THE SLAVE TRADE

I came to West Africa, capital of the Trans-Atlantic slave trade, because I wanted to see the loading docks and holding pens from which the slaves were shipped across the world.  Ghana and Senegal, (my last stop on this leg of the trip), were the epicenters of man’s brutal and sadistic business of the day.     We visited two of the most sinister and cruel of these pens – Gold Coast and Elmina Castles on Ghana’s coast.   Variously controlled by the Swedes, Portuguese, Dutch and British, the castles were first built as forts and were later converted to holding cells for natives captured throughout Africa by the Europeans and their (black) Ashanti partners, who came to the area from northern Ghana in the 11^th century and who once comprised a mighty empire. 

The Arabs ruled the Trans-Sahara route, transporting slaves east from Zanzibar to Arabia and India and points beyond.  The Europeans oversaw shipments in the other direction.   It is estimated that a total of 60 million Africans  were captured throughout the 300+ years of slavery’s official existence, but that only 20 million, one-third, survived the forced marches from villages across the continent, the barbaric conditions of the holding pens and the treacherous Trans-Atlantic or Trans-Saharan journey.   Its difficult to understand the business decision of men (and they were all men) who imprisoned their merchandise in dark, dank, airless spaces, shackled and chained, sitting hunched in their own excrement, unable to move, waiting for ships, which arrived once every 3 months.  “Troublemakers” were put in dungeons until death, without food, water, light or air.  The female slaves were regularly raped (of course) and thrown overboard if pregnant in transport.  Those captives who survived incarceration eventually passed through the “Door of No Return” as they left their pens and boarded ships that took them to new indignities throughout the Americas.

The guide at the Gold Coast Castle brought us into a room known as the “Dungeon of Death,” complete with skull and bones over the door, put there by the Portuguese in the 16^th century.     Built as a deterrent, it housed those who had tried to escape or otherwise misbehaved.  The only way out was death.  Without warning, the guide locked the door behind us.   Suddenly and without warning we were imprisoned without light or air, in stifling heat and darkness.   The only reason we didn’t panic was that we knew we would be released within seconds.  The former captives who left their shackle marks etched on the stone walls knew they would die a long, painful death, alone.   The 90- degree outside temperature was a cool relief when we finally left the cell.

The Obama’s had been to the Castle in 2009 and laid a wreath which is still in the same spot.  Ghanians are very proud to tell you that Michelle Obama comes from Ghanian roots.

To lift our spirits, we left the castles and visited a local school where we painted a badly worn classroom.   Since it was a Sunday, the kids were unfortunately not there.   But the schoolmaster, a teacher, and just a few students, got us started with the paint brushes and paint and within a few hours the classroom was much brighter and cheerier.   Linda’s pencils and stickers were a big hit and the schoolmaster promised to give them as prizes to the best students.  He expected grades to rise for all students immediately!

KUMASI

Kumasi, Ghana’s second largest city and the center of the Ashanti nation, is located in the middle of Ghana, and…. oh JOY!.....  it has STREET SIGNS!         But no celebration is in order, we discover.  The street names have mostly been changed and don’t even remotely match those on our map.   Nevertheless the city is far more manageable, developed and navigable than the country’s capital, and we see every sight on our list.   But steering our way through the throngs of people who come here to participate in West Africa’s largest market, in 100+ degree heat (33 celsius), is no easy chore.    The cement sidewalks, all of which are uneven, cracked and cracking, are too narrow for the mass of people and their wares.   Women (and they are ALL women) carry an entire store’s worth of goods on their heads, babies on their backs and baskets in their hands.  People are forced to walk in the roadways, which are jammed fender to fender with cars, private taxis, and tro- tro’s, shared taxi vans which don’t stop as people jump on and off.   As we walk the length and breadth of the streets, we risk life and limb to visit the distant Kumasi hospital grounds where a sword was buried by an Ashanti high priest in the 1600’s, with only the handle above ground.   The Priest proclaimed that when the sword is removed from the ground the Ashanti nation will fall.   No less than the likes of Mohammed Ali, the guide tells us, and other famous strongmen, tried but failed to remove the sword.   As we lumbered to the site, it was difficult to know who were the hospital’s patients and who were their visitors.   Everyone is thin and looks like they’re wearing pajamas.   Most disconcerting - the hospital entrance was lined with fancy hearses waiting for business.  Not very good advertising for the hospital, we thought.

In addition to the famous buried sword, The Ashanti Cultural Center and the Palace of the Ashanti King are two “musts” for Kumasi. 

But it’s the street life that is the main attraction here.  

Imagine an open air market that stretches about as far as the eye can see, the size of an entire former railroad stockyard, or 4 football fields, containing street vendors, shanty shacks and kiosks, packed shoulder to shoulder.  People from all over West Africa (composed of 17 countries) sell every manner of the cast-offs of the western world.   The shoe piles, reminiscent of Nazi movies, are stacked high with worn shoes of every size, shape and color in varying states of disintergration, calling out to be reborn into their new lives  somewhere in Africa.   There are televisions from the 1970’s, tea kettles and toasters from the 80’s, clothes from the 90’s and very little from the 2000’s. 

To escape the afternoon sun after walking for more than 5 hours, I head to the Vodafone internet center, an air conditioned hub and whirl of 21^st century buzz, every one of the more than 40 stations occupied by a 20-something Ghanian and a few ex-pats and western stragglers en route to somewhere.  Its hard to believe that just outside the front door, indoor plumbing and electricity are a much coveted luxury for the lucky few.

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!