FINALLY FOUND THE OCEAN!

It took a while – a day and a half, actually - but I finally found it.   The sea next to which Accra is situated, was, after all, the reason for the city’s existence. It was a major slave shipping center back in the day and its port was the envy of the Portuguese, who set up a fort here in the 16^th century..  How difficult could it be, I said to myself, to find it?  The map indicated that it was not very far at all.

But there are no street markers – not a signpost in sight.  And no cab driver, hotel clerk or policeman can read a map.   And I don't exaggerate!   Neither the driver from the airport, nor the driver who took us to dinner last night, could get us from Point A to Point B without getting seriously lost.  The cop on the beat, the forex bureau clerk, nobody can give directions anywhere - not by foot, not by car - they just don't seem to know where anything is or how to get to there from here.    In search of the ocean, I spent yesterday afternoon walking the streets, heading west, in the direction of the sea.    I wandered aimlessly in circles and no matter whom I asked, “where is the Atlantic?”, no matter how many different ways I asked it,”Where is the sea…..?  the beach …..? the big water,…?  the swimming place,” no one could tell me.    When I asked any one of them to point out my current location on the map, they couldn‘t do that either.  I tried to make an educated guess about my location based on landmarks, but although the map names the streets, the streets themselves, in the field and flesh, had no names.   I was too stubborn to take a taxi, knowing that the sea was very nearby.  I soldiered on until I finally, somehow, ended up at the hotel, from whence I had started three hours earlier.

But today was a new day – no more jet lag, a good breakfast, and a new friend, an Australian woman.  We grabbed a taxi and went first to the market.  

I was almost assaulted.  Although Christianity is the official religion, most people in Ghana still practice ancestor worship and animism in addition to a form of black magic. They believe that their spirit is stolen if a picture is taken.   They got quite aggressive with me when I tried taking pictures – even if I tried to photograph the wares or vegetables they were selling.    I remembered the wise advise of a photography teacher who counseled that “pictures should never be taken, only given.”   I didn’t want to steal any more photos and, fearing for life and limb, I put the camera away.   I was however, able to film, with my little Flip camcorder, the hectic comings and goings at the city’s main market. (Its posted at the above link to my photos, as soon, that is, as I can figure out how to do that).   The music on the clip is the music being played on the street simultaneously.   West Africa is known for its music – Afrobeat, mbalax and home-grown hip-hop sung by such world-famous singers as Youssou N’Dour and Salif Keita,  - and is a magnet for music-lovers from all over the world.   The Festival du Desert in the Sahara around Timbouctu, (Mali), is a massive Woodstock-type gathering in January of every year.

From the market, and using the sun as a guide, we set out west, once again, for the illusive sea..   A passerby’s confirmation of our direction gave us confidence to move forward among the mass of people, carts, goats, traffic and fumes.   He assured us that it wasn’t far.

Two hours later and parched from the heat, my bloodied friend and I (her leg had been scratched as we passed some kind of building material – new building material -  so no fear of tetanus.   She had had her shots anyway), finally grabbed a cab which headed - omg! - in the complete opposite direction.  We had been going wrong...... again!

With much fanfare and shouts of joy from both the driver and his passengers, we finally arrived at our long sought-after destination. 

We should have gone to the museum.  

Prime real estate anywhere else in the world, the beachfront was a dilapidated ghost of its once glorious past and housed a makeshift shantytown of  scores of lean-to’s.  All kinds of skeavy men roamed the streets (no women in sight), and my attempt to take a photo of the lighthouse caused quite a stir.    We grabbed yet another taxi and headed home.


Oh, and by the way, did I mention that open sewers line both sides of the streets;  that the cars park on the sidewalks and the people walk in the roads?  

Tomorrow at the crack of dawn we head out - along the coast for Elmina, a former portuguese (gold) mining town and the site of major slave holding pens for those being shipped to the Americas.

nb:    After reading the draft of this post I just figured out why I couldn't find the sea -   Its south of the city not west of here.   DUH!