Hey there friends! Below is my entry on Ghana. The MV Explorer is currently cruising the Atlantic en route to Salvador, Brazil, which is our last port. It’s hard for me to articulate just how sad that makes me. But anyhow, what you can expect for the remainder of this blog is the rest of my sea days, a post on Brazil, and a post reflecting on the experience as a whole. That final post will include advice to future SAS students, so, if that happens to apply to you, stay tuned. Anyway, on to Ghana.
Day 1 – Accra
We were cleared for disembarkation shortly before 10:00 am. We were ported in Tema, and industrial port roughly 45 minutes east of Accra. SAS provided us with a shuttle service to take us to Accra, so there was a mad dash to disembark to try to catch that first shuttle.
Unfortunately, I wanted to stay overnight in a hotel, and we had been told we needed our passports. Now I never bought into this warning, mostly because they did not issue it sternly. And I asked the Ghanaian interport student, and she told me she did not think passports were necessary. So I had planned to travel with Brianna, Jenna, and one other girl, but they were intent on waiting for passports. I told them I’d go with them if I was still around, but I would jump at the opportunity to leave earlier with anyone who was willing.
So I was waiting around on the fifth deck for passports and I saw Dan, Mark, Paul and Britney. You remember Dan from my gokart adventures in Hawaii, and Mark is my big Norwegian friend. I have yet to mention Paul in the ol’ blog, but he’s a cool guy. Good friends with Dan and Derek. I’m also a big fan of Britney, whom I also had yet to mention. Anyway, I convinced that group to leave without passports, so we just hit the road. I was stoked to travel with this group of people, most of whom I’d never cruised with in port.
Anyhow, the line for the free shuttle to Accra was insane. So instead we took the shuttle service to the port gate, intending to hail a cab to Accra. Right as we got off the shuttle, a van offered to take us Accra for $10 USD per person. We bargained down to $3 each. It was still way overpriced because the van seated 30, but we decided to just pay for the convenience factor.
We ended up being dropped off near Jamestown, which was a place I wanted to visit in Accra. It was described as “an industrialized township,” so I figured it would be a cool area to observe. And I wanted to play soccer with kids.
Walking over to Jamestown my wish was immediately granted: we saw a group of kids playing some soccer. So I crossed the street to join them, and the group followed. We played for probably half an hour, which was loads of fun. But it was scorching hot, and we were soon all exhausted.
So we said goodbye to the kids and set off in search of something to drink. We were thinking of some cold water, but the place we walked into happened to be a bar. So we took the opportunity to try the local beer: Star. It’s actually quite delicious. Light but crisp, if that makes any sense. I dunno, I’m bad at describing beer.
Anyhow, after the brew, we walked around the Jamestown area for a while. It was similar to South African township areas: small shops, shanties, and lots of people milling about. Everyone was pretty friendly; I made small conversation with a lot of locals.
After a while we started to get hungry, so Britney asked a Ghanaian woman if she knew a good place to eat. She showed us to a restaurant, and then sat down with us. It seemed odd, but we figured she just wanted to get a meal with Americans.
The meal was pretty gross. I guess we just ordered the wrong things, because I liked a lot of subsequent meals that I ate. When the bill came, the woman expected us to pay for her. It was pretty unbelievable; she didn’t talk to us much or anything. Just sat down and ate a free meal.
After lunch we walked around a while longer before deciding to go to LA Raceway. It’s a bar where you can drive gokarts. Sounded fun to me. We got there by taxi and ran into a group of SASers.
After ordering a beer, we learned that only one gokart was running. So that was too bad. But it was a bar, so it wasn’t really the worst thing in the world.
Hanging out by the gokart track, I started talking to two huge local guys named TJ and Donyeh. They were each 6’4”, and Donyeh must have been at least 250. After talking with them for a while, I learned that they were local professional soccer players. Though they were very modest, I got them each to admit that they get recognized pretty regularly.
Anyway, it was finally my turn to get on gokart. I was stoked. Unfortunately, the car broke down after only one lap. Talk about a bummer.
It was now dusk and they’d shut down racetrack, so we went to a pool party which was also located on the property. Man, this place had everything. Anyhow, one of the first people I met in the pool party area was this dude named Abdul. He was a pretty cool dude who did motorcross. I shook his hand, told him that was badass, and went back over to TJ and Donyeh.
After talking with my soccer buddies for a while, I noticed that they were eyeing a gorgeous woman across the pool. Filled with liquid confidence, I told them I bring her over to talk to them.
So I confidently strode around the pool, and asked the lovely young woman if she’d like to talk to my friends. Of course, I mentioned they were professional soccer players. She politely said that she’d “go in a minute.” Calling her bluff, I told her I’d wait.
Then I saw a guy motioning to me. I figured he was being friendly, so I approached him with a smile. But, to my surprise, he angrily asked “is it OK to talk to women unsolicited in your culture.” I told him it was. I couldn’t hear the exact words he said to me next, but the gist of it was “get the fuck out of here.” I suppose I was talking to his woman. I obliged to his polite request, and returned back to my friends.
On the way to telling TJ and Donyeh that I’d failed in my mission, I ran into Abdul. I remembered his name, which made him really happy. I proceeded to tell him about my encounter with the girl and her boyfriend. He looked at me very seriously and told me, “Max, if someone gives you trouble, they are giving me trouble.” Then he lifted up his shirt, revealing a switchblade. I quickly told him that there was no trouble, and to not worry about it in the least. Whoa. Needless to say, I went back to TJ and Donyeh.
Anyway, after a while we decided to get some dinner. TJ and Donyeh invited us to join them, hailing a few cabs to follow their car. During the cab ride, some girl I didn’t know (she was part of the group of SASers we met at LA Raceway) was unexpectedly and unnecessarily rude to me. Her roommate, who was also in the cab, cracked a joke the rude girl found funny. She then said to me, “See you think you’re the shit, but you’re not. My roommate is way funnier than you are.” For the sake of a pleasant cab ride, I bit my tongue. But I must have seemed noticeably miffed, because she raised it again, asking why I was mad.
I told her that I was mad because I barely knew her, and, out of the blue, she accused me of being full of myself despite having no reason to be full of myself. She retorted that I was just mad because I couldn’t accept anyone thinking that someone else was funnier than I am. I sarcastically told her “yeah, you’re right. That’s the reason I’m upset.” She offered some BS apology after the cab ride, but I didn’t buy it. That girl sucks.
That unpleasant aside aside, TJ and Donyeh took us to this fried chicken place on Uso street, which is the hopping nightlife place in Accra. It’s got bars and restaurants. Anyhow, the restaurant was pretty packed, but they got us a table instantly, and our food only minutes later. I’m convinced that it was because of their soccer status.
After eating our delicious meal, we went over to a bar. I hung out with my crew for a while, and then met these two nice brothers named Kristian and Kwame. I hung out with them for a while, and I bought them beer and some street food. They were really cool, I’m still in touch with Kristian via facebook. But, in hindsight, I wish I’d spent the time with TJ and Donyeh. Because I never got their contact info.
Around midnight the group was pretty tired, so we headed to find a hotel. I said goodbye to TJ and Donyeh, as well as the two brothers with whom I hung out at the bar. The first place we found, Frankies, was overpriced, but we were being followed by some pretty sketchy guys. Since five people were splitting the cost and we just wanted to safely go to bed, we decided to crash at Frankies.
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Editor’s Note: Hello, hello, dear readers! Thank you so much for your gracious welcome! Please, I beg of you, take your seats. I have returned from a long writing hiatus; it’s been over a month since I’ve last written. My writing, in total, has been 110 pages, single-spaced in 10-point font. Needless to say, I was a bit tired of writing upon my return to the States. Plus, with all the free time, I’ve found it hard to buckle down and write. It’s just too easy to say “I’ll do it later.”
Since I’ve arrived back in the USA (I was graciously picked up in Ft. Lauderdale and driven to the airport by Mike, Nick’s dad), I’ve gone to Oxy for Senior Week and Graduation, and I’ve gotten jobs working under my neighbor Ken DeLeon, who is a terrific Real Estate agent and at Skyhawks Sports Camps as a Coach. But, in all honesty, I’ve just started with Ken and only have completed (paid) training with Skyhawks. So I suppose I’ve mostly been pissing away my summer.
Well, I suppose it’s time to get back to the ol’ bloggerooski.
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Day 2 – Accra and the Community 1 Township in Tema
I awoke, pleasantly, hang over free. But, unpleasantly, I was covered in sweat. In our impaired state the night before, we had been unable to turn on the air conditioner. In our defense, it was a tricky set-up as an unmarked switch by the bathroom door had to be flipped on to provide power to the unit. We did collectively groan when we realized our mistake, though. On the bright side, my cold morning shower was heavenly.
During a forgettable and over-priced Western breakfast at the hotel, I had two memorable laughs with the group of Dan, Mark, Paul and Sarah (we met up with her in the previous evening at the bar, and around the same time Britney had to return to the ship). The first of which happened when I noticed Sarah, who has a boyfriend, had a big hickey on her neck. I asked who gave it to her, and she sheepishly denied its existence. Paul lifted his arms in victory, claiming ownership as the mark’s creator. He did it, he claimed, by “whispering sweet nothings into her ear.” In actuality, we later learned from Sarah, he loudly whispered “hey Dan’s asleep” (those three were sharing a bed) before sloppily planting a hickey in the middle of her neck.
The second, courtesy of Mark, is the funniest Jew joke I have ever heard. Concise and clever, the joke is best enjoyed coming from the lips of Mark, whose unpleasant Norwegian accent does, in this case, supply a brilliant Eastern European accent for the joke’s Jewish characters. Without further ado: “A little Jewish boy, wanting to buy sweets, runs home and asks his dad ‘Pa-pa, may I borrow five dollars?’ The dad turns to his son and responds, ‘Four dollars (pronounced dollas)? Whaddaya need three dollars for?’”
After breakfast, I broke off from the group. They were headed to Cape Coast, over three hours away, and I had to spend the night on the ship because I had an early morning village visit the next day. It was all for the best, though, as I had not gotten a chance to travel by myself and figured this would be an excellent opportunity.
As we were right near a market, I decided to start there. I had a shopping list to take care of, with a loud Ghanaian drum in the starring role. I ended up buying a nice drum, a mancala set, and a gorgeous decorative mask for 45 cedis. For another ten each I bought a painting and soccer ball. Though I did well with my purchases, I loathed the market. It was, bar none, my least-favorite in the world (I find it hilarious that I can actually use that saying now). The salesman selling bracelets and other small trinkets were awful. None would accept “no” for an answer, and many were out to scam tourists.
The first was a guy named Kwame, who boisterously greeted me as I passed by his shop. He said “come have a look in my shop, I have special deal just for you!” I told him I needed to go to the ATM, but I’d check his shop afterward. Returning to his shop, he showed me around. I told him I liked the masks, but I didn’t want to buy one at that point in the day because it was hot and I already had a heavy bag, so I did not want to carry more. I told him that I would return. Kwame apparently did not believe me, as he started laying on the guilt. “Man I invited you into my shop, I need you to be my first sale to bring me luck! Why did you lie and say you would buy?” At this point I got frustrated and left, angrily saying that, now, I wouldn’t return. Unfortunately, I would see Kwame throughout the day, and he kept coming up saying that he didn’t like me and that I was “wicked.” This was really odd and confusing, because he was physically friendly, offering me handshakes each time he approached.
The second headache was a guy who called himself Baby Rasta, who insisted I watch him make the bracelets/bookmarks many vendors make and sell on the streets. “When you visit a place, you must take the time to learn from the people,” he told me. I ought to have just walked on, but he guilted me into sitting through the presentation. I repeatedly told him that I did not want to buy it, but while making it he assured me that he just wanted me to learn, and once complete he forced it upon me as a gift. Apparently, though, Baby Rasta is unfamiliar with the process of gift-giving, because he expected a gift in return. “Something to remember you by,” he told me. When I offered a bouncy ball, he clarified what he wanted, something by which he would obviously remember me and only me: money. I refused and left, but shortly thereafter I saw him in a group of people pointing at me, and because I was alone I felt a bit uneasy. So I walked back and gave him five cedis for the bookmark.
My final encounter was with a guy named Kalabash, who sold small bracelets and necklaces. He asked me to buy from him and I refused, telling him I had no money to spend. He then offered a small necklace as a gift, then asking me to give him a gift. I told him I had no gift to give and offered back the bracelet, but he claimed that “in Ghana you can never take back a gift.” Since Kalabash, like Baby Rasta, had said he wanted the gift to “remember me,” I made him a rudimentary drawing with his name, a stick figure, and a smiling sun. I then wrote “By Max,” so he would always remember me. But when I gave him the drawing, he refused it and demanded his necklace back. I had thought that wasn’t allowed.
I did have one great interaction, and it was with a handsome young dude named Kwame (different one). He was the third or fourth Kwame I’d come across, so I asked why the name was so common. He told me that independent Ghana’s first president was named Kwame, so many male children are named in his honor. Kwame was a real cool dude; he showed me where I could buy a soccer ball and led me to the SAS shuttle stop. Because of his kindness, I decided to buy a few bracelets from him. But instead of taking money, he wanted my water bottle (from the set of 3 I’d bought at the Honolulu Costco). I accepted the trade, and then hung out with Kwame and a few of his friends while waiting for the SAS shuttle. One of his friends played the drum while I sang “Latin Chick,” which made for a great video.
Though the shuttle was supposed to come hourly, I waited in that lot an hour and a half. I didn’t mind, though. Kwame and his friends were a cool group of guys. When the shuttle did eventually arrive, I said goodbye to Kwame and company and headed back to the ship. Back onboard, I unpacked my things and got some eats on the top deck. The food was a godsend, because I was famished. With my hunger satiated, I was ready for more adventure.
So I grabbed my soccer ball and headed out, hoping to find some kids to play with. I asked a cab where I could go to play soccer with kids, and he suggested a place called Community 1. So I asked him to take me there. Upon arrival, he told me to wait in the cab. He would ask if I could join a game. So I sat in the car while he talked to a few older gentlemen. The cabbie motioned for me to get out, at which point one of the guys he had talked to me asked if I had any cleats. I told him that I did not, and he warned me that I might have trouble without them.
You see, we were standing on the sidelines of an organized game. There was a ref, players were wearing jerseys, and the goals had nets. More importantly, the quality of play was exceptionally high. I asked about the level of play, and the older man told me that it was a scrimmage between two premiere league teams. He then told me to walk with him, as he would stop the game so I could join. I laughed and told him that there was no way I could keep up. “Are you not a professional?” he asked me. I informed him that I was not, in fact, a professional soccer player. Rather, I was hoping to play with some kids. We both chuckled over the misunderstanding, and he led back to the area where kids were playing soccer. (Editor’s Note: I talked to this guy briefly about Ghanaian pro soccer, and he knew of both TJ and Donyeh, the guys I’d met the night before. And sorry to stick this little nugget of info into an Editor’s Note, but I couldn’t think of a good way to work it into the text.)
As I was led into the township, I was met with lots of stares. It was pretty clear that not too many white people hang around there. A few little kids ran up and briefly touched me before running back to their friends laughing hysterically. It was quite a sight to see.
Anyhow, once the excitement died down a bit, I introduced myself to a group of youngsters and asked if I could join their game. They were playing with a small plastic ball clearly not made for soccer, and were thus delighted when I took out the leather ball I’d brought with me. So we redivided teams and began to play. A crowd began to form around, which I assumed was due to the novelty of me as a visitor. But that might just be me being self-centered.
The kids and I played soccer for probably two and half hours. We just played till the sun went down. I was really struck by skill and toughness these kids had. Though I was able to hold my own using positioning and passing, I was one of the least skilled on the field. There were kids as young as 11 and 12 who could run circles around me. And they were playing without shoes. Some of the kids had sandals, but many were barefoot. And it’s not as if we are playing on a plush grass field; the pitch was all dirt with a few rocky patches. But these kids, already playing barefoot, would just dust themselves off after a spill and keep playing. American kids would be crying.
Once we ran out of light, we called it quits. I told the kids to keep the ball, which sent them into a frenzy. I think that sporting equipment, especially a soccer ball, is the best thing one can bring underprivileged kids. They might go crazy for candy, but it’s gone in a minute. They can use a soccer ball for years.
Anyway, the kids were so nice to me as I left the township. A few kids who had access to computers wanted to be facebook friends, but, to my dismay, I did not bring anything with which I could take down contact information. So I asked some nearby adults if they had a pen and paper, and they were able to find me a couple pieces. So I wrote down my information and gave it to the kids, but, sadly, I have yet to hear from any of them.
I talked to the two adults for a while before leaving. One of them, named Nia, was the subchief of Accra. I’m not exactly sure what that means, but it sounded important. Nia was a really nice guy who, for whatever reason, insisted I try an orange before leaving. It was a mediocre orange, but I really appreciated the gesture.
After cabbing back to the ship, I showered and prepared to head out. But because I’d been traveling alone all day, I really had no idea as to who was around. So I hung out by the gangway, waiting to find a group to roll out with.
I ended up leaving with a pretty random group of people, but they were going where I wanted to: a club called Manilla. We stopped at an ATM back in Community 1 on the way, and I noticed that the streets were packed with people milling about and talking. I vowed to come back the following night.
Manilla was uneventful. There weren’t too many people out, so I just drank a couple brews and watched soccer with DJ, who had come separately. I also got some delicious chicken fried rice from a street vendor across the way. It was doused in this delicious red pepper sauce popular in Ghana. I gotta find a place that sells it in the States.
Anyhow, I was pretty beat from the long day and poor night’s sleep, so DJ and I headed in shortly before midnight. Back on the ship, I fell asleep the second my head hit the pillow.
Day 3 – Torgorme Village Experience
Waking up was tough, as it often is in port. Though we always try to get a decently early start, Nick and I had to get up particularly early because we were going on a SAS trip leaving at 8:00 (Editor’s Note: my older readers my incorrectly assert that 8:00 am is not early. They are wrong. All the cool kids have a 2:00 to 10:00 sleep cycle, so my 8:00 am is your 5:00 am).
Speaking of Nick, you may have been wondering as to his whereabouts. Well, dear readers, my good friend Nicholas badly wanted to see Cape Coast, an area about two hours east of Accra (Editor’s Note: I said earlier that it was three hours away, which is what wikitravel reports. Nick, however, said the trip ended up taking only two hours). There was some pretty cool stuff there, like a rainforest canopy walk and some old slave dungeons. But since we only had two days for independent travel in Ghana, and the rainforest was another hour outside of Cape Coast, I didn’t want to spend so much of it on the road. So we parted ways for the first half of our Ghana experience.
Anyway, as tired as I was waking up, Nick must have really been hating life when the cruel, beeping watch alarm went off. He hadn’t returned by the time I went to bed, and I generally run on less sleep than he does. But we ignored our weariness, because we were both stoked for the day’s trip. Though SAS trips, day trips especially, had been underwhelming thus far, we really expected this one to be excellent. As it so happened, it crushed any faith we had left in SAS trips. If you’re a future SASer reading this blog, NEVER TAKE SAS TRIPS. They blow. But I’m getting ahead of myself.
I’ll start by explaining why we had such high expectations for the day. We were headed to Torgorme Village, a remote village along the lower Volta River, about an hour outside of Accra. There, according to the SAS Field Program, we would “Pay a courtesy call to the paramount chief and elders of the village amidst traditional drumming and dancing by the villagers, and also participate in a naming ceremony, in which you will be given a traditional African name. After this ceremony, choose between the following activities: a village tour of Torgorme, a hands-on session in pottery-making, or a kente-weaving session. Continue the tour to Shai Hills Game Reserve, which combines natural conservation, rich cultural interest, and archaeological sites with splendid scenic beauty. Trek through the reserve and view of West Africa’s notable game: antelope, bushbucks, kobs, baboons, monkeys and many bird species, including the crested eagle. Visit the Obonu Tem and Se Yo caves, which serve as home to many animals—notably insectivorous bats. Learn about the various artifacts that have been found on this site, the homeland of the Krobo people.” Sounds awesome, right? We sure thought so.
The day started off well. The hour-long bus ride was actually highly enjoyable. Since I’d been away from my boyfriend for two days, we had a great time joking around and recounting our adventures over the last two days.
Upon arrival to Torgorme, though, the day took its first negative turn (albeit very minor). This horrible fat girl who Nick and I referred to as “McCain” was on the trip. It wasn’t that big of a deal (obviously), but if the trip was going to be cool I hated the idea of her sharing in the experience.
Now before you judge me for being a terrible person (and I know you PC readers already are!!), allow me to share the back-story. McCain is in Liberty and Law with the Bobster. One day, the ol’ Boberino asked, as part of larger example I can no longer remember, “It’s none of my business, but would someone mind telling me who they voted for the last election?” McCain shot her hand into the air, and once Bobby called on her she said, in a distasteful mix of snootiness and aggression, “I voted for McCain!” She then looked around the room full of liberals (because, you know, we’re college students and have hearts, at least according to Winston Churchill) with a look trying to say “yeah I did, and yeah I just said that. What of it, bitches?” There were more examples of her being spoiled, rich and annoying throughout the voyage, but that was my favorite to write about.
Anyway, I was somehow able to get over the setback of McCain’s presence and went along with the group to the welcome show and naming ceremony. It was really an impressive greeting; the entire village had shown up and the Chief and his council were dressed in traditional clothing. Kids were drumming and chanting, villagers were dancing, and a speaker greeted us like royalty over a loudspeaker. My fellow SASers loved it. One girl said “Oh my God! I’ll bet they never do this!!” I found this hysterical, because I figured they did it all the time. Tourism, in all likelihood, is their biggest industry.
But amid the festivities, a strong, intimidating young man decked out in traditional garb, who I later learned was the Chief’s son, had a real angry look on his face. That was the first sign, to me, that something was wrong. And the more I looked around, the more wrong it felt. The children were sitting around, bored out of their minds. The kids dancing weren’t smiling, but performing a well-rehearsed show for tourists who wanted an “authentic Africa experience.”
The naming ceremony was even worse. There were probably 70 of us there, and we were each called up individually. When it was our turn with the elders, we were given our traditional African name, a bracelet, and a small pottery bowl (currently on my desk holding my pens) with our English name and our “new traditional African name” painted on the side. Mine is Kwame Senen.
It was the naming ceremony that I’m sure drives the old, rich tourists wild. I can just see them telling their friends (in a British accent, because they’re old and rich), “oh, Reginald, it was marvelous! We were met with a raucous welcome, which they clearly did only for us and no other tour group. Ever. And then, get this Reginald, I was given a traditional African name! Oh it was so moving, I can’t even tell you. Anyway, how the fuck was last Saturday’s polo match?”
But while the old British tourists love it, ours was not nearly as well-received. Though no one found the whole thing uncomfortable as I did, everyone would agree that it dragged on. Because it took over a minute to name each person. So they sat their saying names and giving out bowls for at least an hour and a half. There were a few bright spots, though. At one point, the woman in charge of the teaching the kids to dance and drum just took over the show, completely unexpectedly. All of a sudden, she just had the kids drum and dance. The guys in charge of the ceremony were totally pissed off. It was hysterical to watch it unfold. Even better, after a while we got called in to dance with the kids. I remember thinking how surreal it was to be dancing with locals in a remote village in Africa. I also got a candid shot of McCain looking really evil, which was sweet.
So by now you should have gotten the gist that I didn’t really like the naming ceremony. Worse, it made me feel uncomfortable. So I got up and started talking to some local teenagers. They were all really cool. I remember a girl named Rebecca who spoke great English. She was fun. She taught me dance moves and I taught her the Hokey Pokey. She also confirmed my suspicions about the welcome and naming ceremony. They do it for tourists all the time. I got a picture with a 13 year old who was muscular and already about 6 feet tall. I asked him if he played basketball, he said he only played soccer. I told him he was crazy. I also remember a handsome young man with a big smile. I gave him the box of chocolates I brought to the village. He did make one very disturbing comment, though. I told him that he was a handsome dude, and he told me that I was more handsome “because [I’m] white.”
Once the boring naming ceremony and awesome dance party came to a close, we were rushed through the village, told by our guides that we were way behind on time. We were never given the choice of “a village tour of Torgorme, a hands-on session in pottery-making, or a kente-weaving session” as the field program promised. Instead, we were given about five minutes to watch a woman make pottery and five more to watch a guy kente-weave. That was actually a very cool process; he was weaving these colorful shall-like things through a simple machine that makes sense in my head but not in my amateur writing. So I’m not going to try. Sorry.
And then, in the interest of time, we were whisked out of the village. No time to explore on our own. No time to meet people. In fact, I think I was the only person on the trip who made a genuine connection with someone in the village. Because I was the only one who got up and interacted with locals during the naming ceremony. Nick later told me that he wanted to get up and meet people, but he didn’t want to be rude. Plus, he figured there would be time to meet people after the ceremony. I think many people made the same assumption and, thus, left disappointed.
For lunch, we went to a restaurant for fried chicken and watermelon. I thought that was hysterical, as I was on my first African SAS trip and we were served the most stereotypical meal possible. To the restaurant’s credit they also had rice and that delicious red sauce I wrote about earlier. I applied healthy globs to each bite I took of fried chicken. Not the watermelon, though. That would have been gross.
Now after lunch, the trip just went to shit. It started with Shai Hills Game Reserve. We literally went out on “safari” in our massive tour bus. The situation was completely laughable. We were driving through the fields of an African wildlife reservation in a TOUR BUS! What did they expect the animals to do? Just hang out as a loud, 30-ton metal contraption rapidly and loudly approaches? All we saw was a pack of antelopes, which promptly ran away when we tried to approach.
Next we went to the Obonu Tem and Se Yo caves, and when we got out we got to see a pack of baboons up close and personal. These baboons are used to people, so I was able to get a photo posing just a few feet from one.
After our baboon photoshoot, we went on a hike to get to the caves. It was a very scenic walk through trees and such, followed by a somewhat steep hike up some rocks to get to the caves. Near the end of the hike, some vines hung down from a cliff. Because I’m an idiot, I thought it would be a good idea to try to scale one of these vines. I don’t know what I was thinking, really, the cliff was like 25 feet up. I’m nowhere near fit enough to scale a rope 25 feet. But, for whatever reason, I tried to do it anyway. Luckily, one of our guides stopped me before I got more than five feet up.
So, instead of climbing the vine, I made my way up the rocks to get to the cave. To my immense disappointment, the cave was completely underwhelming. It looked kinda cool, but it smelled like bat shit. And the history behind the cave was boring; otherwise I would have remembered it. To top it off, Nick got stung by a couple wasps (though, to the wasps’ credit, Nick took a picture of them with the flash on). No one really understood why we left the Torgorme Village to make this seemingly random excursion.
After 15 minutes or so in the cave, we left because, as I mentioned earlier, it smelt of bat shit. So we walked back the bus and then continued on to the ship. We got back around 5:00, which really pissed me off. We were scheduled to return at 6:00. It wasn’t like I was trying to stay at the caves longer, but, as you may recall, we were rushed out of Torgorme in the interest of time. As it turned out, we had to rush out of there to do a couple pointless, random excursions and then get back to the ship an hour early.
Back at the ship, Nick and I were pretty pooped. So we took a couple hours to shower and relax. Cleaned up, we decided to head to the streets of Community 1, as I had stopped there the night before and it seemed fun. Right when we got out, I recognized Francis, a kid I’d played soccer with the day before. Turned out he was with a bunch of kids I’d met the day before, so it was cool to see those guys again.
While I was chitchatting with the kids, Nick began talking to a guy named Emmanuel. Emmanuel was a young man in his early twenties, and he seemed enamored by the fact that we were American tourists. He then asked us to come back to his house and meet his family. I was a bit hesitant, but Nick and I eventually agreed that he seemed relatively harmless and decided to go along. So we walked along to his house, which was surprisingly nice. A lot of people in Community 1 lived in shanties quite similar to the ones I’d seen in South Africa, Emmanuel and his family had a four-bedroom one story house. Everyone living there, he said, had their own room. So that was cool.
After meeting his family, we headed back out to roam the streets. I heard some rock music blaring, and Emmanuel told me that it was coming from the local church. I asked if we could attend, and he confirmed that we could. So we headed in, and I was stoked. I was expecting an insane, energy-filled experience, and that’s exactly what I got. The congregation, though only 10 or so people, was rocking OUT! I immediately joined in on the fun, running and jumping around. It was just like chaos during spiritual dance on the ship. Only it was at a church. In Ghana.
After about a half hour, I was completely exhausted and had worked up quite the sweat. Luckily for me, the music soon ended and it was time for the sermon. Let me tell you, this sermon was INSANE. It wasn’t given by the priest, but by a hulking 6’2” preacher in plain clothes. The man was quite the intimidating presence; he was at least 220 lbs with a shaved head and intense, fiery eyes. The title of the sermon was “Stop provoking God and do what is right,” a phrase he used at least 30 times throughout the sermon. Only when the preacher delivered this line, he would firmly say “stop provoking God!” before yelling “and do WHAT IS RIGHT!!!” The congregation sat in silence, seemingly scared of the man sermonizing them. He would call for congregational responses, which he would receive, but by God these people looked intimidated. And for good reason. The guy was scart. After watching the show for about half an hour, we decided we’d seen enough so we slipped out.
So Emmanuel, Nick and I walked back to the main drag, got some Star beers (love that stuff) and grabbed ourselves a table. A lady came up selling beef skewers grilled in this savory brown sauce. They were like 30 cents each, so we got a lot of them. There was also a lady frying up scrambled eggs with onions and tomato, and we ate a bunch of those too. The food was delicious and we were really enjoying Emmanuel’s company. As he continued to drink though (we each had two 24 ounce beers), he began to get oddly protective of us. He shooed away anyone who tried to talk to us, accusing them of being criminals. It was really unpleasant. So after a brief, futile search for a hat for me to buy, Nick and I said goodbye to Emmanuel and headed back to the ship. On the cab ride back, we discussed how odd Emmanuel’s behavior became. We concluded that he probably doesn’t drink very often and was just being drunk and aggressive.
Anyhow, it had been a long day and we were absolutely exhausted by the time we returned to the ship, so we went to bed immediately.
Day 4 – Osu Children’s Home
No rest for the weary, as Nick and I had yet another SAS trip leaving at 8 am sharp to the Osu Children’s Home, a local orphanage. Getting on the bus, I was happy to see that Diane and her family were coming along, as was Tolan and his girlfriend.
Getting off the bus at the orphanage, I was immediately grabbed by a girl who did not seem entirely “there.” She was probably 14, and all she was wearing was a pair of underwear and a see-through dress. She didn’t speak when I asked her name, but at the time it was not clear if that was just due to a language barrier. I later learned that she has been living at the home for almost a year now; she was taken there after being abandoned. Sadly, she suffers from serious cognitive and emotional issues.
But holding this girl’s hand, the group and I headed to our small welcome reception, where the home’s director gave us a history on the home and the services it provides. After this brief talk, we were given a tour of the facilities. I was surprised and happy to find that the home is in decent shape. All the kids have beds, and I never saw more than four kids sleeping in a room. All the kids were schooled; younger ones took classes on the orphanage grounds and the older ones left for public schools. Most importantly, the home had an adequate number of caretakers. Though the conditions certainly could have improved, I was expecting the worst. Fellow SASers who’d done service visits in Vietnam, for example, said the conditions were hellacious. Here, they were manageable.
Anyhow, we didn’t get a chance to interact with the children during our tour, as most were away at school or taking classes on the grounds. This was frustrating, because we came to donate our time, not to look around. And it seemed as if they just had nothing worthwhile for us to do.
At the end of the tour, we were told to wait by the entrance while they got together supplies for us to paint the orphanage walls. So we waited. And we waited. And we waited. After twenty minutes or so, the group began to grow restless. So Tolan, Nick, and I, along with a few others, kind of wandered the grounds looking for something to do. Fortunately, we saw a group of toddlers playing with a couple of caretakers. So we sat down and joined them.
It was a little bit awkward at first, as we were a bit apprehensive to approach the toddlers. And they certainly weren’t about to run up to us; we were a bunch of unfamiliar faces. But the barriers slowly broke down, and I was eventually playing with a baby of about one. He was fun. And cute. He looked like a turtle. I was tickling him, rocking him, bouncing him up and down. He loved it. After a while he got tired, though, and settled down for a nap with one of the caretakers.
Luckily for me, I was able to rebound from my breakup and play with a new kid almost instantly. A three year old wandered up to the group, and I instantly claimed him as my playmate. I pulled out a bouncy ball I’d brought to the orphanage and gave it to the little guy. One bounce and he was completely enthralled. He loved to bounce the ball high in the air and then have me fetch it. Every time the ball took its first, big bounce off the pavement, he would squeal in delight and jump up and down, clapping his hands. It was the cutest thing.
So he and I played together with the bouncy ball for at least an hour. I lined up on one end of the pavement basketball court, and he lined up on the other end. I would gently toss the ball his direction, letting it bounce down the court. He would try to catch it, often failing in the cutest way possible, and then he’d chuck it back. Unfortunately, he soon realized that he could make me run quite a ways if he threw it well to my right; then the ball would just bounce on down the grounds of the orphanage. Once he figured this out, he was merciless. By the time he was tired of the ball, I was drenched in sweat from chasing that damn thing all over the orphanage.
Shortly before lunch, we met some of the older kids as they returned from school. They were all really cool, yet another promising sign from the orphanage. They raise kids who are smart, fit, and socially well-adjusted. Unfortunately, we had to take off to lunch before we could have any sort of meaningful interaction with the older kids. Seeing as there was a small soccer field (concrete, but it had small goals), we promised to play with them when we came back.
Lunch was delicious; it was a buffet at a swanky hotel (like the day before, though, it was uncomfortable to eat so well after being in such a poor community). Though there were some local dishes, I questioned their authenticity as the buffet also had French fries. And, I’m embarrassed to say, those were the first to go. I’ll never understand why someone would come on Semester at Sea and then not be an adventurous eater.
After lunch, to my surprise, a lot of people wanted to return to the ship. I strongly disagreed. For starters, I had promised the older kids that we’d come back to hang out and play soccer. In addition, since it was nearly 1:00 and on-ship time was at 6:00, there wasn’t much one could do before having to return to the ship. In my mind, it was a no brainer to return to the orphanage. Luckily, about 10 others agreed, so we went back to the orphanage while the rest returned to the ship.
I’m so glad we went back, because we made the most of the extra two hours we were given there. When we first got back, we just hung around and talked with the older kids, mostly about music and the English Premiere League. They were big fans of American rap and Manchester United.
Eventually, we decided to play a little “football” of our own. One of the kids had a ball, but it was pretty worn. I immediately felt terrible for not bringing one. I know I’ve said it before, but sporting equipment is the absolute best thing to give underprivileged kids. Anyway, it was a good game. Pretty much all of the SAS visitors played, including Diane’s young sons (and my extended brothers) Asher and Barek. This game was probably my personal soccer highlight of the trip, as I had a great game. I distinctly remember one goal in which I went end-to-end, weaving my way through at least four defenders, before passing to my teammate who lives at the children’s home. He just tapped it into the open net.
After soccer, everyone was relaxing when Tolan pulled out his guitar. Now I wanted to sing Latin Chick, as I thought it would be a hysterical video to start with a close-up on us singing, only to pan out and reveal that we’re singing to young children. Wiser heads prevailed, though, and everyone else agreed that it would be inappropriate. I still maintain, though, that it would have been a riot.
Instead of making a joke of the situation, though, Tolan played an absolutely beautiful song. The kids were riveted. When he finished, they all erupted in applause. Tolan was beaming (that’s my band mate!). They wanted him to play another song, but we needed to take off as to get back to the boat on time. So we said our goodbyes and made our way out, again forcing me wonder why we are allowed to just drop into the orphanage for a day before returning to the lap of luxury. They have to live there. Before we left, though, I gave one of the kids my last box of chocolate-covered macadamias from Hawaii. I’m proud to report that it made his day.
Bussing back to the ship we had to stop for gas. So I took the opportunity to spend some of my remaining cedis on chocolate. I was told that it’s a must-get in Ghana. Turns out it’s pretty average. I enjoyed the cocoa flavor, but the texture is a bit chalky. Of course, that didn’t stop me from eating nearly a pound of it on the boat.
Instead of spending all my cedis, though, I saved 10 hoping to find a hat. I hadn’t gotten one yet, and I’d be damned if Ghana did me in in my hat-finding conquest. I was hoping to run into a vendor selling in the street during our ride back to the ship, but I was having no luck. And because it was nearly on-ship time, I didn’t have time to venture into Tema to fulfill my quest. But just when I was about to give up all hope, I saw a vendor with a small stand just outside to the port gates. And to my delight, he had a Ghana hat! It was clearly used, but I didn’t really have another choice. So I bought it, convincing myself that the previous owner left the hat with “character,” not a giant sweat stain. So I walked back to the ship, proudly wearing the green, yellow, and red hat on my head.
Reactions to Ghanaian Culture
I really enjoyed a lot of the people I met in Ghana. Unfortunately, I got an overwhelming sense that many locals recognized tourists for one thing and one thing only: money. Many of the shopkeepers didn’t think of me as a person, but instead saw me as an ATM. And while I understand why many people would view me this way, I am not, unfortunately, an endless source of money. Yet sellers were very pushy, even when I told them that I had no money to spend. Worse, they preyed on guilt. I was made to feel bad if I did not purchase goods or give someone money. See, there’s an overwhelming expectation amongst many locals that tourists can and should give them money. And if you don’t, they look at you like they want to cry. I will hand it to them, though, it’s a far more effective haggling tactic. In China, where the sellers are pushy and aggressive, I bargained without remorse. In Ghana, where laying on the guilt is the primary tactic, I had a much tougher time haggling for a good price.
On a completely different note, I had a few interesting revelations while visiting the townships. First, I recognized how incredibly materialistic I am. That was an odd realization, as I have always considered myself to not be all that materialistic. And I don’t think that I am, at least in the American sense. In the global sense, though, I’m incredibly materialistic. In the township, as well as at the orphanage, people seemed content to just sit around listening to the radio. Some people didn’t even need that, happy to just lie down and rest. Seeing this, all I could think about was how bored I’d be if that was how I passed the time. Granted, these people didn’t seem entertained. But at the same time, they didn’t seem bored.
Second, though the living conditions are quite poor in the townships, there is a distinct benefit: poverty builds community. An easy way to explain this point is by flipping it around: wealth builds isolation. When someone’s wealthy, they can live in a big, gated house filled with many toys to keep them entertained. Living in an impoverished area of Ghana, however, you’re lucky to have a radio, let alone a TV. This seems to strengthen the community, as the people must rely on each other for entertainment. And because there’s a strong community, many of the people seem genuinely happy.
Now there were some ultraliberals on ship who seemed to think that people are “happier” and “better off” living as in the townships or, even better, in more rural area as tribes. This is simply not the case. Many places don’t have access to clean water, medicine or education. And, as is the case in most impoverished, uneducated nations, Ghana has a quite poor record with human rights. Women are still thought of as commodities and can be purchased with dowries, sometimes without the woman’s consent. As for homosexuality, to this day it is illegal to be gay in Ghana. This goes for men and women, as a female friend of mine described giving her friend a playful kiss, only to be sharply warned by her to cab driver to knock it off. He wasn’t trying to be mean; he was genuinely concerned that the girls may be arrested.
Finally, the most inspirational thing I took away from Ghanaian culture was the strong desire among young people to get educated. While everyone in the city was asking for money, the kids in the township, the children’s home, and Torgorme Village overwhelming asked for educational supplies. They wanted paper, pencils, books, computers, anything. As Rebecca, my friend from Torgorme Village, simply said, “I love learning.”
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