A place to call home

Friday, October 5, 2007

The day was one to wander and wonder.

Alison and I, with Joseph (our best Ghanaian friend) at our side set out on foot, having just moved into our home in Labadi - a community in Accra - ready to explore and become familiar with our new surroundings.

The walk began along the dirt road that meets the gate to the compound where our house and our neighbour's home reside. Goats and chickens scampered by, the sun blazed down and the thick and hazy air caused sweat to almost instantly form across my brow, under my arms and along the backs of my legs. Locals lay back on benches in the shelter of makeshift shopping stands to beat the intense heat, selling anything from laundry detergent to electronics. Their heads perked up as they saw two obrunis (white folk) walking by, a hello, a smile or long blank stare to greet us.

Joseph, knowing a shortcut, led us down a zigzag path behind the scattered wooden shacks. We strolled Ghanaian pace (one step Ghanaian for every 10 steps Torontonian, with dragging feet) through what I suppose are considered people's communal backyards. There are no fences for privacy or greenery for children to kick balls upon. No, kids, white eyes and bright smiles, typically run barefoot, grabbing anything they can to play with (I have seen long pieces of metal used as toy guns and broken fans held close like a teddy bear) or perhaps just play fighting, jumping upon each other and doing handstands and front flips over wooden fences just a foot above the ground. I visualize my five-year-old sister, Molly, climbing into her luxurious wooden tree house with a swing to one side and sandbox beneath or her vigorously jumping off a diving board into a crystal blue, chlorine-filled heated pool at her home in Niagara-On-The-Lake, Ontario. What a paradox!

First stop for the three of us was the VA (Volunteer Abroad) House - the meeting point for Canadian volunteers ... about a 20-minute walk from our place, where some volunteers reside temporarily whether their placements are in Accra or beyond the city's borders, perhaps north to Kumasi or Tamale, or west to Takoradi. Kirsten - the head of the VA house, who looks no older than 25 years old- greeted us, offering coffee and a seat at the dining room table where three of the newest volunteers - having just arrived in Accra the day before - and Tristan - a British freelance journalist - finished a late breakfast. The volunteers themselves - all in their early 20s - were off to Osu and then Labadi beach later that day. We made tentative plans to join them. Tristan, who has been in Accra several months and stays at VA house despite lacking Canadian citizenship - sat sipping his coffee made in a bodum, typing listlessly on his laptop. We spoke with him briefly about what we were all doing in Ghana.

Our next stop was a chop bar (roadside eatery) just up the street from the VA house, across from a used bicycle shop. Alison and I made verbal plans to purchase a bike to share. They are apparently about 40 Cedis (just over $40 each). At this point however, we were hungry and cheap, local food seemed fitting. The two of us exchanged looks of concern as we devoured the rice covered in what Ghanaians calls gravy (a spicy tomato-based sauce made with mashed up shrimp), fried fish and plantain (my favourite), wondering if our mass consumption of local food since we arrived was soon to catch up with us. With each bite the tastiness of Ghanaian home-cooking eased our concerns. (On a side note: Ghanaians also smother their salad - coleslaw made with lots of mayo - with ketchup. Yummy!)

My edible confidence waned when not long after the digestive process began severe stomach cramps set in and I rushed back to VA house to use the bathroom. While waiting for Joseph and Alison after that drama, I was approached by a few 15-year-old girls - one named Dorris - who wanted to meet, talk and get my phone number so they could call me later. Random people, strangers, and especially men, have asked for my cell number without a flinch. It is a common place request to obruni’s and cell phones are everywhere. But cell phone culture in Accra is another blog entry in and of itself. Stay tuned…

While speaking with the girls, I could hear drumming in the distance, getting louder and louder and asked what it was about. The community was apparently mourning the death of a doctor - a white man - who had worked in the area for 20 years. A group of about six Ghanaian musicians circulated along the dusty roads banging drums, singing ... celebrating his life. I never did find out the doctor’s name or the cause of his death and wonder if his funeral has yet been held. Ghanaians will often wait months to officially bury their dead ... but perhaps since this man is white the funeral has already been and gone.

Once we three had met up again, Joseph then led us to Tawala - a beach front restaurant/bar and one of my favourite places to eat and drink STAR beer - where the waves crash just a few feet away - kicking up old shoes, grocery bags, and other random bits of trash upon the sand. This is not the side of the beach where you swim or even consider strolling barefoot. Over to the right, in the distance sits Osu castle - a tourist attraction, that dates back to the 1600s, where the government resides. We sat upon a wooden bench overlooking the ocean for about an hour - feeling the wind in our faces, the smell of salt stinging our nostrils, a sticky feeling resonating on our skin. Tears sprung into both Alison and my eyes - down my cheeks - and Joseph giggled mocking our random and open display of emotion, not quite comprehending that some tears aren't about sadness.

The day was creeping on and Joseph was anxious to show us where he lived, so we set out again on foot, walking along a busy highway, I have come to know as La Road, which takes travelers out of Accra. We headed in the direction of Tema. On our way we ran into many children, dressed in rich brown and bright yellow uniforms with their school names sewn into the sleeves - the girls in pinafore dresses, the boys in shorts and button-up short-sleeved shirts - on their way home from a day at school. Cheerful "Hello, how are you’s” rung in unison as we strolled by.

Though late in the day, the sun and heat did not let up. At this point, though, I was so sweaty, my feet and ankles dusty, thick dirt trapped beneath my nails, that what was another few miles to complete the trek. La Road curves around the shoreline, a divider between Joseph's community and the ocean. We cut across a huge dirt lot where soccer games are regularly played. A courthouse and bar/restaurant, reggae music blaring, also lie a few feet away to the left. Dividing the soccer field and Joseph's compound is a concrete fence just a few feet above the ground. We hopped over a gap where the concrete had caved and were ferociously greeted by a group of children, ranging in age from about 2 to 7 years old. The white eyes and bright smiles returned. A few sprinted towards me grabbing at my legs, laughing, squealing and jumping with delight. I wondered when the last time an obruni had crossed this boundary and cursed that I had not brought my camera.

Walking through the compound was quite surreal. Though the site of trash piled along the outside of the concrete wall and the smell from ditches filled with sewage along the highway resonated, it was overshadowed by an intense sense of community and companionship. Moms, Dads, sisters, brothers, grandparents, neighbours sat on each other porches relaxing, called out to each other, completed chores together. We even saw the head of a man peaking above a concrete shower stall as he bathed and washed his hair, while boys played ball right beside him.

Joseph led us into his home. The front room, what he said was his kitchen, was small, quaint and dark, but only because the lights were off. A beaded curtain divided it and the second room, which was about double the size. He plopped down on his single bed and immediately popped on some music (can't recall whether it was reggae or hip hop, but it was one of the two) using one of his two computers. His friend, Raymond, who lives just a few houses down, joined us and we attempted to watch an African film/DVD on Joseph's TV. No luck so we used the laptop. The juxtaposition of the rural life beyond the beaded curtain to this high-technology inside Joseph’s place astounded me. We stayed there awhile, resting after a day of trekking and getting our first taste of Cardinal strawberry liquor, which Raymond receives free from his work – the local Coca-Cola factory that manufactures this booze as well.

Before long the sun was setting (it disappears quickly because Ghana is situated so close to the equator) and it was time to catch a cab home. There was more nightly fun to be had before we buckled down and began our placements – Alison at JOY FM and myself at the Daily Guide newspaper - that Monday.

Joseph led us back the way we came, zigzagging through the wooden and mud shacks of his compound, hopping over that concrete wall to be greeted by more excited children as we crossed the dirt soccer field and ventured back onto that busy highway. He hailed a cab, negotiated a price in Twi (one of the local languages) and off we went agreeing to meet up again later.

Riding along towards our new place called home, a final look exchanged with Alison and I knew she was as deeply affected by the day as I was. It remains one of the most memorable so far...