The World Keeps on Turning

Recently, I have received numerous emails from varied parts of the globe about the tumultuous events taking place in both my family and my friends' lives. My heart is continuously dropped into new rhythm and pace at the thought of this earth turning in so many different ways, for different people, in different places.
But, I believe in the power of thought and prayer and how it is able to bridge all of these gaps we believe to be so achingly far between. I am thinking and praying for you all and if you want to sit in a moment of quiet contemplation away from the haze of chaos that can surround us at any given moment in time, I am sure you will feel the love I, and many others are sending you.
All of these turbulent and emotional events that I have read about on the glaring screen of an all too unemotive computer have shifted the tone of the blog that I am about to embark on this afternoon. Rather than speak of larger events and ceremonies and of the many customs and traditions of the Ashanti people, I will instead give a few snapshots into what village life is like here in the small community of Ejura - what life is...

All at once the lights burn to black and we are shrouded in darkness sitting on wooden benches of the conrete porch of Namascar House. The five of us volunteers give a groan of despair at the countless number the blackouts have reached when our cries are fast over ridden by the voices of the eight school boys, housed here at Namascar, and their accusingly defiant calls of "Teef! Teef!" - which, loosely translated into english, is "Theif! Thief!"
They have caught a boy in the act of robbery - 2, 000 cedis was the amount stolen; converted into canadian currency, it roughly amounts to 20 cents.
The eight boys and a number of other young villagers take up arms with tree branches and chase the accused boy admist their warrior cries for the prevailment of justice.
When the accused reaches his home, he promptly shuts the door, leaving the Justice League stunned and consequently, out of work.

Every Monday there is a large market in Ejura set up on a wide spanning lot of dirt. Mostly, the market is composed of vendours selling cheap Chinese imports, locally grown vegetables and spices and beautifully bright coloured African textiles.
Upon entering the market for the first time last Monday, my first vision of it was a medicinal man standing slightly to the right of the entrance gate. He had a chart hanging from his umbrella with crude sketches of different medical conditions: a man keeled over vomitting in splashes on the ground, a man squatting down excreting burning diahrea and a man with his pants down passing bloody urine were a few of the images he claimed to have a cure for. The various cures were sitting in mangy, previously used soda bottles, each one a slightly varying colour from the first bottle of blackening green sludge I layed my eyes upon.
And maybe, just maybe, they all looked the same because what I ignorantly couldn't discern from the Twi explanations below the cartoon illustrations of medical conditions, was that they were all the same - a cure-all for any ailment you're likely to receive in Ghana.

A countless number of times now, I have been truly touched by the honesty, generosity and welcoming nature of the Ghanian people here in the Ashanti region.
A few days ago I got lost on my way home from town. Bumbling my way through open air kitchens, showers and gardens along a twisting, branching dirt pathway I sheepishly asked a boy of twelve years old to lead me back to Namascar House. He complied but not before asking his mother. When she gave him permission, he slung his baby sister over his back and toted his friend along for the walk back to my dwelling.
On the way he enlightened me on the way in which Ghanians make their brooms: spines of palm nut tree leaves are stripped of their green flesh and tied together in bunches - and on the way in which they make their fans to keep the coals of their kitchen fires burning: by weaving together the leaves of a coconut tree.
After my educations was complete for the journey home, he dropped me off at Namascar and now visits me everyday to say "hello." He'll sit with me, sometimes hours at a time, mostly quiet, content to be in my company as I am in his.

What a wonderful place to be.

My internet time has run out for today so I'll have to update you on the challenges of the education system here next time.
Thanks for reading and know that I am thinking of you all and wishing you nothing but love, health and happiness.
David

Ejura

On Friday, Tettey and I went to the immigration office in Accra to see if the passport I had paid an extra $20 to receive at an earlier date was ready. And of course, it wasn't. However, "This is Ghana," a phrase I hear time and time again from the locals.
I knew I couldn't stay any longer and so Tettey dropped me off at the station and told me he would pick it up and keep it safe for me until I returned.
The station was a mad house. A huge dirt lot, packed bumper to bumper with transport vehicles of every size, shape, colour, offering various levels of travelling comfort. I took a van that afforded me some leg room but was packed, shoulder to shoulder, with locals on what would be a 6 hour journey across many unpaved roads, lead by an over ambitious driver who nearly killed us amidst the loud protests of all the passengers.
And, just like everywhere else, the bagagge man attempted to hit me up for more money saying that I didn't pay enough for the room I was taking up in the back. But, as has happened many times since then, a few kind souls dragged me from a losing battle by telling me to say I had no more money to offer, to which the baggage man slammed the door shut on our argument and my bags.
I arrived in Kumasi, but not at the station where I thought I would end up. Yet again, another kind soul shared a taxi with me to the station where I could hitch a ride to Ejura, hired two porters for my heavy load and broke my money into smaller bills when the taxi driver said he had no change for my enormous 10 cedi bills. I offered to pay the man who was looking out for me but he refused, told me he must get to school and sauntered off.
I am finally starting to realize why everybody deems this country and its people some of the warmest and friendliest in the world.
The ride to Ejura was another 2 hour climb up through the mountains in central Ghana. It is incredibly lush and beautiful up here and on my tro tro journey here through the night, there was a roaring thunder storm - the windows of the tro tro leaked through and onto the passengers, the large spats of rain made visibility limited throught the front windshield and through my window I could see the sparking veins of lightning tear through the sky just above the mountain range.
Being in a new region, with a new climate, new customs and inhabited by a different people is completely overwhelming, not to mention the prospect of teaching at what I am told is a very disorganized school on Monday, so I will save some stories for when I have combed through the tangled mats in my brain.
One story I will share though is today, Nathan, a fellow volunteer from Kansas City, Missouri took me to a church he has been frequenting in a town called Mampong, about an hour outside of Ejura. Upon leaving the church we heard the thundering sounds of the west african rhythms to which I was immediately drawn.
It was coming from the palace of the chief of Mampong. We asked if we were allowed to enter and after the permission was granted, we were lead into a ceremony by an assembly member of the goverment who looked after over 5000 people in the many surrounding communities of this area. After witnessing the ceremony, he stood with us for a long while and answered all of our questions with the utmost patience and here is what we learned...
The ceremony is called Akwasidae which is a ritual day. It happens every 6 weeks when the chiefs from the smaller communities, the Queen Mothers, the Key Makers as well as some of the community get together to pay homage to the chief.
The chief is the custodian of all the land in and around Mampong - exactly how far that extends, I do not know. If people are to invest in a plot of land, they do it through the chief.
He is also the link between the people and their ancestors.
He was flanked by three men known as the linguists. They communicate for the chief. What he says and what others say when they want to speak to the chief is all filtered through the linguists who are appointed so because of their eloquence.
The Key makers, along with the Queen Mothers nominate the chief and also have the power to dethrone him.
There are guards that kneel before the chief and block the pathway to him with the golden hilts of their swords. You must pay the guards in order to greet the chief and this is what much of the ceremony consisted of - paying homage and greeting the chief.
We were allowed to greet the chief from a distance and as a show of respect, we removed our feet from our sandals. The men who wear the traditional robes take the cloth off their left shoulder to do the same.
A horn blower stands behind the chief and blows to both signify the greatness of the chief and to call upon the ancestors who on this day, Akwasidae, are said to come and interact and eat with the people. The Queen Mothers prepare a specal dish for their arrival.
There is dancing during the ceremony to signify unity and the braveness as well as the greatness of the chief. And, like all the other ceremonies I have been to, libations are poured for the ancestors.
There are many other things to tell of in this ceremony but some I have yet to understand and some we didn't have the time to ask about. However, it was an incredible pocket of culture to stumble into.
That is all for now. Internet is much further away than it used to be but I will still try to make it here once a week to update.
Hope you are all in good health and spirits.
David

Clap Your Hands for Jesus

Ghana, as many of the locals have estimated, is about 75% Christian. Muslims make up roughly 25% and the other 5% goes to the Pagans, or, practicioneers of the Fetish tradition.
The numbers may be a little skewed as I have heard that the ways of the Festish have seeped into some of the churches by way of the pastors visiting the Festish markets and priests to gain protection and powers beyond the human realm. I have also heard that some of the Fetish practices have mixed and mingled in other minor ways with some of the Christian practices.
Either way, the Christian influence, brought on by the British who colonized Ghana, is overwhelmingly obvious. The local shop signs slap you in the face with a great show of dedication from the owners to the gospel - "By His Grace Communications Centre," "Through God All Things are Possible Carving Shop," "Clap Your Hands for Jesus Hair Salon" and so on and so forth.
On one of our final days of training I went to the grounds early to get a private tutorial from my guitar teacher, Obuobi. I could hear voices coming from the training ground which was unusual at this early hour and as I creaked open the wooden gate I was shot with over a dozen glances at my sudden intrusion into this now sacred space. I quickly retreated to the corner where Obuobi was waiting for me and watched as person after person was exorcised of the demons within by a revered local pastor.
Women were being braced by individuals flanking each side while the pastor had his hand upon the forehead of the demonized, reciting passages of the gospel and pleading to God. Many of those that were being exorcised were sent into convulsions and some were even brought to fits of vomitting.
After the pastor had finished with the morning's work, he approached me, introduced himself, asked if I was a Christian and then asked me if I had a friend named Michael. Upon my affirmation of his question he told me that I must pray for Michael, as the devil was trying to take him in with the drink.
Whether or not there is any truth to this prophesy, and considering the fact that there are many Michaels in this world, myself having more than one friend named Michael, the effect of it managed to get my head and heart spinning.
Now, speaking of ways in which the western world has encroached upon the life of Ghanians I will now move onto what I have promised to talk about in my last 3 blogs: Hip Life.
Hip life is a mixture of American hip hop and the tradtional Ghanian High Life.
High life comes in three forms - the first being rural high life which is the traditional stripped back, guitar centred lilting rhythms and beautiful melodies mostly in the major keys, the second being urban high life which is a mixture of European jazz and the traditional high life and now hip life.
Unfortunately, hip life has embraced everything that is deplorable about the American hip hop culture - things like treating women badly and viewing them as nothing more than sexual fantasies, violence, drugs, bling, and money. It is destroying the traditional ways amongst the Ghanian youth from they way they dress, to how they act, to what they value and has managed to enrage many of the elders who are working to promote and preserve tradition.
It's funny because hip hop originated in the African communities in the Americas, and was originally used as a united voice against the oppression and squalor they were living in. This is not to say that some hip hop artists aren't still using it for this purpose because from what little I know about hip hop, I know some of them are.
And with this, I think I will end my blog as I have to get to one of my final tutorials of this tour.
Thank you again for your comments. Whether or not I am able to reply to them, know that I read each and every one and am uplifted upon receiving them.
Until next time...
David

A Tropical Thunderstorm

Two of us stand on the beach where the fisherman take off well before dawn. The clouds are a thick black tangled mass of unravelling wool. The sky lights up with electricity in the pockets of grey haze. The palm trees bend over backwards in the hurling gusts of wind and in the dimming light of the evening the ocean is a cloudy torqouise, stretching far beyond the horizon, unpredictably tossing and turning.
The power goes out and the last of daylight has faded. Rain comes quick and in large pelting drops quickly soaking through our clothes.
A shirtless boy rides a bicyle up and down the muddy slick dirt road pitching his voice into a siren and singing from the bellows of his glistening naked belly, "It's raining, it's raining!"


I'll update in the next couple of days about our final performance here in Nungua and what I promised to update on in the last blog.

David

Cape Coast and the Big M

Last weekend we left on a trip to the Cape Coast. Cape Coast is most infamously known for being at the heart of the trans-Atlantic slave trade.
After a good night's rest at the Hans Cottage Botel (don't ask why it is a botel as opposed to a hotel or a motel - possibly some other lower level category of lodging that I am completely ignorant of) we left for Cape Coast Castle the next morning.
A word about the botel - A man made lagoon was dug out around Hans Cottage Botel when it was first built. Instead of the lagoon being a device of intrigue for tourists it turned into a haven for mosquitos. When they tried to bring in animals to rid the botel of mosquitos it only attracted more and more different animal species feeding into this microcosmic food cycle they were creating. In the end, they were left with a lagoon full of crocodiles which fulfilled their original goal of attracting tourists. Go figure.
The owner's son became the crocodile trainer. He was named after his uncle who's name was so damn long that in the end they decided to save themselves the hassle and simply call him "Uncle." He has many names, as many of the Ghanians do. In the Ga tradition, as well as others, it is typical to name your offspring after the day of the week they were born. They are also given a Christian name, a name to signify the order in which they were born (first, second, third, etc.), and sometimes a name to say what region they are from. I know there can be more names given but for what reasons I am right now oblivious.
But, here I am getting further and further away from what I started this blog about. I'll come back to talk about Uncle later.
We left for Cape Coast Castle in the morning and were all blown away by the size of this fortress. It was originally built as a lesser fort in the 15th century by the Portugese who wanted to break the monoply the Arabs had over the gold trade in West Africa.
Overtime, it came into the hands of many, the first being the Dutch, then the Swedes, then the Danes and finally, the British who enlarged it to its now formidable size.
In the 16th century, sugar plantations and the mining industry in the Americas were in need of large numbers for manual labour and since many of the Native Americans were dying due to oppression by the European invaders, disease and poverty, the slave trade intensified on the Guinea coast.
Typically, the journey could take from 18 months up to 3 years and started in Britain where the Brits would come over to Cape Coast with guns and goods to trade for slaves and gold. Once they acquired their goods they made their way over to Barbados, Jamacia and the Americas where they sold the slaves off, roughly a third in each location, in exchange for other goods.
The slaves were kept in dungeons beneath the castle. There were 3 rooms, each of which hosted about 150 to 200 slaves, shackled and bound in chains. Each room had two thin rectangular windows which were the only source of light, fresh air and the only means of attaining rain water to wash out the excrement, vomit and blood that layered the stone floor. They had a chalk line on the wall of one of the rooms we visited that marked the volume of the excrement in the room at the time of the slave trade - the chalk line was slightly above two feet off the floor beneath.
The slaves were sorted and the sick were left to die in a room with no windows.
The slaves that rebelled against their captors were locked in a tiny room, often 60 at a time, left to die with no air, light, food or water.
The women that refused rape were left to a similar fate and locked up in a small room for a week and fed sparingly. If those that accepted rape became pregnant they were sent to live in town until they delivered. Their fate then rest in the hands of the perpetrator who was to decide if he loved her or not. If he loved her, she would stay on and live in the town, if not, she would go back to the dungeons to eventually be sold.
They were bid on by Europeans on what was called an "auction block." They were bid on according to how healthy and strong they appeared to be.
After a 6 week period in the dungeons they were sent through the "Door of No Return," titled the latter because never again were they to return to their home land. The door was 2-3 feet off the ground and they were made to crawl on their hands and knees through the door while shackled in chains.
Many, if not most of the slaves died on the ships from terrible conditions. They were packed in as tight as possible and disease ran rampant throughout. If they survived, they were forced into a lifetime of slavery at their final destination.
I apologize for going on about such a dark topic but I believe that it is important to learn from our history so we are not doomed to repeat it and since I was so ignorant to this time period and its atrocities, it is good for me to consolidate it in my mind by writing it all out. When we stood in the punishment room (the cell in which the rebellious slaves were kept) we were witness to nail marks, blood and rust entreched in the stone as a reminder to those in the future of the atrocities that were perpetrated against these people and how we need to learn about and act now against such awful crimes of a similar nature.
I don't believe there is any simple seguay into the second half of this blog so I will crudley carry on without any adjoining words...save for the latter.
I realize I haven't imparted much information on where I am and what I am doing. Currently, I am in the township of Nungua, 15km outside of Accra. Nungua was originally a small fishing village and while fishing remains their main source of industry it has grown.
I am studying drums, dance, song, and guitar here for a month with members of a group known as the Kusun Ensemble. I will be off to Ejura in 3 days where I will teach kids in a variety of school subjects. Hopefully that clears things up for those of you that asked.
Right now, 6 of the people here staying at the centre I am lodging in have malaria. They all came down with it in the span of about 3 days. This is where the reference to the "Big M" comes in but after typing for so long about Cape Coast Castle, I have run out of time to talk about any more of the trials of malaria.
In the next blog, I'll talk a bit more about Uncle and the conversations we had about traditional music and the ever encroaching batch of North American music that is destroying it.
Thanks for reading and thank you all again for your comments and love.

David

Ghana Never Sleeps

Sleep is a rare and delicate treat here in Nungua. It seems as if Ghana never sleeps and if Ghana doesn't sleep, you can bet us "blafoonia" (Ga word for white person) here at the centre won't either. Thursday night, or morning should I say, my side of the centre was treated to what I have come to know as the "Thursday Morning Sermon." At 4am there is a young man who shuffles up down the empty dirt road in front of our lodge and shouts at the top of his lungs to no one and everyone about the saving power of Jesus Christ. The sermon lasts for what seems to be forever and he slowly works himself into a frenzy, repeating many of the same things over and over again, the most clear and recycled phrase being "Christ is the river of life." And then, with the first rays of dawn he shuffles back into his house and the street promptly and magically comes alive. Other sound scapes that have kept me sleeping in fits and starts have been the 4am march of the army, chanting from the many nearby churches and the endless screaming next door which comes from a baby that must be teething.
Before the students go to bed here many of us head down to what are called "spots" - the name for their local pubs. The one most frequented is The Amazing Spot and I'm sure you can clearly see why. What many locals drink here is a distilled liquid that comes from the trunk of a palm tree or from sugar cane known as Abateshee. It is an extremely strong and pure spirit that burns as it goes down. At the Amazing spot there is a mural inside painted on the cinder block walls with a guy on vacation lounging in a chair, sunglasses on, a cocktail in his hand, a smile of contentment on his face and a large cartoon bubble coming out of his mouth that, translated from Ga, reads "Abateshee will kill you" - a statement, I'm sure, not far from the truth, or rather, imbedded right in the thick of truth.
One of the locals that used to work for the Kusun Centre, an older man by the name of Jarvis, drinks abateshee to excess. I am told he is a very intelligent, handy, and able individual who drinks out of sheer frustration because he is unable to find work which brings me to the next segment of this blog...
Unemployment, or, underemployment, is a large and complicated issue in Ghana. The government here is very corrupt from what little I have gathered and none of the money that comes into the country actually goes into the country, but rather, into the pockets of the government officials. Not enough work is created for the population and as a result, a huge percentage are poor and many are scraping by on what I heard termed as "underemployment" - employment for a day, week, or month at a time doing odd jobs that present themselves all too infrequently.
However, the idea of community pervades all in Ghana. It is not abnormal for people to lodge with others while down on their luck, spreading their stay over different community members' houses. Nor is it abnormal to share food with friends, family and members of the community. Everything that is served seems to be communal - one dish will go on to feed 7 to 10 people that crowd around it, taking handfuls for themselves and others. Being here and being witness to my own reactions when this has happened to me makes me realize how guarded and self serving our culture can be.
I'll mention two more things I've learned this past week and save the rest for the next blog as I feel I could be here all night if I were to document what I witnessed today...my first blog cliffhanger!
Many of the men and women here have scars across their cheeks - something that has continually peaked my curiosity. My guitar teacher, Oboubi, has one on each cheek and his were marked across his face when he was a baby. It was believed that he was to have a very bright and promising future and that people caught wind of this and jealousy started to boil. Oboubi was sick a lot as a child and was said to have been possessed by a witch (evil spirit), as someone was planning to foil his future. In order to get rid of the spirit his grandfather, a revered fetish man, cut his cheeks and anointed them with some sort of herbal medication that managed to purge his soul of the evil that was inhabiting it.
Apparently, this is a common practice but the scars are also said to be tribal markings as well as the mark of a successful birth. Women who continually have miscarriages are said to be birthing the same baby over and over again. When they have their first successful birth of a healthy baby the child's cheeks are marked.
A final word about the last blog I posted concerning the water situation. Water and electricity in Nungua comes from Volta Lake, the largest man made lake in the world, about 70-80kms away. It runs through a main underground pipeline in Nungua to some of the bigger houses who pay for their water according to a metered amount of how much they use. Most do not have this pipeline running to their homes and some have managed to illegally redirect the pipe to their own homes. Those that don't receive water buy it from those who do or companies that sell it for top dollar by the gallon.
I'll update later this coming week or on the weekend at some point. Thank you for all your comments and blessings. It means the world.
David