Monday, September 05, 2005
Accra, Ghana (September 5, 2005)
Ghana has one of the world's largest public squares. Independence square is third only to Russia's Red Square and China's Tiananmen; it can accommodate hundreds of thousands of people. This Saturday, it was the sight of a free, well-organized concert featuring several prominent local acts including one of Fela Kuti's musical sons and Salif Keita, one of Africa's most famous musicians. This concert is one in a series of six "Stand Tall Against Poverty" concerts that are being held across Africa at times strategically selected to correspond with gatherings of world leaders, such as the G8.
The concert's MC was dressed like a peppermint stick and had very little luck exciting the crowd—the headlining bands are ultimately not beloved of the young and energetic. He repeatedly shouted "Say No To Poverty" and incorporated this basic slogan (already appropriated from anti-drug campaigns) into a call and response chant. He also asked if we, the audience, were standing tall against poverty, to which we were supposed to shout, yes! However, by world standards the audience was poor and the connection between their acquiescence to slogans and the reduction of poverty remained unclear.
An NGO called ActionAid was operating an informative booth near the concessions. I asked a senior worker there to explain to me what the practical message of this concert was, whether or not they were actually going to reveal how to "say no" to poverty. While she spoke, one of her assistants came and wrapped a velcro "say no to poverty" bracelet around my exposed left wrist. The ActionAid worker was blunt. "The message is not for these people; they are poor; they cannot just say no." However, the concert is being widely broadcast (she said "around the world" but on what channel and to how many rich people one can only guess) and she hoped that the basic message—more unfortunate people are gathering to express their impatience and dissatisfaction with the current distribution of wealth—will reach powerful audiences and prompt action or generosity on their part. Fair play. Some of their projects are very imaginative and some of their staff are committed and compassionate. I left my new bracelet on the table (since I am doing nothing to stop poverty) and rejoined the audience.
Seun Kuti was a treat. He looks just like his father, dresses the same, plays some of his music and pulls it off with style and ability. I have my reservations about musical dynasties and inherited publicity (dynasties and inheritance in general); but my cynicism, though well-seasoned and brutal, surrendered completely to the illusion that I was watching one of my favorite musicians of all time—an illusion generously assisted by the fifty thousand Africans packed closely round. Salif Keita's set was also memorable. But he didn't begin until around three in the morning and I'd been there since one in the afternoon. Since he would only be the headliner from the perspective of a music snob or critic, he had lost at least sixty percent of the audience and performed to a thin and marginally curious crowd with tiny pockets of weary dancing.
Most young people departed after the lip-synching boy bands finished capering around. These grinning, rubber waisted puppets were the only people to truly energize the crowd and they did so with the tremendously original recipe of thrusting their pelvises while forgetting to sing along with their own pre-recorded garbage. When they performed it was better to sit on the fringes eating grilled sausage and hot pepper, fighting poverty by drinking stout. The show wound down just after four am. Every one walked off in safe and soft-spoken masses, thinning into their city streets—after big events in other African countries, I have never felt safe and there was never a reason to.
There have been a few other late nights in Accra, worth mentioning for the sense of the city they offer. The first one happened early in our stay as a result of several friends showing us around their favorite places. In the early stages, a budget conscious Ghanaian man showed us to a laid back, sit down, outdoor bar with cut rate liquor. The patrons spilled into the street, spending modestly on their good spirits. I could see the US Embassy from the open topped plywood stand up bathroom—I could also see my friends. There was heavy foot traffic between the similar establishments on this little side road and I didn't notice any other white people.
Then we split up and Sean and I were taxied to a place called the Office that we were told was "cool". It was split into a nightclub and a bar. The nightclub expected something like 30,000 cedis for its entrance fee (just over three dollars) but Sean and I are generally resistant to cover charges for night clubs so we entered the affiliated bar next door, which was full in any case. The expensive, well tended and imported cars in the parking lot would have prepared us for the scene indoors if we had been paying attention. Several flat screen TVs broadcast soundless soccer matches through the dim blue glow of the air-conditioned bar and lounge. Decked out Lebanese and white people sat in the trendy thin leather relax chairs or the high svelte stainless steel bar stools. There was a small number of Africans around as well, but the ones that I overheard were sporting imported and expensive accents. Add popular western music to the offerings of this establishment and you have a fairly comprehensive list of things that I work hard to avoid. But a friend of Sean's who we knew from Gambia bought us some drinks (hell if we were going to pay the look-how-much-I-can-spend prices of a place like that). So we shouted into each other's ears for a little while and looked at the pretty girls and then an exodus occurred. We had found the club jumping set of locals, so I got to stretch out my Arabic and talk about Lebanon in the back of someone's BMW SUV—they referred to it by name and number: "get into the X52" (or whatever other senseless code) instead of saying "you can ride with my friend, Ahmed".
I was completely unprepared for the club we entered next. I didn't protest when they extorted 50,000 cedis at the door; doing so would have embarrassed my hosts. The average daily wage in Ghana is around 13,400 cedis. In this club a bottled coca-cola, 3,000 cedis on the street, was 40,000. We didn't drink a thing.) Terrible leisure time of the Accra white youth. This place was full of at least four hundred people at two in the morning and the only black ones were behind the bar. The DJ, also black, was very talented; the music was entirely electronic Western dance music with a sporadic Arabic track for the Lebanese, who constituted at least sixty percent of the clientele. The second story of the club was a wrap around indoor balcony from which you could observe the two hundred and fifty people on the dance floor, if you didn't mind smoking their breath.
Backing up, this is in West Africa at two in the morning. There are hundreds and hundreds of young light skinned people all dancing along to familiar tunes behind their 50,000 cedi fence. There is no sliver or shred of Africa in this place. I haven't seen this many white people since New Years in New York City, and there was more racial variety then. Why are these people here? I understand the attitude of transplanted businessmen and women, grumpy with longing for Beirut and keen with desire to succeed there. They are here in Ghana because they saw a business opportunity and took it; nobody should force them to go listen to high-life music in a shack with awful toilets. But there were nearly two hundred other people there, random Europeans and Americans in their twenties, dancing tirelessly, happy as hell, representing what we are known for. It was breathtaking. I think I oogled for two hours. Then Sean and I wanted to leave. But much of the club was coked up or on E; it was packed, people who weren't drugging were probably drunk and leaving was not a popular suggestion. We were kind of hoping everyone would move to a more interesting place next; but next would have been 7:30am and we were tired. We ended up taking a taxi, closing out the rising sun with the house curtains. The next day even the folded map in my pants pocket reeked of cigarettes. In contrast, nobody else in Ghana seems to smoke.
During the day I do not see these people. Once there was a group of four, gathered in a completely western food court that nearly gave me a panic attack and there were clumps of them at the poverty concert; but aside from that, they are hiding somewhere nicer and more expensive than where I go. When Accra is western, it is completely western.
Another night was in between. An intensely crowded spot for local music hosted Orland Julius, a talented Nigerian Afro Beat musician who played the poverty concert a few days later—a shorter set with flashy costumes and sex appeal; I didn't recognize them at first. This place was also open air. It provided ample seating, a dance floor and two bar counters, reasonably priced. There was something like a meeting of the races here. Perhaps one seventh of the people were not Africans. However, the reason for this was probably the large population of whores—white men of all ages were flatteringly accompanied, recipients of public affection. This place was full of sex workers and they were unflinchingly direct and physically flirtatious. Naturally, there were plenty of women there who were not attempting to seduce anyone for a cash transaction and probably, from time to time, I suspect a woman of soliciting when she is not. But the overtures of many of these women (mostly refugees from other English speaking West African countries—too poor to pay a cover charge just to listen to music of their parent's generation) left no guess work. These women complicate the simple act of listening to music. But once you earn a reputation for unnapproachability—which you have to do by behaving coldly if not rudely towards the most well trained seductresses outside the porno industry—you can enjoy an atmosphere far more authentic than the air conditioned expatriate retreats. And you can also enjoy the damn good sausage that they make in the back. Ghanaians, in general, seem gifted with sausage. Compared to surrounding Muslim countries, Ghana is a regular killing field of pigs. After a porkless decade, I may simply be overwhelmed by the charm of cooked hog; but my travel mates seem similarly impressed.
Ghana has one of the world's largest public squares. Independence square is third only to Russia's Red Square and China's Tiananmen; it can accommodate hundreds of thousands of people. This Saturday, it was the sight of a free, well-organized concert featuring several prominent local acts including one of Fela Kuti's musical sons and Salif Keita, one of Africa's most famous musicians. This concert is one in a series of six "Stand Tall Against Poverty" concerts that are being held across Africa at times strategically selected to correspond with gatherings of world leaders, such as the G8.
The concert's MC was dressed like a peppermint stick and had very little luck exciting the crowd—the headlining bands are ultimately not beloved of the young and energetic. He repeatedly shouted "Say No To Poverty" and incorporated this basic slogan (already appropriated from anti-drug campaigns) into a call and response chant. He also asked if we, the audience, were standing tall against poverty, to which we were supposed to shout, yes! However, by world standards the audience was poor and the connection between their acquiescence to slogans and the reduction of poverty remained unclear.
An NGO called ActionAid was operating an informative booth near the concessions. I asked a senior worker there to explain to me what the practical message of this concert was, whether or not they were actually going to reveal how to "say no" to poverty. While she spoke, one of her assistants came and wrapped a velcro "say no to poverty" bracelet around my exposed left wrist. The ActionAid worker was blunt. "The message is not for these people; they are poor; they cannot just say no." However, the concert is being widely broadcast (she said "around the world" but on what channel and to how many rich people one can only guess) and she hoped that the basic message—more unfortunate people are gathering to express their impatience and dissatisfaction with the current distribution of wealth—will reach powerful audiences and prompt action or generosity on their part. Fair play. Some of their projects are very imaginative and some of their staff are committed and compassionate. I left my new bracelet on the table (since I am doing nothing to stop poverty) and rejoined the audience.
Seun Kuti was a treat. He looks just like his father, dresses the same, plays some of his music and pulls it off with style and ability. I have my reservations about musical dynasties and inherited publicity (dynasties and inheritance in general); but my cynicism, though well-seasoned and brutal, surrendered completely to the illusion that I was watching one of my favorite musicians of all time—an illusion generously assisted by the fifty thousand Africans packed closely round. Salif Keita's set was also memorable. But he didn't begin until around three in the morning and I'd been there since one in the afternoon. Since he would only be the headliner from the perspective of a music snob or critic, he had lost at least sixty percent of the audience and performed to a thin and marginally curious crowd with tiny pockets of weary dancing.
Most young people departed after the lip-synching boy bands finished capering around. These grinning, rubber waisted puppets were the only people to truly energize the crowd and they did so with the tremendously original recipe of thrusting their pelvises while forgetting to sing along with their own pre-recorded garbage. When they performed it was better to sit on the fringes eating grilled sausage and hot pepper, fighting poverty by drinking stout. The show wound down just after four am. Every one walked off in safe and soft-spoken masses, thinning into their city streets—after big events in other African countries, I have never felt safe and there was never a reason to.
There have been a few other late nights in Accra, worth mentioning for the sense of the city they offer. The first one happened early in our stay as a result of several friends showing us around their favorite places. In the early stages, a budget conscious Ghanaian man showed us to a laid back, sit down, outdoor bar with cut rate liquor. The patrons spilled into the street, spending modestly on their good spirits. I could see the US Embassy from the open topped plywood stand up bathroom—I could also see my friends. There was heavy foot traffic between the similar establishments on this little side road and I didn't notice any other white people.
Then we split up and Sean and I were taxied to a place called the Office that we were told was "cool". It was split into a nightclub and a bar. The nightclub expected something like 30,000 cedis for its entrance fee (just over three dollars) but Sean and I are generally resistant to cover charges for night clubs so we entered the affiliated bar next door, which was full in any case. The expensive, well tended and imported cars in the parking lot would have prepared us for the scene indoors if we had been paying attention. Several flat screen TVs broadcast soundless soccer matches through the dim blue glow of the air-conditioned bar and lounge. Decked out Lebanese and white people sat in the trendy thin leather relax chairs or the high svelte stainless steel bar stools. There was a small number of Africans around as well, but the ones that I overheard were sporting imported and expensive accents. Add popular western music to the offerings of this establishment and you have a fairly comprehensive list of things that I work hard to avoid. But a friend of Sean's who we knew from Gambia bought us some drinks (hell if we were going to pay the look-how-much-I-can-spend prices of a place like that). So we shouted into each other's ears for a little while and looked at the pretty girls and then an exodus occurred. We had found the club jumping set of locals, so I got to stretch out my Arabic and talk about Lebanon in the back of someone's BMW SUV—they referred to it by name and number: "get into the X52" (or whatever other senseless code) instead of saying "you can ride with my friend, Ahmed".
I was completely unprepared for the club we entered next. I didn't protest when they extorted 50,000 cedis at the door; doing so would have embarrassed my hosts. The average daily wage in Ghana is around 13,400 cedis. In this club a bottled coca-cola, 3,000 cedis on the street, was 40,000. We didn't drink a thing.) Terrible leisure time of the Accra white youth. This place was full of at least four hundred people at two in the morning and the only black ones were behind the bar. The DJ, also black, was very talented; the music was entirely electronic Western dance music with a sporadic Arabic track for the Lebanese, who constituted at least sixty percent of the clientele. The second story of the club was a wrap around indoor balcony from which you could observe the two hundred and fifty people on the dance floor, if you didn't mind smoking their breath.
Backing up, this is in West Africa at two in the morning. There are hundreds and hundreds of young light skinned people all dancing along to familiar tunes behind their 50,000 cedi fence. There is no sliver or shred of Africa in this place. I haven't seen this many white people since New Years in New York City, and there was more racial variety then. Why are these people here? I understand the attitude of transplanted businessmen and women, grumpy with longing for Beirut and keen with desire to succeed there. They are here in Ghana because they saw a business opportunity and took it; nobody should force them to go listen to high-life music in a shack with awful toilets. But there were nearly two hundred other people there, random Europeans and Americans in their twenties, dancing tirelessly, happy as hell, representing what we are known for. It was breathtaking. I think I oogled for two hours. Then Sean and I wanted to leave. But much of the club was coked up or on E; it was packed, people who weren't drugging were probably drunk and leaving was not a popular suggestion. We were kind of hoping everyone would move to a more interesting place next; but next would have been 7:30am and we were tired. We ended up taking a taxi, closing out the rising sun with the house curtains. The next day even the folded map in my pants pocket reeked of cigarettes. In contrast, nobody else in Ghana seems to smoke.
During the day I do not see these people. Once there was a group of four, gathered in a completely western food court that nearly gave me a panic attack and there were clumps of them at the poverty concert; but aside from that, they are hiding somewhere nicer and more expensive than where I go. When Accra is western, it is completely western.
Another night was in between. An intensely crowded spot for local music hosted Orland Julius, a talented Nigerian Afro Beat musician who played the poverty concert a few days later—a shorter set with flashy costumes and sex appeal; I didn't recognize them at first. This place was also open air. It provided ample seating, a dance floor and two bar counters, reasonably priced. There was something like a meeting of the races here. Perhaps one seventh of the people were not Africans. However, the reason for this was probably the large population of whores—white men of all ages were flatteringly accompanied, recipients of public affection. This place was full of sex workers and they were unflinchingly direct and physically flirtatious. Naturally, there were plenty of women there who were not attempting to seduce anyone for a cash transaction and probably, from time to time, I suspect a woman of soliciting when she is not. But the overtures of many of these women (mostly refugees from other English speaking West African countries—too poor to pay a cover charge just to listen to music of their parent's generation) left no guess work. These women complicate the simple act of listening to music. But once you earn a reputation for unnapproachability—which you have to do by behaving coldly if not rudely towards the most well trained seductresses outside the porno industry—you can enjoy an atmosphere far more authentic than the air conditioned expatriate retreats. And you can also enjoy the damn good sausage that they make in the back. Ghanaians, in general, seem gifted with sausage. Compared to surrounding Muslim countries, Ghana is a regular killing field of pigs. After a porkless decade, I may simply be overwhelmed by the charm of cooked hog; but my travel mates seem similarly impressed.
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