Stay Alive, By Order.

April 13, 2011


Seven weeks from now and I’ll be home sweet home. Since I’ve become so Ghanaian recently, that’s hard to believe.

How so, you ask? Well, I weave baskets, I bargain in Twi and I perform impromptu in productions of African plays. I also still entertain the entire tro-tro when I try to say where I’m going, overpay for most of my purchases, and depend entirely on hawkers and tro-tro mates to get me where I need to go when I’m traveling, but hey, these are baby steps.

Last weekend four of us ventured to Nzulezo to visit a stilt village. It’s in the Western Region, very close to Cote D’Ivoire, about seven or eight hours from Accra, and when it was first brought up to me, I thought all the people would be on stilts. In retrospect, I wholeheartedly admit that was a pretty dumb thought.

We left Friday and somehow scored a limo (school bus with air conditioning) to Takoradi, which is maybe fiveish hours away, then got on a regular tro-tro for the rest of the journey. As usual, we had no clue where we were going but at a certain point we noticed a lot of people were slowly dropping off the tro-tro, so we decided it was probably time for us to give it a go, too. We asked if we could go to the stilt village that night and everyone around laughed at us, and offered essentially no other information, so that was inspiring. The driver assured us he would take care of us, so after literally every other passenger had alighted (see, I’m so integrated I even use Ghanaian terms these days) he drove for about 10 or 15 minutes into darkness. He could have done anything with us and we wouldn’t have known the difference, but luckily he drove us down a road (well, a clearing about the width of a car surrounded by trees, bushes, rocks, etc.) and walked us right to reception at a wonderful little thatch hut hotel. Once again, the general good-heartedness of Ghana pulled through for us.

The next morning we got up and took a canoe to this stilt village. It was 45 minutes on a fresh water lagoon through two jungle sections and some bogs, and it was quite refreshing. The village was really small—you could walk the main pathway in five minutes—but it was really cool to see. Everything was built up above the water, and nobody was really able to explain why the people had built like that, besides that “they wanted to build on water,” so information was somewhat difficult, but the exploration was certainly swell.

In our hotel we had seen advertisements for all the wonderful tourist attractions in the area, one of which was fishing with the local fishermen. We talked to them and they said it would take an hour to get out, we’d spend an hour on the high seas, and then an hour to get back. It sounded cool, so we decided to give it a go.

We should have known that’s not what we would have been doing.

We found ourselves inside one of the traditional fishing boats with four Ghanaian men who really didn’t speak too much English; because we were so close to Cote D’Ivoire, most people spoke French. Since my knowledge of French extends to the three-month workshop I took in sixth grade, I was virtually useless. It turns out that by fishing really they meant a ten minute voyage out, five of which they were yelling at me and Hannah to “HOLD ON!” because both of our hands were not clasped to the benches at all times, and the other five of which were Kate and Elena trying to find the best position to perch in the tiny compartment in which they had been stuffed. Why we were seated differently I don’t know, but I didn’t question it.

After we battled the waves, the commotion settled a little bit, and then they asked in French if we knew how to swim. Now, they had asked us before we left if we wanted life jackets, and we said no, so off we went, without the jackets, but you’d think maybe that would have been a proper time to ask if we could swim. Nope. Anyway, we assumed the question was small talk, since we were at a beach and all. Wrong again. Two minutes later, we were all overboard, clothes and all. We swam about in these “high seas” that were ten minutes from shore and it was all great fun. Eventually it was time to climb back in, so I hoisted myself up in an oh-so-graceful manner, especially considering the dress I was wearing. It was a shining moment for my femininity.

Then we tried to get them to paddle us to Cote D’Ivoire, but they would have none of it. Something about civil war or something. Lame, if you ask me.

We ventured back to Accra and became celebrities that week. We went out Wednesday night to see a band and when the show was over suddenly we became famous. Every member of the band, including back-up and stage crew, wanted individual pictures with all of us separately. You could attribute it to the oboruni girl factor, but Johnny was just as popular, so I think it’s just that we live in an inverted world.

Now Joe calls me five times a day to invite me to church. Maybe I shouldn’t have come up with such an elaborate story about my vocal talents. Oops.

On Friday I learned how to weave baskets. I’ve got quite the talent, let me tell you. I came up with a design never-before-seen by Beatrice and Joyce, our teachers, and I couldn’t tell you how I did it. There’s a perfect divide where I switch patterns halfway through, completely unintentionally, and I don’t know what happened, but I attribute it to my artistic genius. We were there for five hours, and when we asked Beatrice and Joyce how long it would take them to make the same baskets we did, they said fifteen or twenty minutes. Like I said, I’m a natural.

On the way back my Twi bargaining came into play. Trying to get a cab, our potential driver was not taking our price. We were having fun with him, joking back and forth, but he still wasn’t budging. After failing to convince him that since I’m Afia, born on a Friday, and it was Friday, we deserved the lower price, I whipped out my skills. “Me ka Twi. To so, mepaakew” (“I’m speaking Twi. Reduce the price, please”) was all it took. His eyes lit up and he beckoned us into the car, and off we were. Victory!

Over the weekend we went on our last CIEE trip to the Eastern Region. We toured some botanical gardens, a cocoa farm (Ghana is the leading cocoa producer in the world) and Boti Falls. All were lovely, especially the falls. We hopped on in and splashed around, despite multiple signs that said “Do not swim. Stay Alive. By Order.” I guess we’ll see what kind of parasites I discover four months from now.

Monday we convinced the only Asian I’ve seen in Africa that he should open his clearly closed bowling alley for five of us and bowled away. I’m not sure why it seemed so necessary to bowl in Ghana, but at the time, it was vital.

I briefly mentioned my dramatic debut, so I know you’re probably on the edge of your seats for further explanation. I went to see “Cinderama: The African Cinderella,” which was the same story except that Cinderama’s waist beads broke as she was running away at the strike of midnight, and lo and behold, at the end, they needed an audience member to dance away. Of course I didn’t volunteer, but they picked me anyway, and I was quite a star, if I do say so myself.

So that’s my life, as of late. Yebehyia!