How We Spent the Holydays

St. of Travelers

The true xmas bonuses were distributed on Saturday only six hours later than promised. During the time in between we fuelled up on Wakye [watch-yay] – rice and beans – got duped by a bus conductor (a mate) into going an hour in the wrong directin, visited Independence Square with its misplaced Soviet bleak gigantism, watched the waves, and bought dresses from a large laughing lade who loved Miia’s attempts and bargaining and Twi: “Your wife is like a Ghanaian!” she laughed. For lunch we rediscovered the disparity between legend and reality at an over-rated fast food joint called Papayes. As I finally collected my bonus and bathed in a stream of pure compliments paid to me via Miia from my co-workers, whose kindnesses made me feel like I belonged here in this Ghanaian journalism field.

The night soiled my sort of homecoming. Aiti blessed us with a call to Miia’s cell, which was passed to me then so deftly into the hands of a thief in the blink of an eye.

We stewed angrily home and consoled ourselves with generous gifts for the Family Captain, who himself was 200 ml of vodka toward oblivion. They thanked us calmly except for Little John, who practically burst when he saw that the soccer ball that followed the books had his own name inscribed in it. He quickly stashed them in his room. “I’m not allowed to play football,” he said most confidentially. “But I play everyday at school. I will hide this at my friend’s house and bring it to school every day.”

“Will it get stolen at school?” Miia asked.

“No, it has my name on it.”

Captain’s Daughter was grateful but admonished that the beauty kit given her mother would have suited her better. “We can discuss it when you return from camping,” she told us. “Camping, what a white thing to do.”

The white people were the only ones on the bus to get ecited by the monkeys running across the highway, which forewarned us of a hard bargaining taxi driver and a leary-eyed kenkey seller making kissy faces at a jealous man’s wife while they consume their finger food.

From the highway junction on the road to Ho (capital of Volta Region a few hours northeast of Accra) we talked the driver down by $2 and ended up buying him a Christmas Guinness because he so patiently drove us around a tiny town buying boxed red wine and fruit for Jesus Day. I sat in back with the driver’s son or brother while Miia learned his life story upfront, about his passion-fruit farm and his education in Accra. He came home to find little work to correspond with his training in science. We said our goodbye’s when we reached the eco-village, and Miia observed then how relationships can so quickly transform from commercial to human once an agreeable price is set.

Prince welcomed us to Xofa Ecovillage and Stanley escorted us to a thatch-roofed shade provider complete with lawn furniture. We shunned the basic hut shelters, pretty though they were, and pitched our tent for a better bargain, saving money for beer and supper, which was generally served three hours after being ordered. We took turns taking dips in the shallow eastern shore o the Volta with Stanley, Prince, Bongo – the volunteer staff – and their visiting friend the pretty young Juliana, whom we later entertained with Christmas carol duets.

After dinner in the dark they demonstrated the local drumbeats – borborbor – on a hand-carved rum, Stanley, a silent boy scout who loves to camp, on lead, Prince with a 2-hit backbeat, and Bongo the Rastafarian singing a raspy off-key Ewe melody and banging a cowbell with almost no resonance. Collectively it was beautiful. They taught us the 2-hit beat so we could play along, then the much more complicated borborbor, which had 10 hits in a certain rhythm, some with the drum raised between the knees to increase resonance. Miia caught on quickly despite Stanley’s lack of pedagogical proclivity. She in turn taught me and they encouraged us with gusto: “Your trying! Your trying!” by which I think they meant we were getting somewhere. Miia sang them a few songs then and I backed her up on a couple to rapturous applause. Bongo narrated the evening in a stoner drawl: “Thass ow we do eet ‘ere,” until we yawned them away after a long day, swam naked under African stars, slept with a strange sense of tropical xmas joy.

Xofa succeeded in providing its visitors with a slow easy joy, the kind that flees from overcrowded cities like Toronto and Accra and only decreases speed when it sees more trees than people. That joy’s mellow hangover languished over Christmas Day reading writing and relaxing until hunger got the best of us walking to the nearby village with Stanley. There we found the global village welcoming committee: two men drunk on palm wine who grabbed and shook us vigorously, begged prodded and pulled us to dance. We politely but firmly refused, sat on a bench and watched three or four drummers, six or eight singers, and a few dances doing some kind of chicken dance amongst the mud huts. It was a grand Christmas party the likes of which I’d never seen, but the more the welcoming committee shouted “It’s Christmas yeah mon! It’s Christmas dance dance!” the less we felt like dancing.

We were given fermented red palm juice, which tasted like stale wine, drank our fill and put some on the ground for our ancestors, and were led to the other end of the village, where we joined some elders in circular bench-sitting. They brought us a sprite bottle filled with spirits and poured us glasses. “You are welcome!” they said, and we drank a couple shots. Whatever it was sucked all the mucous from my brain and throat. Then came the beer, which we tried to refuse because it is expensive and their herding and farming income probably doesn’t even cover medical expenses. Our refusal was refused and we split a bottle, insisted they take the last drop, which they did. A very old man joined us supported by his cane, and was offered a drink of the hard stuff. “Oh!” he cried, holding it aloft. “Allelujah amen!” and he quaffed it in one go.

“It’s Christmas! This is how we celebrate, yeah mon!” cried half of our welcoming committee as the other half shushed him.

We hadn’t even realized we were going to a village: we had envisioned a town with meals; in Xofa there is one meal option (rice and tomato sauce) and it takes three hours to prepare. Now here we were stumbling along a trail through lush tropical forest and plots of cassava and plantain overlooking a gigantic lake under the setting sun from one village to another in search of cold water to drink.

The second village, Dodi, was maybe 10 times the size of the first with its thousand residents, half o them children chanting “white man give me money!” at us. We declined the requests and bought some oranges instead for us, Stanley, and Juliana. “Give me your orange,” said a hulking young many to me. I laughed and told him the orange was mine and he laughed too, repeating my words. I guess I passed his test somehow.

Stanly led us to a large circle of drummers and dancers and a large mass of children followed us. We turned on them and danced and yet again we were objects of great joy, the epicentre of a rolling mass of children literally jumping and squealing and laughing for joy. Of course a man had to grab us, shoo away the most pleasant and smallest of society, and drag us wherever he felt appropriate. Of course he did so with a huge grin on his face saying “You are doing a wonderful thing.” We waved the kids back along with us, and children joined adults, women and men, in a big bobbing colourful circle, singing and dancing as the sun touched the horizon.

“We should go, getting dark,” I cautioned, and we extricated ourselves with big smiles and the children followed us to the end of the village, still asking for money.

“You give me money!” Miia joked, but they pouted that they had non, and what could we say to that?

We returned to our tent under the thatched roof shade-provider, settled in to wait for our rice and tomatoes, and I felt overwhelmed, frustrated, sad, and too far from home.

Now and Later

Victus, the manager of Xofa, on learning of my association with the press, asked me if I could do something to promote the place. I offered to interview him, thinking it would make a good development story, and he indeed provided an interesting interview.

[Miia had spoken to Victus before we came to get a feel for the place and make sure it was open at Christmastime. When he tried to reach her again he fond himself in a confusing conversation with either the thief or buyer of her phone.]

While the ‘staff’ of Xofa, who receive room and board and the promise of a share of future profits should they ever come to fruition and should they hang around that long, but no salary, take tourists to gawk at villagers, some of those villagers are not pleased that their chief has lent the land for an ‘eco-village’ because they want to use it for cassava, corn, maize, and other traditional crops. Xofa grows mangoes for export -because they are a more sustainable longer term crop and they stabilize the shores of the lake and protect it from runoff. To appease the villagers the owners, who live in the US and fund the venture with their salaries, give them free medical supplies and mangoes. If Xofa ever turns a profit a chunk of it will go to the chief and his subjects forever.

Victus argues that he is thinking long-term while villagers think short-term, and even sabotage mango tres with arson, as they had done just two days before our arrival – we witnessed the smoldering remains of 40 trees. This is perhaps one of those cases where short term acute economic needs conflict with long term ecological goals; though I failed to attain the point of view of the arsonists, so that is only one perspective.

In the afternoon a black Adonis and his assistant Prosper, a francophone Ewe fro mTogo learning English in a Ghanaian school, picked us up in their canoe and took us to Dodi Island, where we visited a third village. Miia and I took turns paddling and bailing in the flat-bottomed multi-holed canoe from the middle while Stanley and Juliana held tight upfront – neither are strong swimmers and the thread of tippage in the big choppy waters was ever present.

It took just a few hundred metres of stroking the heavy paddle to realize why our lead men had bodies of gods. In an hour we reached the shore and walked over hard dark shores reminiscent of South Shore Nova Scotia. We made the obligatory stop for a shot of hard liquor and a sit with older villagers, silent topless women and eagerly verbose men repeating welcome again and again, shaking our hands and asking Miia’s hand in marriage. “That will make him number two,” she told them, showing our rings, the only gold we own, forged in Finland but quite possible mined from right here in Ghana. Juliana, though Ghanaian, was also not immune to such flirtations, she also being an outsider to the village and thus a big deal.

We made our way to a rocky beach and were shocked to see a massive iron dock, where we learned that a ferry full of tourists from Accra comes ever Saturday and Sunday, and everyday during the holidays. We jumped off its end a few times before the boat arrived full of 300 glitzy big-city cats in immaculate holiday outfits. A few drummers assembled near the shore and played their hearts out – borborbor – while the tourists gawked and took pictures of us instead, whiteys in the village! A few bought snacks or dropped tips in a bucket for the glass-eyed drummers and singers who exhibited little of the joy we’d seen at their own party the day before. “I think there are two Ghanas,” Miia said. “Rich city people and here.”

“There are two everywheres,” I added.

Stanley told us that Dodi Island once had government-built huts and a restaurant so tourists could stay, learn, and spend there, but that the current government removed all of these things. “Because they were the accomplishment of the last government.”

The Elusive Winwin

We spent the evening with a middle-aged new couple from the UK, Steve and Cassandra, talking politics development education child-rearing tradition herding hunting and other ways of living and being. Stenley, Prince, Juliana and a very stoned Bongo joined us again and gave Steve and Cass their beginner drumming lessons and Miia and me lesson II, which introduced a second complex borborbor beat that we failed to master. Bongo sang up everything from the alphabet to a repetitive “shake your bot-tles” refrain. He wants to cut an album and Miia wrote out the basic chord fingerings so he can learn them on his guitar, which he lent her. In its case stashed a one-pager on Rastafarianism and the importance of weed, a few joints, some pills, and several condoms. He is a philosopher and a ladies man.

The staff of Xofa were very good to us and it took us by surprise when they requested a tip as we left. We turned them down and I regret it because they are unpaid and worked hard. I think we were psychologically unprepared for the request and it seemed incongruous to the mellow and natural spirit of the place, and the fact that all the money we paid to stay there went into sustainable community development. But why shouldn’t these guys get a little bit for themselves? We made an on-the-spot decision that probably would have been different if we’d had time to consider it. As we made haste to catch our ride with Cassandra the request blended into all the other cries for money or publicity or NGOs or so-called friendships that are based on positions and power not love.

With the soft sting of regret we rode away with Cassandra, who had borrowed her friend’s 4WD. She and Steve are in Ghana for 11 days to get a feel for the place. She has taught extensively in East Africa, lived in Ethiopia through the Mengistu years and, since the famines and other atrocities were hidden from all residents, she loved it there. Steve has traveled and done community development work in The Gambia. Two years ago the two divorcees met and found themselves entangled in a mutually beneficial way, and growing bored of life in the UK together, considering other options. Lately they have been filling their time and bank accounts with landscape design, but she wants to teach in the south again.

I hope she teaches better than she drives over dirt pot-holed roads, which she does at full throttle with no regard for vulnerable axels or craniums. No Ghanaian would take a bad road so hard.

We made it okay to the good paved road and caught a ride with some fish merchants. We made one stop to sell some frozen fish and thee stops to pay roadside cops small bribes. The driver complained that one trip can cost him 50-100,000 cedis ($6-12) in bribes. We told him of the theft of our phone and he said that thieves should be killed or maimed at least, that Muslims were the worst, and that half of the people in Accra are thieves. He meant it, but he couldn’t explain what made him so suspicious of Muslims – fear of difference I guess, the universal human trait that unites us.

He dropped us at a long hot road to the Tofi Atome Monkey Sanctuary at mid-day, which we walked, stopping only to watch two boys weave bright kente cloth and make small talk with them. We took their pictures and bought a piece from them. Their loom is several yards long and narrow, with several pedals. Their hands and feet fly, switching colours with incredible alacrity; it’s an impressive sight and makes a gorgeous product.

We were welcomed at Tofi Atome by Martin, a straight-shooter who showed us around and where we could pitch our tent. We explored the village on our own and sat on a bench to drink American soft-drinks in the shade. This has been the easiest and most pleasant village to visit. Having paid an admission fee, and being just the latest in a long rolling wave of whites to pass through and monkey-watch, we are no big deal here. People are kind and friendly, and call out “Good afternoon; you are welcome here,” instead of “White man give me money.” Half the money we pay goes directly to the village and they have built themselves a health clinic already. Unlike other villages we’ve seen, this one is almost devoid of litter, the hard dirt ground is swept clean. The monkeys are protected by law and a valued source of income, so nobody hunts them anymore: ongoing cash flow beats a quick meal. The people here now have many streams of income: their animals, selling crafts, weaving, admission fees, preparing meals for tourists, telling stories and drumming (and teaching drumming) to tourists. This seems to be a good example of eco and cultural tourism – the elusive win-win scenario.

“Don’t Get Me Started on the Dutch.” –Our friend Brad

That evening we met four Dutch visitors: a Doctor here on a three-year contract, her husband the Engineer, who is trying to build a new, cleaner and cheaper kind of water supply that has worked well in other poor southern countries, and her parents who are visiting for xmas. The couple have learned some Twi and really taken to certain Ghanaian ways of being, like saying the long drawn out “a-haaaaaaaa” when in agreement or to express understanding. They told us at length of their great many frustrations about Ghana: corruption, over-attachment to tradition, love of gleaming money and blaring bling over true development, low standards of quality, workmanship, professionalism. These are all frustrations we too have had here, but we tried to point out that the same frustrations exist at home, especially over-emphasis on money and things and misaligned priorities. They acknowledged that Ghana’s problems are rooted in the West, our unwillingness to compromise our own great wealth or level the international playing field. Yet they remained steadfastly critical of so much of what is Ghana, what is being Ghanaian, right down to the food. “Why waste so much time preparing fufu? Surely there are better ways to spend your time.” But denying a Ghanaian fufu is like denying a Canadian hockey, or summer swimming, or birthday celebrations, all of the above, or even denying a Frenchman moldy cheese or aged wine, or a Scott fine scotch, on the basis of inefficiency. Are these pastimes and delicacies the most productive way to spend ones time? Maybe not productive, but they are part of what we are, they make us human, make us whole, make us distinct in our cultures, make us happy. Doctor’s criticism was so complete that she described all Ghanaian tradespeople as unintelligent.

There are many people, institutions and societies that can be held accountable for poverty, poor health, injustice, cultural genocide, and environmental destruction, not least of which are Ghanaians themselves. But in our magnanimous criticisms as outside observers given the privilege of visiting, let us not forget to turn our disquietudes to the mirror. And, as Miia pointed out, let’s not forget to acknowledge the strengths that we find here, the beautiful things and the great leadership and innovation shown by so many.

Christmas Monkeys Forever

At 6 AM we saw the Monkey King punish a minion’s tail for eating too close to the throne. In all there are about 60 monkeys in the group (350 in the sanctuary) and they had gathered for hand-fed bananas and photographs. The King is twice as big as your average Mona Monkey, and eats four times as much, three times as slowly, and with 10 times the dignity. He refuses to take bananas directly from human hands, but will gather what is left for him from an appropriate distance, dust the sand off, peel, and pensively munch. His role is not only to enforce rules but to watch for danger and fight off intruders. He has sharp teeth as attested by the cries of the little offender

In the afternoon our 5k bike-ride on dirt roads stretched triple length and took us al the way to Tafi Abuipe, a village of 1,200 farmers and 800 full-time weavers making kente cloth under the shade of thatch roofs, 3-10 per station on looms scattered across the village. We made small talk, snapped pictures, and made off with an armload of colourful patterns. The visit with souvenirs and a rice and eggs lunch cost us $60; the village is doing well since it formalized its ancient skill. Young weavers come from all over Ghana to apprentice there, and become Master Weavers in three years. What tourists don’t buy are shipped and sold in Accra for twice the price. Under the tutelage of the proprietors of Monkey Town, the weavers have centralized their sales to tourists so that they don’t have to hawk their wares themselves. The apprentices get paid a set amount for every 26 pieces they complete, and they quickly become nimbly efficient and flawless in their craft. Masters continue to weaver and also buy up and sell the work of their protégés. The village is thriving and the tourists are happy because there is no pressure to buy; for a small entrance fee they can roam at will, or have a guided tour, and snap photos.

To my dismay we took a shortcut back to Monkey Town through a narrow bumpy trail, from the end of which we watched a crying goat be manhandled, kicked, and loaded onto the roof of a trotro. It’s chicken and fufu for supper tonight, free range of course.

Old Stories

After supper an argument broke out between the Dutch Doctor and Foster, one of the operators of the monkey sanctuary. The Dutch had ordered up a real African storytelling session but Foster was informing them that it was not possible that particular evening. “Today was a harvest day and everyone is working all day. And there was a special meeting called. Now most people are in bed. The storyteller is old and disabled and he is asleep.”

The Doctor would not be deterred. “We told Patrick yesterday and he said it would be fine. And he told me just now it would happen tonight,” she said.

“Patrick was away all day so he didn’t realize. He didn’t tell me you had ordered storytelling or I would have arranged it.”

“That is just not good!” And she insisted and persisted until the blind old storyteller was awoken and led to the centre of town, where seats were arranged for six white tourists, two of them being Miia and I who embarrassedly shuffled along, having promised to take part back when it seemed no big deal.

Sitting in the middle of the dirt road we strained attentively to hear over the bleating of goats and the laughter of children as the teller, Albert, tuned his wooden flute using Christmas carols. He told three stories in all, interspersed with tunes and one shanty about how the first African railroads sent many a young person away to England on a ‘trip’ from which they nor their ancestors never returned. He had a sweet raspy voice that told not only stories of monkeys, turtles, rats, partridges and fish, but also the story of the stories, and of his own long life going back to boyhood when he learned the seeds of his stories from his grandfather. “The children are more interested in videos now,” he laughed, but tourists still have interest that they back up with fees and tips. The drummers were supposed to follow his act, but they refused because it was late and they had harvested all day, would do the same tomorrow. Inside I cheered for them because I was tired and could empathize and admired their ability to say no, to turn down a fee in lieu of their well-earned and much-needed rest. Mine was not so well-earned, but the Californian red wine shared by the Dutch at dinner gave it to me anyway.

Auld Lang Syne

After a month we had our first meal with this strange, distant yet generous, family: under-roasted turkey, fried plantain, salad, fried rice, red wine, a veritable new year’s feast. Captain said nary a word, and has in fact seemed mildly depressed since the holidays began. Mid-meal he abandoned us to go down in the ship of the sisters whispered Twi cackles as they observed our eating routine meticulously, as he himself routed through his old cassette collection and played some of his favourite gems, periodically explaining the origin and significance of the tune. “This is Ghana’s first guitar player, died 30 years ago.”

“Ashanti music,” said his First Mate somewhat dismissively. “Captain comes from Ashanti.” It was a beautiful almost Cuban melody. Little was said to us except in answer to Miia’s expectant questions, attempts to break the bubble.

When the guests, Captain’s dead sister’s daughter and her husband and three-year-old, arrived, there were squeals and half-hugs and we were introduced to the niece’s back as she greeted Captain, and to the little boy as “the white people living in our house” by Captain’s First Daughter.

We joined the men in the living room as the women hit the kitchen and the daughters dispersed and Little John took to cleaning. Soon two heated conversations were taking place, mostly in Twi, with Captain lecturing his nephew and the niece imploring First Mate to sympathize with some tragedy in which she would surely emerge victorious. Ghanaians are first rate bitchers and even better sympathizers; the listener invariably makes her interest known with a series of emphatic exclamations like “Eh! Eh-Heeeeeh! Oh! Baah!” etc. Unable to linguistically participate, we retired to our room with sated bellies but hungry eyes, having looked so longingly for some kind of human connection to this family.

New Year’s Day

On New Year’s Day we went to a Party party, New Patriotic to be specific. They are the ruling party, likely to repeat as political champions of Ghana in 2008. Patrick is a card-carrier and organized the whole shindig. There was good food (two hours late) and dancing. We were dragged to the floor by a young woman who took it upon herself to befriend us namelessly. There were beers, speeches (in Twi), arguments, and a shoving match. We left early to get some western-style ice cream to start the year right.