Jenna had promised the presence of innumerable white people, we counted only seven foreigners on our shoreline hike, including the four in our group. We chose a patch of sand that was only home to a few other souls because the other three were wearing bikinis under their dresses, and we were irritated with the amount of attention we gathered with our clothes on, let alone without. Together with us were a couple apparently-asleep young men on outdoor tables at a beachside restaurant (As such businesses lined the shore, evading this situation was virtually impossible.), four mostly-naked 10-year-old boys playing in the surf (again, pretty unavoidable), and the horseback patrollers that clopped by every couple minutes.
Saturday afternoon, my host father took my two host sisters and me to the Shai Hills Resource Reserve, located a little bit outside of Tema, maybe a 45-minute drive away. Aside from affording me opportunities to take copious photos of the natural terrain of southeastern Ghana, this excursion provided fresh air and even some mild exercise. First, we drove into the reception area, which was infested with photogenic baboons. All visitors to the Ecotourism Park were required to be accompanied by guides. The fees were per visitor per hour, and guests were divided into two categories for the purpose of pricing. “Ghanaians,” unsurprisingly, paid about half as much as “Non-Ghanaians.” After my host father settled the bill, Ishmael, our guide for the afternoon, hopped into the backseat of my host dad’s car and gave directions to reach the trailhead for our desired hike. I had chosen the highest peak and most strenuous hike, and I’m glad I did; these are no Appalachian Mountains. Hielow Hill (I hope I am spelling that correctly.) reaches 290m above sea level, and the round trip took between two and three hours, including the frequent breaks my host family members took.
Hielow Hill has a cave near the top in which the Krobo people kept their war drums. Upon spotting approaching enemies, the warriors sent their wives and children to their homes in the hillside settlements, scaled the hill, crawled through the dual-entry cave to retrieve their instruments, and proceeded to the vantage point on the other side of the cave. We made this trek too, though in less of a rush than I presume the Krobo warriors would have been in. The second and third “Grassland” shots were snapped at the top of the hill, as were all the head-on pictures of my companions. After descending, we stopped at Mologo Hill (I am pretty sure I am spelling that one erroneously.) on the way back to the reception area. In the past, the Krobos used Mologo Hill as a training camp that each year’s batch of pubescent girls stayed on for six months in preparation for their puberty rite. This history is evidenced by the impressions left by the grinding of ornaments that the girls wore during the rite. Each of these foot-long ovals indicates an initiate. I took “Hiking” and “Grassland 1” on Mologo Hill, too. Ishmael routinely pointed out Baobab trees, which were undoubtedly the most impressive species of tree in the area. In addition to having a comparatively tall stature and a knack for picturesquely catching the afternoon sun, these trees store large amounts of water in their hefty trunks, and thirsty residents drill into their bark during droughts. I enjoyed seeing them and other telltale signs of nature, which are so conspicuously missing from this industrial city.
On the way back from school, we take a different route than we used to. The rainy season has rendered side roads swampy, so commuters opt for and clog up the main roads. I must simply trust my host father’s judgment on this, though, because our present path takes us through the market, in which cars move very slowly, if at all. However, this provides ample people-watching opportunity. At one point in the past, the market was a roadside establishment of narrow alleys between tarp- and umbrella-covered stands boasting fresh produce and other goods. Now, merchants crowd both sidewalks and half of the street, choking a single lane of two-way traffic that competes with harried pedestrians. A rusty fence marking the side of the asphalt has been long-forgotten. The narrow corridor is also populated by strolling vendors with displays on their heads. They squeeze into niches between product-laden tables to cater to interested customers. Other vehicles that push their way through the chaos are flat-bed wagons piled with used socks for sale and motorcycles whose passengers pay their drivers to deliver them speedily to their destinations. Shoes, shirts, and herbal medicines are some of the most available merchandise. A latter section of the market features several successive plots whose owners watch over huge piles of watermelons and pineapples that are brought from north of here. Girls, some of whom look no older than seven, carry trays of plantain or bags of water on their heads. Their young voices as they yell “pure water” already mimic the frog-like quality that older women develop as they bellow about okra and plantain all day.
Yesterday, I went to Aba and Baaba’s home for a couple of hours. Their parents own and operate a hotel—the Crismon—in Tema. It was my first time seeing school friends outside of school. Other Jehovah’s Witness classmates were over, too. They were getting ready for a Chemu graduation party for this year’s seniors. Once they finished dolling up and left, I had a nice conversation with Aba and dipped my feet in the hotel pool. The evening was a change of pace. There are very few get-togethers here that I have participated in. Barbecues, birthday parties, and other group events are rare. In their stead, Ghanaians have funerals and church conventions. This strangeness was compounded by the setting of a nice hotel that, while still looking Ghanaian, drew more resemblance to the Western world than I have perhaps seen since visiting Accra. A spacious entrance hall, glass restaurant tables, a two-door refrigerator, carpeting, doormats emblazoned with the word “Welcome,” and Charmin® toilet paper were among the things that stuck out to me. Readjustment to the US will be quite a process, won’t it?
As planned AFS took us on a so-called “study tour” over the past couple of days. Attendees were AFS participants and chaperones. Thursday, Ernest picked me up from the house and brought me to the nearest major road, where we met the AFS bus. I joined Jenna, Lance, and one of the Belgians, in addition to a handful of AFS staff and volunteers, on their journey from Accra to Ho, the capital of the Volta Region which is located in the far east of Ghana. The region is named after the Lake Volta, the largest man-made lake in this part of the world. Due in part to the lake, the Volta Region is comprised mainly of lush rainforest and steep hills. The area is in sharp contrast to Tema’s dust and flat expanse. The drive took us through increasingly less urban towns and villages, separated by stretches of vegetated land. Rain impacted both the weather and scenery on the trip. At one point, the bus boarded a ferry to cross a wide river that I suspect can be bridged in the dry season. Inside the vehicle, conversation flowed easily until most people decided to take naps. After several hours, we arrived at the Sky Plus Hotel, a hilltop resort with a phenomenal view of the surrounding lowlands. Mist and sub-80 temperatures greeted us. The Germans and other Belgians later arrived in a taxi.
Friday saw the meat of our trip: a strenuous hike down to, and back up from, a waterfall. The entire group boarded the bus after eating the hotel’s breakfast. We drove through countless tiny villages. In each, the church appeared to be the sturdiest structure with smoothly painted walls made of concrete blocks, while houses varied from small concrete structures to mere shacks made of scraps of wood and sheet metal. Between villages were banana and other farms, and isolated compounds and houses could be seen. It was on this drive that I took the village, etc. pictures in this update’s collection. Following a few steep, twisting climbs, the bus reached Mountain Paradise Vane, a hiking outpost. We rested briefly before meeting our tour guides and setting out on the road to the head of the trail—a muddy track through brilliant rainforest. The path was narrow and slippery, and there was rarely space to walk beside someone else. It winded up and down shaded terrain, gradually descending to a brook. Approaching the banks, we held on to ropes for support because of the steep grade. The immediate shore was made of slick rocks from which we could observe the stream slide gracefully down a waterfall into a large pool, from which it funneled into a tight ravine and out into another pool. After several deep breaths and copious picture-taking, we returned to the trail, which took us through more forest, up a couple exhausting slopes, and across the creek twice more. Our group eventually scaled the last few inclines and emerged in the open air at the back of the outpost building. I calculated that we were gone from the outpost for nearly three hours. It was clear that I was not the only one who had been struggling to get enough aerobic exercise in Ghana, but despite the physical effort the hike required, the outing was most welcome. Clean, forest air is, after all, something that Tema lacks.