Money Worries

Money seems to be at the root of so many problems that are needlessly created in this world. It accounts for many of the negative feelings that wrap their dark wispy arms around our hearts and minds - feelings of jealousy, hatred, hopelessness and greed lying in the centre of countless misunderstandings that lead to broken bonds - bonds that may connect two friends or family members, or a bond that runs through the lives of an entire community of people.
And the worries and feelings of distrust and anger money creates in our souls is no different on one side of the world than it is on the other, the only difference being context.
A surgeon in the western world whose earnings are at the top end of the world pay scale will tell you the same as the vendour selling beans and rice on the side of a dirt road in a small village in Africa: "I need more money." And this in itself relates to a problem far beyond the desires of the physical world and reaches deep into the seat of our beings, but within the context of this blog, I will neglect to further the latter point.
Back to Africa where I will attempt to sew in this introduction: Today, the other volunteers and I embarked on a trip to visit the Kente weaving village of Adanwomase and the village of Bodwease that houses an Obosomfie shrine - a shrine that houses the mediator between the ancestral world and the world of the living.
On the latter half of the trip, we pulled over on the side of the road upon entering the village of Bodwease and our taxi driver got out to greet the chief who was sitting on a wooden stool on the side of the road in bermuda shorts and a dully coloured hawaiian shirt. We were informed to follow the chief into what could have either been a part of his palace, a conclusion drawn from the sight of the throne, or a part of the shrine, a conclusion drawn from the sight of the dried animal skins and bones and dust laden drums piled in the dark corners of the room.
We were asked to wait behind a door while the chief seated himself and then were escorted into a room where he forebodingly sat above and before us on his throne, placed on a risen, shadowded alcove at the back of the room. The linguist, who communicates on behalf on the chief, asked us who our leader was and the other volunteers appointed myself to sit on a wooden stool at the base of the chief's alcove, the linguist sitting directly across from me and the others on a bench at the back of the room.
We neglected to bring our offering, a bottle of schnapps, for lack of any knowledge that we were to encounter the chief who apparently (and not according to my guide book) presides over the shrine. This void I believe was to set the tone for the rest of our visit with the chief.
He informed us we were to each bring a bottle of schnapps ($7.50 when converted to Cdn currency) and pay $10 each if we desired to visit and learn about the shrine. The numbers slapped us in the face after reading in the guide book that the caretaker was supposed to be a little elderly woman who would take us on a tour for a small, but reasonable fee.
Upon consulting the other volunteers and then relaying our plea of ignorance and apology we managed to get it down to one bottle of schnapps between us all and $10 each. We responded with $1 each and a bottle of schnapps to which he threw back his head, scoffing in what was either prideful arrogance or an impatience with our ignorant meddlings. He told us that we were not ready to see the shrine and when I couldn't convince the others, we somberly left what looked to me like a piece of architechture whose very corners were filled with history, culture and a dark mystery.
The chief had told me that it was a recognized "World Heritage Site" and that the money was for upkeep and such but immediately, feelings of distrust and scorn were aroused with his demeanour and with a fee that any of us have yet to pay anywhere in Ghana - even at Cape Coast Castle - granted, Cape Coast Castle has many more annual visitors and this Obosomfie shrine is located down an unpaved road in a tiny village beneath the mountains.
Was his price unfair? I don't believe that any of us would have blinked an eye if we were asked to pay that fee for a Heritage Site in North America, but regardless, because of the context of the country, the way in which we had been treated and our ignorance, misunderstanding and misgivings circled thick in the air of that uneasy room, emanating from the source of which causes this suffocating effect: money.
Before coming to Bodwease we had visited the village of Adanwomase - a village famous for its weavers of kente cloth. Kente cloth is a source of cultural pride in Ghana and is worn in different patterns and colours co-ordinated with particular events - ie. black and white is worn at weddings, black and red at funerals, etc.
It is woven in strips and a male garment is typically composed of eighteen strips that take roughly two and a half months to weave and then are sewn together. A female garment is usually fourteen strips. The tradition came from the village of Bontuku in the Ivory Coast and was brought to the Ashanti Region as far back as 1697 where, over time, it took on the new colours and designs of the Ashanti people.
We were given a chance to have a hand in weaving a small piece of fabric and were lead by a tour guide with either a lack of knowledge of english, a lack of knowledge of kente weaving or quite possibly, both. Our guide and the fee we were to pay him, again, elicited feelings and remarks tinged with the dark ink of disdain.
However, a wonderful turn of events lead Nathan and I on the path to a bone setter in the town of Mampong - a man who was unscathed by his own heavy burden of money, doing most of his work pro-bono for the well being of others - but, as I have blogged on for some time now, I will save his story for next time.
Thank you for your comments and love. Thinking of you.
David