Of parades, chiefs, forts, and violence

I am going to be so upset when I can no longer buy my food/drinks packaged neatly in a bag, sold by a woman or man who walks to the window of the car I'm in. One of the most bizarre things about this country (okay, not the MOST bizarre, but up there) is that, on every major road, people carrying baskets on their head containing plantain chips, frozen chocolate milk or vanilla ice cream in a bag (called FanIce), sodas, bags of water, pretty much anything you would want to consume, come up to the window of your taxi/tro-tro/bus and sell it to you right there. It's wonderful.

I feel like I'm always wanting to begin these blog entries with "Wow, what a week." Each week brings a slew of new wonders, challenges, frustrations, excitement, and experiences. This weekend alone contained what felt like several weekends worth of experiences.

On Thursday night (which is when my "weekend" begins because I have no classes on Friday), some friends of mine were invited to one of their neighbor's suite for a little get together, so I went with them. Part way through the night I realized that the nationalities in the room spanned the globe, which I thought was incredibly cool. The hosts were from Korea, Seoul and the second capital (which I hate to admit, I can't remember). One of their female friends was Korean by ethnicity but was born in Cote d'Ivoire and speaks fluent English with an American accent (didn't quite find out how that had happened though). One of the host's roommates is a Black Brit from Chelsea and another is a boy from Burkina Faso. There were two other friends from Korea, one of whom had lived in Ghana for the past 5 years. The last guest I met that night was born in China but had also been living in Ghana for an extended period of time. Then of course there were the four girls from the States - representing Minnesota, Texas, Pennsylvania and New York.
It was one of the coolest collective groups of individuals I've been with in my life.

The next morning, four friends and I boarded an incredibly crowded tro-tro headed towards Cape Coast. Some of you may recognize the name Cape Coast because this is the place where Obama visited a slave fort during his visit to ghana. Every first weekend of September, there is a festival in Cape Coast celebrating the harvest. We weren't quite sure what the festivities entailed, but we definitely wanted to check it out. All of the hostels in the center of the city were full so we ended up staying in this adorable little inn about 20 minutes outside of the city.

By the time we got to the inn, we were starving, and so immediately sat down in their little restaurant to grab a bite to eat. It took an incredibly long time to get the food but we were enjoying each others company in the mean time and the owner of the inn came over to say "Hi." She introduces herself and we immediately recognize her accent as American. We soon learn that the adorable inn has an equally adorable history behind it.

Adjua, the woman who owns the inn, and her husband used to live in Philadelphia. After their son grew up, around 1998, they decided that they wanted to "go home." Never having been to Ghana before, Adjua and Kofi packed up all their belongings, including a numbers of items they had collected in order to donate them once here, and simply moved. They had never met anyone here and did not yet have a house. How gutsy is that?? Her husband built the inn outside the city and then built her her dream house overlooking the Atlantic. Kofi passed away this last year but she seems happy to have such strong reminders of him in the form of her home and the inn. Something I've discovered is that the foreigners you meet here are incredibly kind and down-to-earth with wonderful stories to tell.

After dinner we hopped a taxi into town. A bar called Oasis had been recommended by a friend, so we started our night there. Much to our dismay, the ratio of oborunis to ghanaians was approximately 6 to 1. However, the beach was just beyond the sitting area so we walked down to dip our feet into the Atlantic. It was beautiful and serene, which added to our horror when we turned to our left and realized that the Cape Coast Slave Castle loomed not too far in the distance. We all suddenly felt very eerie - a feeling exacerbated by the stark contrast between the serenity of the beach and it's bloody and painful history. We stood there for quite some time discussing next weekend's visit to the castle itself and those of us who have visited concentration camps in earlier travels commented on the likelihood of experiencing a similar haunted feeling as we did on those occasions.

Taking an active step against a morbid evening, we all wandered back to the sitting area of the bar. This was a smart move, as it turns out. One of the girls in our group struck up a question with a Ghanaian University student and after a lengthy conversation, he offered to be our guide for the festival.

The next morning Andrew, the University student we had met the night before, and his friend Emmanuel met us at a junction near the parade. They both warned us several times over to watch our bags like hawks (not the expression they used but definitely the gist) and led us toward the din and the commotion. I've seen parades before (one of the most memorable viewings being the Macy's Thanksgiving Day Parade from a roof in my dads building in Times Square - incredible) and I've seen "historical demonstrations" in Williamsburg, Plymouth, etc etc. This was just like a combination of those two things and yet nothing like it at all. The Chief of Cape Coast, along with other dignitaries, were carried through the crowd in chaise lounges balanced nimbly on the heads of beautifully dressed men. All participants of the parade were royally and traditionally dressed in fabrics of stunning color. Groups of women would perform a traditional dance as they passed while the men kept time with their drums. Andrew explained that the boy walking before the Chief was holding the Chief's shoes in a offering of reverence - a symbol that the Chief is so honored that he should never have to walk.
What amazed me, and hence the comment of how different this was from a "historical re-enactment," was that not one bit of this was staged. This parade was not happening for the benefit of tourists; this was and has been their tradition. Those who were in the parade itself seemed to take the task incredibly seriously - this is a part of their culture, a part of their heritage.

The crowd was insane. I've mentioned the Ghanaian lack of concern for personal space and it was only worse near the parade. Andrew repeatedly told us to watch our bags but I suppose we were so overwhelmed by the dancing crowd, the adorned women, and the rhythm of the drums, that we weren't keeping as close an eye as we should have been. Suddenly I realize that there is shouting and most of our group isn't right behind me. I look further and see Andrew holding the cuff of a teen's shirt, yelling. I run back to make sure everything is okay and my friend fills me in. The boy, who looked to be about 16 or 17 years old, had unzipped her backpack and was grabbing hold of her camera when Andrew caught him. I hear Andrew yelling "Don't you understand that this is why we don't have strong tourism? How can you treat them like that? It's kids like you that keep this country down" etc etc etc. The kid was struggling and it soon turns into a fist fight - something that I've seen happen before but had never been a part of.

I'm frozen in place. My jaw has dropped and I don't know what to do or say. I've never seen such violence for such a small reason before. Eventually, the police lazily meander over and ask what the trouble is. Andrew explains and they grab the kid by his shirt and throw him down the street with a warning "you come back here and it's jail." If I had been stunned before then, I was now absolutely bewildered. In the states, the police would have hauled both people down to the station for at the very least, a stern talking to.

Later on I had a discussion with some of my friends about this experience. We realized that the violence was "necessary" in their culture because their was no assurance that the criminal would be punished by the law. Essentially, people took the responsibility to deter teens from petty crime into their own hand. What I loathe about this is the fact that this system simply engenders a culture of violence.

The number of children in this society is shocking and they often roam the streets with no parental guidance or attention. This means that they see the same street fights we have witnessed. There is a mode of learning in psychology called imitation; a part of a child's essential development is watching their elders and imitating them. These feeds right into the theory of a cycle of violence and I truly feel that until the police begin to enforce the law, this country, and others like it, will never fully develop.

The rest of the afternoon was incredible however. Andrew and Emmanuel took us away from the parade and up a hill to an abandoned fort. The fort overlooked the entirety of Cape Coast and a stretch of the Atlantic. It was truly beautiful. It was our first taste of the physical remnants of colonialism in Africa - it was frightening how beautiful the scenery in comparison to it's past.

I'll post a few pictures of the weekend now and next time I'll tell you all about the World Cup Qualifier, frustrations and excitement, and Cape Coast part deux!