On Friday, the national Farmers Day holiday, I filled the car tank (close to $50), grabbed my trusty Bradt guide and headed west as far as the fishing town of Winneba, wanting to see some Bradt-recommended sights along the way. Theoretically you can go as far west along the coast to Cape Coast and Elmina, however given the time it takes to get out of traffic-ensnarled Accra (plus I keep getting lost), and then the hellish traffic going through towns enroute, it wasn't a particular pleasant experience. Every little town has vendors in the street -- all selling the same foodstuffs and junk. Hard to figure out what the point is, as no one can be earning very much money.
I couldn't find some of the sights listed in the guide, there were some unpaved roads that I was not going to try to navigate without a 4x4, and it takes quite a while to get from the main road south along the feeder roads to the beach. I also got lost coming back into town and kept telling myself, "This is an adventure, this is fun, this is new, this is -- well, actually, it was just slightly less annoying than working for sheep.
Yesterday, though, was pretty amazing, because weekends in Ghana are also for funerals. A whole lot of people come from villages in regions throughout country -- where the languages and customs are all different -- and they go home to their village when there's a family funeral. The funeral can can take four or five days with all the arrangements, religious and traditional ceremonies and family gatherings. My impressions and very superficial knowledge are that going home to your village is mostly about comfort. It's about speaking your traditional language, being with family, seeing childhood friends, participating in traditions. Life is simple, easy, slow, predictable and cherished. You are someone because you're from somewhere -- where you're known and accepted.
Funerals in Ghana are ritualized celebrations, and when they say "celebration of life", they're not just paying lip service tribute...they're really celebrating. Black and white are the traditional mourning colors (though red is also worn, though I'm not clear why). The older the person who died, the more white is prevalent, the sentiment being that a person over 70 is dying naturally and at an appropriate age and has lived a long time so his/her life should be celebrated. After the church service, a band leads the coffin and on-foot processional to the cemetery for burial, after which the "mourners" (or rather, celebrants) are invited to the home of the deceased's family for a joyous celebration.
Felix is one of the two Communications specialists I supervise. His mother died a couple of months ago, but her funeral wasn't until yesterday because it takes quite a while to save and gather the funds necessary for all the funereal actitivities. In fact, it's customary for friends and colleagues to help defray expenses with a monetary gift, which is what both Venancious (the other specialist) and I did, as well as the project office as a whole. Three colleagues and I, plus one of our drivers, traveled 4-1/2 hours each way to attend the funeral in theVolta region village of Kadjebi, just on the western side of the mountains that form Ghana's eastern border with Togo.
It's a four and a half hour trip, and was very interesting for the first three hours. Then it got long. But during the first part of the trip there was lively conversation -- mostly about the political situation in Cote d'Ivoire, Ghana's neighbor to the west, where a disputed presidential election is a precursor to anything from violence in the streets to all-out civil war, sure to send Ivoriens fleeing next door to Ghana. Second favorite topic is soccer, with the World Cup having just been awarded to Russia and Qatar in --what? 2018 and 2022?!
We stopped in a small village for what might be considered "brunch" at home, because no one had had breakfast, given that we'd left Accra so early. This stop was at a "chop bar" -- someone's very modest shack where "local food" is served. As far as I can figure out, Ghanaians typically eat three meals a day, all of which are basically the same: a starch (maize, cassava, yam or rice -- or combination) that they eat with their hands, scooping up the "sauce" that's poured on it. The sauces have meat, fish, chicken or vegetables and they're very spicy. There's also a "soup", but I can't tell the difference from it and a "sauce". Actually, there are other local dishes, such as delicious grilled fish and potatoes, and grilled or fried chicen with "jollo" (spicy) or fried rice.
I try to be a good sport about new foods, but I'll never be a special guest on those Food Channel TV shows where the host (e.g., Anthony Bourdain?) is eating something very weird. So, at this chop enroute to the funeral, I just couldn't do it. The lady grabbed the cassava (or yam?) ball, slapped it into a bowl, and poured over it a sauce that had parts of an animal I do not want to eat, and that literally turned my stomach. I made some excuse and rushed out onto the street where I bought some bananas and "chips" (fried bread and groundnuts --peanuts) and then came back to play with the woman's five, six? grandchildren, all of whom clearly thought I was the most exciting thing to hit their village.
Then there's the issue of the bathroom when you go out of the city. There's no way to get around the fact that this can be quite a challenge, especially for a woman. As fussy as I am about my food, I'm probably fussier about my toilet. I'd much rather go behind a bush or rock than in some of the places I've been, but it's best to wear a skirt to do that. I was wearing pants (white, with a black top) and en route had to pee. One of my colleagues had a family member who lived nearby, and offered their outdoor facility. I was looking for/dreading the hole in the ground (a cement-lined "latrine" is considered a more developed concept), but turns out they had a cement-floored shower/pee room. Ah, the things you learn as a traveler...
By the time we arrived in Kadjebi, about 11:30 a.m., the church service had ended, so I have no idea what happened -- and wouldn't have understood it, anyway. I was much more fascinated by the music and dancing at the reception in the courtyard of Felix's village home -- and the fashion show. Even though not everyone wore black/white/red, many did -- custom-made dresses and shirts exqisitely tailored and literally cut from the same black-and-white patterned cloth. Felix's family chose to have all family members wear the same cloth (the black diamond-pattern seen in the photos), but everyone had a different style -- even the men and children. And the music and traditional dancing! Wonderful! I did some dancing, much to the delight of the local women. I did not, however, eat much of the meal so kindly served to us as Felix's "special guests". Each family member has his/her own special guests who are served their meal inside, in one of the family houses, as opposed to the other invited guests, who eat boxed meals under the outdoor canopies.
As we were getting ready to leave, Felix thanked all of us for coming -- me in particular, saying it was such an honor to have his "white lady boss" there, and people had already mentioned it to him. Although this made me uncomfortable, fraught as it was with elitism, racism and the vestiges of colonialism, I accepted his thanks in the spirit they were given, and to alleviate my own tension, teased him in response, "Oh, good, I guess that means you're now the 'big man' in your village!" We all laughed, but I think we all know how deeply complex my being there was.
xxoxoxo Love, Grammy
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