Friday, September 30, 2005
Ghanaian Detritus: September 28, 2005
I talked my way out of a speeding ticket along the Cape Coast highway. I have now weaseled my way out of moving violations in three West African countries. Weaseling means that I do not pay a red cent, dalasi, CFA or cedi. Generally, bribing is a method for impatient, deeply wealthy or unpersuasive people. I prefer flattery, intimidation, lecturing on the traditional treatment of visitors, name dropping and repetitive, insistent nonsense. All three of us have ample time and a deep love of escaping trouble; also, our car is starting to smell. When police have asked us for money in recent weeks, I have suggested that they lean into the vehicle and inhale its special odors. I ask them if they believe that wealthy people would travel in such a funk. This usually reduces their request from money to biscuits. Being asked for little cookies by policemen never stops being funny. Even when it is the fifteenth time in the same afternoon it is still an armed authority figure in imposing fascist attire pleading with me for snack food. In Ghana, it has also been possible to shame greedy officers by expressing disappointed shock that their actions and requests are contradicting the great hospitality of Ghanaian people—of which they are justly proud. Aren't the visitors supposed to be offered gifts? Aren't we welcome? In one case an opportunistic cop blushed deeply and repented. He invited us to his house that evening for dinner; unfortunately, we had plans. When we are back in Francophone countries I will resume the on again off again tiresome but convenient non comprehension of French that has served me so well in the past. In Nigeria, I fear, nothing but money will work.
* * *
Funerals are a massive affair in Ghana; they offer a clear indication of someone's importance and an opportunity for hundreds or thousands of people to throw an enormous good natured party. Ghanaians have pioneered in the field of coffins. Somber important looking western models can be found; but they are not in keeping with the festive nature of the Ghanaian death ritual. Along the road between Accra and its main port town, Tema, there are several workshops devoted to the creation of individualized representative coffins. A corpse can be buried, amongst other things, in an enormous colorful rooster, an ear of corner, a fishing boat, a sausage, a bottle of Star beer or a bottle of Johnny Walker Black Label. I think that is wonderful.
* * *
More noteworthy signboards:
"The Body of Christ Frozen Foods" "God's Time is the Best Metal Works" "Finger of God Beauty Salon" "With God in the Vessel, I smile at the Storm Tro Tro" "Anointed One Enterprises" "Flaming Atomic Church of Christ"
* * *
Is it wrong that I was unmoved by the old slaving fort at Cape Coast? A few weeks back Sean and I walked through this World Heritage site in the company of a Ghanaian guide who informed us that we were in the male slave dungeon, the condemned sell, the sorting chamber and various other places of injustice and death. Nobody on the tour broke down and wept; nobody even stopped whispering or making private little jokes; three small boys kept up an impressive low voltage fart competition and a number of people wandered off prematurely. The architecture was intimidating, the artifacts and explanatory panels of history were well chosen and artfully displayed. But it can feel like effort or a schooling assignment to attempt the absorption of all of the information and variety in places like this. I visit fewer and fewer museums and forts.
Perhaps it stems from surfeit of travel: these places are starting to resemble one another. I would much rather explore unique and revealing city streets, however unobtrusive or significant or read about what is currently being mismanaged and destroyed in today's world. I guess I am also repelled by the politics that underlie a country's decision to focus on one injustice over another and by the dubious value of drawing people's limited attention to injustices of the past. I could've spent hours at an exhibit that clearly outlines the suffering and death caused by the ordinary workings and trade policies of governments right now. Anyways. It may be lamentable that I do not have the capacity to be consistently moved by every retelling of everything that ever went wrong. I am sure that the slaving forts are powerful and life-shaping for some who pay them a visit and that's wonderful too.
In contrast, I had no problem whatsoever getting full enjoyment from Kakum National Park's world famous canopy walk that is suspended frighteningly high above an unmolested butterfly laden ecosystem and I enjoyed reading about the ecology of West Africa's shrinking rainforests. Thank god I am not completely inured to the beauties of nature.
I talked my way out of a speeding ticket along the Cape Coast highway. I have now weaseled my way out of moving violations in three West African countries. Weaseling means that I do not pay a red cent, dalasi, CFA or cedi. Generally, bribing is a method for impatient, deeply wealthy or unpersuasive people. I prefer flattery, intimidation, lecturing on the traditional treatment of visitors, name dropping and repetitive, insistent nonsense. All three of us have ample time and a deep love of escaping trouble; also, our car is starting to smell. When police have asked us for money in recent weeks, I have suggested that they lean into the vehicle and inhale its special odors. I ask them if they believe that wealthy people would travel in such a funk. This usually reduces their request from money to biscuits. Being asked for little cookies by policemen never stops being funny. Even when it is the fifteenth time in the same afternoon it is still an armed authority figure in imposing fascist attire pleading with me for snack food. In Ghana, it has also been possible to shame greedy officers by expressing disappointed shock that their actions and requests are contradicting the great hospitality of Ghanaian people—of which they are justly proud. Aren't the visitors supposed to be offered gifts? Aren't we welcome? In one case an opportunistic cop blushed deeply and repented. He invited us to his house that evening for dinner; unfortunately, we had plans. When we are back in Francophone countries I will resume the on again off again tiresome but convenient non comprehension of French that has served me so well in the past. In Nigeria, I fear, nothing but money will work.
* * *
Funerals are a massive affair in Ghana; they offer a clear indication of someone's importance and an opportunity for hundreds or thousands of people to throw an enormous good natured party. Ghanaians have pioneered in the field of coffins. Somber important looking western models can be found; but they are not in keeping with the festive nature of the Ghanaian death ritual. Along the road between Accra and its main port town, Tema, there are several workshops devoted to the creation of individualized representative coffins. A corpse can be buried, amongst other things, in an enormous colorful rooster, an ear of corner, a fishing boat, a sausage, a bottle of Star beer or a bottle of Johnny Walker Black Label. I think that is wonderful.
* * *
More noteworthy signboards:
"The Body of Christ Frozen Foods" "God's Time is the Best Metal Works" "Finger of God Beauty Salon" "With God in the Vessel, I smile at the Storm Tro Tro" "Anointed One Enterprises" "Flaming Atomic Church of Christ"
* * *
Is it wrong that I was unmoved by the old slaving fort at Cape Coast? A few weeks back Sean and I walked through this World Heritage site in the company of a Ghanaian guide who informed us that we were in the male slave dungeon, the condemned sell, the sorting chamber and various other places of injustice and death. Nobody on the tour broke down and wept; nobody even stopped whispering or making private little jokes; three small boys kept up an impressive low voltage fart competition and a number of people wandered off prematurely. The architecture was intimidating, the artifacts and explanatory panels of history were well chosen and artfully displayed. But it can feel like effort or a schooling assignment to attempt the absorption of all of the information and variety in places like this. I visit fewer and fewer museums and forts.
Perhaps it stems from surfeit of travel: these places are starting to resemble one another. I would much rather explore unique and revealing city streets, however unobtrusive or significant or read about what is currently being mismanaged and destroyed in today's world. I guess I am also repelled by the politics that underlie a country's decision to focus on one injustice over another and by the dubious value of drawing people's limited attention to injustices of the past. I could've spent hours at an exhibit that clearly outlines the suffering and death caused by the ordinary workings and trade policies of governments right now. Anyways. It may be lamentable that I do not have the capacity to be consistently moved by every retelling of everything that ever went wrong. I am sure that the slaving forts are powerful and life-shaping for some who pay them a visit and that's wonderful too.
In contrast, I had no problem whatsoever getting full enjoyment from Kakum National Park's world famous canopy walk that is suspended frighteningly high above an unmolested butterfly laden ecosystem and I enjoyed reading about the ecology of West Africa's shrinking rainforests. Thank god I am not completely inured to the beauties of nature.
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