Assault Update

An update on what the police are doing to arrest the man who assaulted me:

Two days ago I went to an IUU (Illegal, Unregulated, Unreported) fishing conference in Takoradi.  The people in attendance were stakeholders (fishermen and fish processors) and policemen, mainly from the Marine Police Unit, who are responsible for law enforcement related to the Fisheries Act of 2002 and the Fisheries Regulations Act of 2011.

While we are in the lobby of the building getting snacks for the "coffee break," the director of Hen Mpoano is speaking to some of the police men, and he waves me over.  He says he has been discussing what happened to me, and he feels like the local police haven't been doing enough.  I describe the event to the police men.  Then the programs coordinator, my supervisor, is brought over, and he explains what we told the police on the day of the attack.  The Marine Police tell me not to worry, that they will see how they can help get the man caught and arrested.

Low and behold, the next day I am called into the directors office, and he's there with the Marine Policemen!  They ask me how to get to the house of the man who assaulted me, and I say I'm not sure how to describe it but I can take them.  They are adamant that I don't go with them, and, in fact, this fact finding mission is to be a stealth one.  The police had come in every day clothing as opposed to their uniforms of the day before, and the director told me that he'd have to change out of his "USAID" shirt because it would give him away as being from Hen Mpoano. Thus my presence would certainly ruin the subterfuge.  Selfishly this is excellent news to me, because it's a sweltering hot day and the idea of tramping around in the ghetto (the word the director of Hen Mpoano used to describe the area) where my assailant lived sounds terrible.  I feel bad that three police people, as well as two members of Hen Mpoano (director & my host) have to go on this venture on my behalf, but they are determined to help me and I'm unable to dissuade them (plus it seems rude to push too hard since the police have obviously come at the request of my director, and on their day off, too).  Further, they seem very upset at what happened to me and earnestly want to help me get justice.  So I feel like I cannot protest much.  Instead, I give them the best directions I can, and my director pulls up Google Maps to see if I can show him where the assault took place.  Below is that map

The red circled area is where the man lives, under the palm trees.  The blue arrow is how I walk to lunch.  The joint where I got my lunch is off the map, in the direction where the arrow is pointing.

I then describe some of what the house looks like, including the stream of sewage and the very narrow foot bridge that faces the house.

I am asked if I could identify the man and I say that I likely could not, although maybe I could.  I explain that I did not get a very good look at him because I was thrashed about during the assault.  I say I wish I could identify him but I don't want to say I can when I have my doubts about my ability to do so.

Then I am dismissed, and off the police go!

A few hours later, I see them as I'm walking (on the path of the blue line above) to pick up my lunch.  My host who is with them tells me he will tell me what happened when I get back to the office.

When I get back, I talk to the police and say I realized later that I could describe the man some, that he is about my height.  They say "oh don't worry, that's what we were told, yes he is about your height, we got a lot of information on him, don't worry."  Besides being told not to worry, that the local police are not doing enough and that these police will surely bring the man to justice, I'm not told much of anything about what happened during this multi-hour venture into the "ghetto" by where I work.  I get the sense that they just want me to be assured that they are doing everything in their power to arrest this man, and don't really want to give me a blow-by-blow of what happened, so I don't press the issue.

So no arrests have yet been made but I now have my own personal police detail working on the case for me, because they work closely with Hen Mpoano and do not want any foreigners who come here to have such a terrible experience.  I'm very grateful.  I'm sure there are some shifty or untrustworthy police in the marine unit (because a percentage of humans are those things and I generally assume they are evenly distributed to all kinds of professions - so that's not a comment on police, but more my assessment of human nature in general), but none of the ones I have met have been anything but wonderful.

Here's to good police and to justice hopefully being served!

Cultural Musings: Names

Ghana has caused me to think about names more than I expected to.

Ghanaians have names that are associated with the day of the week that you were born.  My name is “Afua,” because I was born on a Friday.  Most of my “obruni” friends here are “Adjua,” which means Monday. There is slightly different spellings and pronunciations depending on where in the country you are, and which tribal group is more prominent.  You may recognize the male names “Kofi” and “Kwame,” which mean “Friday” and “Saturday,” respectively.  Many men go by the name “Kofi” if they were born on a Friday, because that’s considered a day of power and a source of pride.  I tell people my name is "Afua" when I don't wish to tell people my "real" name (people here call that a Christian name... but I don't have that, either!).  I only use "Afua" when speaking to people whom I will likely not interact with much, obviously at my NGO, during interviews, and throughout my field work I go by Hannah.  When I get asked "are you Ghanaian?" upon saying my name is "Afua," I usually respond "an honorary one!"  I suggest my readers Google what day of the week it was when they were born (it's what I did - very easy), and then use the Wikipedia article to see what your Ghanaian name would be!  Again, there are regional differences in pronunciation so it's not an exact science, but you'll get a general idea of what your Ghanaian name is. 

Further, I tend to tell people my name is “Anna” because the “H” sound is sometimes hard for Ghanaians to hear and it’s easier to just truncate my name.  Besides, “Anna” is what I went by in France and in French class because there is no “H” sound in French at all, so I’m already used to it.  

Many women in the poor fishing communities have their names tattooed onto their forearms.  This is usually accompanied by their address and location.  The reason is that they are illiterate, and if they need to show someone how to write their name and how to get home, they have it written on their bodies at all time.  Also, in case they die, their body will be identifiable and can be returned to their family.  Can you imagine not being able to read or write to the extent that you simply get your name tattooed onto yourself in order to be able to be identified?  It boggles the mind.  What privilege well all have to be able to read and write.  

Along these lines, because I have “Che Sara Sara” tattooed on my ankle, I often get people calling me “Sara.”  Obviously this is only people who are literate and able to read.  It’s very confusing to them when I explain that that is not my name, because why would I have someone else’s name tattooed on my body?  I try to describe that it's not a name at all, it is a Latin phrase that means “whatever will be, will be,", which so far doesn’t seem to make much sense to the Ghanaians I've spoken to.  In America, few people have their own name tattooed upon them, although they may have the name of a lover or child.  In Ghana, it is very strange that a person would have a name tattooed that isn’t their own.  Even more confusing is the fact that the "name" I have tattooed on me isn't a name at all.

So now I answer to “Anna,” “Sara,” and “Afua,” as well as my actual name.  The rich tapestry that is life in Ghana! 

Assault

As many of you know, on Monday October 10^th I was assaulted while walking back to the office where I work after buying my lunch. 

On days when I’m in the office, I buy lunch every time from one of two take-away joints that are on this road, and I walk this road to get to a main road where I hail a shared taxi to take to Market Circle on my way home.  I’ve walked this stretch of Takoradi many times and have always considered it very safe.  And here’s the thing I want to make perfectly clear before I tell my story: it is, generally, very safe.  All of Ghana, but especially the cities, are safe for “obruni,” or foreigners/white people.  There is a very strong cultural taboo against attacking obruni because there is a fear that we will report our experience to our friends and family and it will paint Ghana as an unsafe place to travel.  As such, I refuse to let my experience serve to discourage anyone from going to Ghana, because to do so would be to let the man who assaulted me win, and that cannot happen.  We cannot let fear take over our reasoning.  During this last month (finally!) of the American Presidential Election, it has become cemented again and again that fear-mongering is a cancer to society.  I will not allow my story to mutate and poison the minds of my readers, as much as I have the capability to.  So if you think you can’t read about what happened to me without being turned off from going to Ghana: please kindly stop reading now and I hope you’ll return for my next blog post.  Everyone is entitled to their reactions to my assault, but I beg you to not let those reactions influence any potential travel you may have to this beautiful, vibrant country.  Thank you for that consideration and reading my preamble.   I thought long and hard about whether to post this story here because I do not want to contribute to any negative stereotypes one might have about traveling in Africa, especially as a woman and especially alone.  However, it is real and it happened to me, so in the blog it goes.  Onto the story:

As I said, every day that I’m in the office I go to one of two joints to get my lunch.  The place I went to on Monday October 10^th sells delicious groundnut soup, which I eat with fish and rice (the Ghanaians think the fact that I eat it with regular rice is odd, considering it’s traditionally eaten with a rice ball or banku, but this place doesn’t sell rice balls and I don’t like banku, and I love the soup with plain rice so there it is).   The only thing I bring with me on these ventures is my wallet, or sometimes just a 10 Cedi bill, which I never spend the entirety of on these lunches.  I leave my cell phone at the office because I don’t need it for 10 minutes and usually I have it charging or using the Wi-Fi there to transfer pictures from my phone to my computer and I don’t want to disrupt those things.  After purchasing my usual groundnut soup order at this joint, I walk back to the office.  I am deep in thought about a conversation I’d had with a friend online that had been weighing on me, and admittedly I am not paying full attention to my surroundings.   

Suddenly there is a hand on my neck from a man standing behind me.  He is choking me.  He spins me around and starts grabbing at my clothing.  He holds onto my right shirt and bra straps and I am thrashed about.  I scream “GET OFF ME! GET OFF ME!” and I try to push him off.  Honestly, this part is a blur in my memory, all I can remember is thinking that he was trying to undress me to sexually assault me.  Looking back, this is likely do to the fact that I’ve been sexually assaulted multiple times, and that given Trump’s vile comments on how he sexually assaults women, sexual assault, including my own, have been in the forefront of my thoughts.  Suddenly the man is not attacking me and he is running away from me as fast as he can.  As I reach up to assess the damage to my clothing I realize he’s ripped my necklace off my neck, and it’s at that point that I realize that he’s not trying to rape me, he was trying to rob me.  He hadn’t meant to grab as much of my clothing as he did and I was a much more difficult victim than he thought I would be.  However, despite his mangling of the robbery and my instincts to struggle, he made off with the “goods.” 

Once I realize he has my necklace I shout “HEY YOU GIVE THAT BACK” as I chase after the direction he departed, into the community.  To set the scene: between my office of Hen Mpoano and the joints where I pick up lunch, there is a very poor looking community of shacks and ill-constructed houses.  It was next to this community that I was attacked, and into it that my assailant ran.  As I run in, a man sees me and points the direction my assailant went.  I go that way and another person points the way after the fleeing man.  After my third guide attempting to help me, I realize that the man who assaulted me, and my precious necklace, are long gone. 

The necklace itself looks gold but it isn’t real.  My mother purchased it for me as a gift to keep me safe in Ghana.  We aren’t a family for much superstition but we believe in it some.  The pendant on the necklace was a “Hamsa,” the hand of God.  It was supposed to keep me safe.  Every time I wore it, I would think of my mother and feel loved.  I wanted, and still want, that sentimental necklace back.  Below is a selfie I took for my mother to show her me wearing the necklace, a week or two before the assault.

After I tell my third guide “he’s long gone, isn’t he” to which the man nodded (surprisingly he spoke English, most of the poor communities are full of people who didn’t go to school, and as such are both illiterate and unable to speak English), I walk back to where I was assaulted.  A crowd has gathered, drawn by my screams.  They are shouting to each other in Fante.  It is very overwhelming.  I start to shake.  A man who speaks English starts talking to me about how this is a travesty that this happened to me, and that we are going to the nearest police station right away.  He hails a taxi, and I let myself be brought into it.  On the way to the police station I gather my wits and tell the man that we have to go back to Hen Mpoano.  The staff will be worried about my long absence, and in any event, I don’t have my cell phone and I need it to tell the police my Ghanaian phone number, as I don’t have it memorized.  Say what you will about my inability to remember numbers, but in this case it saved the day, because the fact that I don’t have it memorized was the only thing that broke through the fog of my panic.  

I give directions back to Hen Mpoano, and once we get there I dash inside.  I’m crying.  I put my lunch down on my desk (somehow I’d held onto it this entire time, whether by instinct or because of my immense love of groundnut soup I’ll never know), then I grab my cell phone and run into the conference room.  I tell the Program’s Coordinator (the person I directly report to, hereafter referred to as my supervisor), “I’ve been assaulted.  He tore my necklace off me.  I’m going to the police station.”  My supervisor jumps up, looking shocked, saying “WHAT?”  I break down into sobs.  The director of Hen Mpoano happened to be in the office that day (he lives and works in Accra, the capital) and he saw me dash past his office, so he follows me into the conference room and puts his hand on my shoulder.  The director helps me up, and together with the programs coordinator and the two security guards who are on staff at that time, we go over to the waiting witness and taxi.  The director holds my shaking hand.  My supervisor asks me to please stop crying so that I may make a calm statement to the police.  The staff from Hen Mpoano discuss with the witness what happened, and say that they will take me to the police.  They pay the waiting taxi for me and I am ushered into one of the Hen Mpoano cars. 

A driver, my supervisor and myself all drive to the spot where I was assaulted.  There, my supervisor consults with the crowd of witnesses about what happened.  The general feeling I get from the conversation (which is almost entirely in Fante) is that the community is shocked and ashamed that this has happened to me.  I show them how my bra is torn and there is a collective gasp, followed by silence, followed by a flurry of yelling and pointing.  A man touches my neck where I was choked and I step back, saying “Don’t touch me!!”  My supervisor tells me that he is the brother of the man who assaulted me.  In fact, everyone in the community knows who it was who assaulted me, because he lives right there and there were many witnesses.  The brother pleads with me to not make a police report, saying he will get my necklace back in 30 minutes and bring it to Hen Mpoano.  My supervisor sends the brother off to get the necklace, however is adamant that we make a police report.  A different man tells me in English I have two options: make the report or get my necklace back.  I think that’s a load of crap and I refused to be bullied into not making a report.  I believe in justice.  So we pile into the Hen Mpoano car again and drive to the nearest police station.

When we arrive at the station, I’m shocked at how mundane it looks.  It’s basically a series of small buildings with their doors open, looking no different than the houses or shops nearby.  We walk into one and are told to take a seat on a bench outside.  While waiting, a skinny mangy cat walks over and I pet its ear, the one that still has fur on it.  At this point I don’t even care that it’s dirty, I just want to pet a cat, and it makes me feel better.  The officers call me in.  My supervisor conveys in Fante what happened to the police men, and I give a description.  I’m asked if I want to report the event as a robbery or assault, and I say assault.  They ask me if I could identify him, and I say that I doubt it, because while we were face to face he was choking me and flinging my head about and I couldn’t focus on his face much.  I mostly saw the back of his head as he ran away.   A side note: I have a new, real life appreciation for victims of assault who are not able to identify their attacker.  I’ve always believed the stories of people unable to describe or identify their attacker, but now I’ve experience this for real and it’s true. If you are someone who thinks people who are raped or assaulted shouldn’t be believed because they cannot accurately describe their attacker or cannot pick them out of a line up: you are a terrible person and I don’t want to know you.  End rant. 

After the first building, my boss and I are lead to another building behind this one.  There, I am asked to write down my statement for a hijabi woman, who isn’t in police uniform (the men in the previous office were) but who obviously works for the police in an official capacity.  After writing down and signing my statement, we walk back to the car, this time with the woman and another man, who works for the police but also is not in uniform, in tow. 

We drive back, yet again, to the spot of my assault.  The police people speak with the witnesses.  We are then lead into the community to find the house where the man who assaulted me lives.  Earlier, I had been thinking that he must have been truly poor and desperate to rob me in broad daylight, going against a very strong cultural taboo.  Walking through the community only further cemented this idea in my mind.  To get to his house, we past multiple falling apart shacks, and had to cross over a stream of blue-green sewage.  There was fecal matter and trash littering the ground, as well as something green growing that was either mold or moss, I couldn’t be sure.  A group of children gathered to watch the proceedings.  “This is where they live?” I thought to myself.  Despite the pain and panic he caused me, part of my heart goes out to this man, who likely grew up in such disgusting conditions. 

The police look in the man’s house and he isn’t there.  The house is empty, both of people and personal affects.  We hear reports from his neighbors that he lives with a few other men, essentially ne’er-do-wells, criminals, “weed smokers” the police man says with scorn in his voice.  Partaking in marijuana is obviously a much more grievous offence in Ghana than it is in Seattle where weed is legal.  I resist the urge to comment on that.  I’m clutching my wallet and cell phone tightly in sweaty hands, not wanting to put either in my pockets.  It’s very lucky that earlier the man didn’t see my wallet in my back pocket: my long shirt had covered it.  Had he grabbed that instead of my necklace, I likely would have been less physically attacked but more logistically stymied.  The wallet contains my debit card and a photocopy of my passport.  So thank G-d that that wasn’t taken!!

After this we walk out of the community, and I’m glad to be back in open air and not under the stifling shade of the plantain trees and crowded shacks.  We walk around some more and search out the uncle of my assailant.  We meet a local community member who is the leader of the community in an official capacity.  He assures me that they will do everything they can to make sure this man is brought to justice and my necklace returned.  While over here, a man approaches my boss and tells him in Fante that he saw the entire assault go down, and that the man who attacked me had shouted to get my attention before the attack and I hadn’t responded.  I told my boss that if that had happened, I hadn’t heard him.   Besides, I don’t really respond to strange men who call out to me – I respond to children who call out “obruni!” and to people who wish me “good morning/afternoon/evening.”  Maybe had I been paying more attention I would have heard him… but then what?  He likely still would have robbed me. 

Finally the investigation is complete and I am dropped off at the office while my supervisor goes with the police back to their station to finish the paperwork.  I go into the director’s office and he’s there with a few of the Hen Mpoano staff.  They stop their conversation as soon as they see me and begin to inquire after my psychical and mental well-being.  One of my coworkers, my “guide” from my “traditional wedding” post, tells me that had this happened in Accra, the man would have been killed by the community had they found him.  He would have been beaten and whipped to death in a display of street justice for violating the taboo of attacking an obruni.  I am shocked by this, and tell them “I don’t want him dead!! Just arrested!”  They all nod in agreement. 

After this I go to wash my hands.  I feel like they will never be clean.  Then I return to my office and call my boyfriend.  I break down in sobs.  My supervisor has been asking me to contain myself and to stop crying the entire time, so that I am able to give a calm and accurate police report.  I recognize the soundness of this advice, however holding back the tears for over an hour was excruciating.  So I sob on the phone and tell my coworker who comes in “please just let me cry!”  And he does. 

Then I eat my lunch, spilling the soup onto my desk as I try to get it into a bowl because my hands are still shaking violently.  I scarf up my food and am told that I will be driven home by one of the staff, either by a driver or by my supervisor.  I spend about an hour in the office printing and stapling surveys for the next two days of field work.  Then I tell the driver I am ready to go, and he tells me that my supervisor is driving me, as the driver needs to drive the director to the airport in half an hour and that there won’t be time for both.  So my supervisor drives me home. 

Going forward, the police may still catch him, and he is adamantly not welcome back in his community, so either way he’s lost either his freedom or his home.  I don’t wish him any ill will beyond the scope of what is Right and Just.  I do want my necklace back, though I’ve come to terms with the fact that that will likely never happen.  Like my tattoo says: Che Sara Sara, whatever will be will be. 

Many times during this ordeal it is reiterated to me that this is shocking that this happened to me.  I didn’t include this in the blow-by-blow because it would have been tedious.  I am asked many times if the man is crazy, to which I reply that I don’t think so, just a criminal.  I will not slander the mentally ill by grouping people in with them who are not mentally ill as an “excuse” to justify their behavior.  Besides, he didn’t seem ill.  Just poor, desperate, and strong.  So I will end this post in the same vein in which I started it:  I refuse to let this man win.  I refuse to be swooped out of the country (although the University of Washington has offered to orchestrate an emergency evacuation for me upon hearing about my ordeal).  I will not leave until I have gathered my data.  I will not cut my trip short.  And I will do nothing that would make anyone hesitate to come to Ghana, this beautiful country that has welcomed me with basically open arms for the past one and a half months.  I still love it here.  I still want to come back when I’m older, with children in tow.  I cannot be defeated by this.  I will likely never get the beloved necklace back, and that’s alright.  What the man almost took from me was my nerve, my dignity, and my resolve.  And I’ve discovered that that is something that cannot be ripped away from me.  I won’t let him win.  I’ve had many kind words of support from my friends and family after I posted about my ordeal to my Facebook.  That’s how we don’t let him win: we can support each other, love each other in times of crisis, and resolve to never lose our nerve or ability to go to strange foreign places alone.   

We stand together and fight against the fear.  

We win, he loses.  

Traditional Wedding / Engagement

The day before the traditional wedding does not get off to a good start: I depart work an hour and a half later than the time I was supposed to leave.  I travel with one of the employees at Hen Mpoano, who has agreed to act as my guide and escort me to my hotel, and he is delayed, thus delaying both of our departures.  I was originally hoping to get to my hotel by 6, in order to partake of some of the amenities there, and this possibility slowly slips away.  However, as it turns out, I would have been truly unable to get to my hotel by myself, so my guild was an absolute necessity, and one I was very grateful for. 

We get on a bus (the same kind of bus I took to Winneba the weekend before) and wait for it to fill up.  Once we get on the road, the bus driver puts in a show for the riders to watch.  Because we are seated close to the front, I am able to read the subtitles, and thus I watch all four segments of this many-hour drama.  It was, to say the least, a masterful expression of misogyny. 

Below is a description of the show I watched, which you are welcome to skip if you want to get to the wedding.  However, this actually seems like a relevant part of my consumption of Ghanaian culture, thus I include it here:

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The show is called “Adofoasa,” which is the name of the main character.  We are first introduced to two contradictory women: Adofoasa and Queen.  They are both raised by single fathers after the death of their respective mothers.  Queen’s father is rich, a police commissioner, and she is very spoiled.  She also has friends who indulge her selfish tendencies.  She doesn’t cook for her father (gasp!) and only focuses on her education.  Adofoasa’s father is very poor, elderly, and physically unwell.  Adofoasa is portrayed as very humble, generous, and a good cook.   She graduated high school but is unable to pay for the next level of her education, even though she wants to learn more.  She sells cassava to try to supplement her father’s income (doing what? We never find out).  Adofoasa is offered a marriage proposal from a wealthy farmer, but her father turns it down, saying he refuses his beloved only child to be the third wife of a farmer who has never left the village or made anything for himself.  Queen, unable to keep house as well as go to school (the horror), has requested her father to hire a maid.  You see where this is going… after much drama and deliberation, Adofoasa is hired as the made for Queen’s household.  Queen has a volatile relationship with her fiancé, Marcus.  Marcus and Queen’s father discuss how Queen’s attitude is terrible, and how she has friends! Oh no, not friends!!  Adofoasa has no friends whom could corrupt her, and thus she is pure and humble.  Adofoasa, of course, does an amazing job as a maid, and Queen’s father is very happy with her.  Queen hates Adofoasa, and insults Adofoasa’s father when he comes to visit.  Marcus, predictably, falls in love with Adofoasa, saying to her that she is “everything he’s ever wanted in a woman.” 

This is where sh*t gets crazy, folks.  After declaring his love for Adofoasa, Marcus rapes her.  Afterwards, he tell her “you should have told me you were a virgin” as if that would have stopped him raping her?  Queen comes home and suspects something.  So a few days later she sends Adofoasa off with a bag, saying that Adofoasa is to meet Queen’s friend at the bus station.  Then Queen calls the police on Adofoasa, saying that Adofoasa has stolen money from a police case Queen’s father is working on.  The police come and arrest Adofoasa!  The police commissioner does nothing to help her, now suddenly suspecting she’s a thief, even though the last we saw him, he was raving about how humble and amazing she is.  Can’t trust those women, amirite?  So Adofoasa goes to jail, with a sentence of 10 years.  Queen gets away with her crime. 

In jail, Adofoasa gives birth, because (of course) Marcus impregnated her with the rape.  She has to give up the child once it is born.  During this time, things out of jail get even crazier.  Queen’s evil friend starts sleeping with Queen’s father.  Another of the evil friends tells Queen about this, and Queen kills the father-sleeping-with-friend.  The remaining evil friends bury the dead friend.  Marcus goes to the states for a year so he’s just not in this part. 

Time goes on, and Marcus returns from the States and marries Queen.  One day, he overhears Queen and one of the evil friends discussing all of their evil deeds. Queen tells the friend: if you turn me in and I go down, I’m taking you with me!  Marcus films this all and goes to the police with the film evidence.  Proof that Queen framed Adofoasa!  Upon hearing the news that his daughter is evil incarnate, the police commissioner has a heart attack/faints/collapses, and we never hear from him again. 

Back to the village: Adofoasa is there, with her child, living with her father.  Marcus comes to visit and discovers the child is his!  The last scene is the three of them standing together, holding each other, looking down at their rape-child.  Everything is happy when you marry your rich doctor rapist who just turned in his previous wife to the police!  And the education she's been trying to pursue all story long... nah, no mention of that in the end.  Happy ending, y’all! 

The moral of this story: female friends make women evil, education is a good dream but not necessary to being a good wife, and marrying your rapist is a great idea.  I couldn’t believe I spent like four hours watching all of this.  After it was over, I put on my headphones and went to sleep. 

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OK, back to real life: after we get to Accra, my guide and I get off the bus and onto a tro tro.  We ride this for another 30 minutes, and I marvel at how huge Accra is.  It reminded me of Los Angeles in how sprawling it is.  I could see hills dotted with lights from houses, and with a pang it reminded me of how cities look in America at night (it was like 9:30 at this point).  I don’t see anything like that in Takoradi, because the jungle obscures the light from the houses, but the ecosystem of Accra is different, more arid and open.  After we get off the tro, we catch a taxi to my hotel.  I get there at around 10:30.  I find out the restaurant has just closed, and at this point the last time I had eaten was 11 hours earlier.  I was starving, and my stomach pains had stopped a few hours earlier, which is always a bad sign.  So the porter asked if the restaurant would make me some chicken and rice, and they agreed!  I get to my room and in about 10 minutes my food and the beer I requested were delivered.  It was the best tasting dry chicken I’ve ever consumed, and I ate it ravenously.   Earlier upon entry to the hotel, I’d seen a bar/lounge downstairs, where people were smoking hookah.  “After I eat, I’ll go hang out for a while!” I thought to myself at the time.  In reality, once I finished eating I basically passed out.  The bed was as long as I was, with my feet touching the baseboard.  Luckily it was very wide, so I slept diagonally.  I turned on the hot water heater so I could take a hot shower – my first in a month! – in the morning, and went to blissful sleep.

The next morning, I woke up and started getting ready for my 8:30 AM pick up.  I was going to be gathered by either my guide from earlier or the director of Hen Mpoano.  So I got ready for my hot shower – only to discover that the two temperature options were “cold” and “luke warm.”  So I took the most disappointing shower of my entire trip, and got dressed.  The hotel offered free breakfast with a room, so I went to the restaurant.  I was the only person there, and I felt super awkward.  I was asked if I take coffee or Milo (pronounced mee-low, and is a Nestle hot chocolate that is very common here).  I responded “Milo” and then wondered if I was to get food, or just a drink.  I was pleasantly surprised by the breakfast: a vegetable omelet, two huge pieces of toast, and the Milo self-serve station, which included two packets of Milo, hot water, milk, and sugar.  It was delicious, but I was dying of heat by the time I had finished.  How does anyone drink hot drinks in this climate?? I usually make Milo cold when I make it at home.  Also, as an aside, a part of me dies every time I see how prominent Nestle products are in Ghana and how they are marketed as “part of a healthy diet” for children.  Especially when I see signs for Cerelac, I feel simultaneously like crying or hitting something (Cerelac specifically caused the deaths of millions of children in third world countries, because it is mixed with water which was often contaminated.  Nestle had a huge campaign to “teach” women that they should not breastfeed and should instead use their products, which directly caused the death of children who did not have the antibodies to protect them from the contaminated water.  So when I say “Nestle is pure evil,” I really mean it).  Here's an add for it:

I never, ever buy Nestle products at home, however I more or less have to consume them here because they are everywhere.  But a part of me dies every time (even though chocolate milk for breakfast is a great tradition, and one that America should get on ASAP).  OK, enough of my Nestle rant.  I haven’t even gotten to the wedding yet!

I get picked up for the wedding without a hitch (though my start time is delayed by half an hour, which allows me blissful time to enjoy the air conditioning and cool down after my hot-Milo breakfast).  At the wedding site, I hang out with the groom’s family and friends. 

You’ll notice that I have chosen to not include any names of actual people in my blog: this is to attempt a degree of anonymity for the people I write about.  My host has given me permission to write about him, but I still think it’s most respectful to not name him my name.  Thus, my writing sometimes becomes awkward to accommodate this. 

Before the wedding, the women gather around a truck with a variety of gifts that are part of the wedding ceremony.  All the women are given a gift to carry into the wedding – including me!!  I’m given a plate holding two bottles of fine alcohol, and wrapped very prettily.  We walk around to the area next door, which is set up with two large canopies.  The bride’s family is already in place, and are seated facing the central area.  In the front row of the bride’s family is a row of comfy couches upon which the prominent members of her family recline.  There is a table in the middle where the gifts are to be placed, and then another set of plush chairs, directly facing the bride’s side.  Behind this row of plush chairs are the general chairs that we, the groom’s family and guests, sit in.  So we face the Bride’s side the entire time.  I enter as part of the procession, and there are lots of gasps when people see me, and many whispered “Obrumi!” as I walk by.  I get lots of pictures taken of me.  I have to struggle to hold back tears at the honor of being part of the gift-procession.  I place the gift and take my seat.  The wedding begins!

For the next hour and forty five minutes, the gifts are presented to the Bride’s family, as part of the bride price.  Many of the gifts are things that my host has bought for his fiancé, and are showed to demonstrate his financial ability to take care of her.  The traditional gifts are: alcohol, non-alcoholic drinks, money (to the family), cloth (to the family), and, very importantly, a jewelry box for the wife.  I’d estimate there were about 30 gifts altogether.  Many of the gifts to the wife were things that I had seen her bring from the house to bring to Accra at an earlier occasion – so I’m sure she picked them out for herself.  During the gift-giving section, at what seems like random intervals to me but I’ve been told are specific ones, songs are sung.  This entire section is done in a local language – later I learn that it is “Ga,” the language of the Bride’s tribe.  My guide from earlier plays the role of the representative for the husband, because his family is from that tribe and he speaks Ga, which the rest of the groom’s family does not speak, as they are from a different tribe.  Twice during this part of the ceremony he calls me out – once at the very beginning – by saying “There’s an American here!” which prompts me to stand up and wave to everyone, to applause.  It’s very sweet and overwhelming.   The people seem touched that an American is here at this traditional wedding.  I am the only white person present. 

One of the women speakers leading the wedding in Ga

The man standing on the left is the speaker for the groom, my guide from earlier, and the person who announced to all that "there is an American here!"  

An unrelated picture of an adorable baby sleeping

Finally, at almost two hours in, the gifts are cleared away and two chairs are placed at a perpendicular angle to the two sides facing each other.  Some AstroTurf is laid out in front of the chairs. 

First, my host is lead in with a procession of his family members.  He makes his round, shaking all the hands of the important figures in the comfortable seats.  Then he sits in one of the chairs for about twenty minutes, while the program continues.  Next the bride is escorted in, this time with her own escort.  Her dress is beautiful, made of traditional fabric called Kente.  She does the same greeting of important guests, this time handing out handkerchiefs to help keep the guests cool.  She then sits in her chair. 

Groom procession

My host being gestured at by our co-worker

The bridal procession 

After some back and forth between the two speakers, the bride and groom are asked to kneel on the AstroTurf as the guests bless them in the name of Jesus.  We reach our hands out to them and pour good will and blessings in their general direction.  I think “this makes me wish I would have a religious wedding, even though I’m not Christian, as this is very touching.

Gazing lovingly at each other!  Awwwww

The bride and groom resume their seats.  The singing in Ga continues, until at one point a female minister is brought forward from the Bride’s church.  I later learn that she is Nigerian (an accent gives this fact away to the Ghanaians, but I am unable to tell the difference between a Nigerian and Ghanaian English-speaking accent), thus she does not speak any of the tribal languages and speaks in English.  During this section, she decries the evils of gender equality, and goes on at length about how the wife should never consider herself equal to her husband.  My eyes threaten to pop out of my head, but I manage to keep my jaw off the floor.  I wish that she wasn’t speaking English – ignorance is bliss.   I think “I take it back - I’m so glad I’m not going to have a religious wedding!”

The ceremony wraps up and music is played while the table is cleared away.  Buckets are handed out to every person so that they may keep all their belongings in one place and off the floor.  Then gift bags are passed out, which contain a bowl and a dish towel.  Beers and sodas are passed around.  I take a “shandy,” which I have yet to try in Ghana, and which I find out, to my dismay, is only 2%.  This will not do.  I down it and acquire a Club lager.   One of the women makes a comment about how too much beer isn’t good for a lady.  I say “I have been good drinking beer so far, cheers!” and merrily drink away.   The women think this is hilarious. 

  

    Bucket of goodies                         My "thank goodness for beer" face

The couple take pictures, and it’s at this point I discover that I’m a very popular person to take pictures with!  While I’m waiting for the couple to take a picture with me (at their suggestion), I acquire a line of gentlemen who want the photographer to take pictures of them with me – no wedding couple included!  So after my photo shoot, I bail from where the photographer has set up, hoping that this will avert some of the male attention.  Every time they want to take a picture with me, the hug me very close, and sometimes squeeze or pet my arm.  I’m less than thrilled with this.  So I return to my previous chair and make myself busy on my cell phone.  This does not work as various men approach me and take selfies with me.  One leaves and gleefully announces that he will see me next weekend at the wedding in Takoradi.  Oh, joy. 

Food is served, and the wedding couple eat first.  It’s a veritable banquet – there is fufu with light soup with crab, banku with okro (okra) stew, and a table with three kinds of rice (plain, jollof, and waakye), as well as a choice of fish or chicken, and salad.  I should have gone for the fufu, as I have yet to try it, but instead I wanted something I knew I would like, and went for (you guessed it) a heaping mound of jollof and fish.  I find a table with my co-workers sitting at it and eat with them.    There is a cute little cat trying for scraps, and I attempt to feed her some of my fish but the wife of one of my co-workers is feeding her first, and my offering to the kitten is quickly consumed by ants.  Oh well.  Then my co-workers head off, leaving me knowing no one besides the very busy bride and groom.   

After food, I acquire a harem of children who wish to poke at me and stare at me.  It seems that after a few hours of looking from afar, they are now bold enough to come up to me directly and get my attention.  I much prefer them to the men who were previously hounding me.  My favorite “obruni” interaction though is a woman who was sitting on the bride’s side who comes up to me.  She is, I believe, totally sober, and gives me a huge hug and a kiss on my neck, and tells me “Thank you so much for being here! I love you!” at which point I blush and say “Thank you so much for having me; I’m so happy to be here!”  If only all of my interactions were this endearing! 

My new friend!

So at the end I’m sitting by myself, occupied with my phone, beer, and children.  A couple of dudes sit at the table next to me and I think “oh no,” as I can tell that one of them is conventionally attractive and full of “swag,” thus likely is used to positive attention from women.  I try to look as uninteresting as possible, hoping that they will ignore me.  You see where this story is going – they don’t.  About 15 minutes after they post up next to me, swag-bro takes a chair next to me and announces that he wants to sit next to me because I’m alone.  Great.  So I say “sure” and go back to my phone.  We sit in blessed silence for a little while, then he starts up a conversation.  I don’t remember exactly what is said, because about five sentences in he asks for my phone number.  Thank goodness I don’t have my Ghanaian phone number memorized, because my knee jerk reaction is to be amenable and I may have just offered it up!  So I say, “no, sorry” and the following conversation occurs:

“Why not?”

“Because I don’t want to.”

“Why don’t you want to?”

“Because I don’t. Sorry”

“Well then give me your number!”

“No”

"Why not?” …. Etc., about 10 times like that in a row. 

Then I try the “I have a very jealous boyfriend and he would not like it if I gave out my number” route but I tell the truth and I say that he’s American, not Ghanaian, which the swag bro takes as a sign that my boyfriend is of no concern to him.  I was hoping that I could rely on the sexist trope of "I’m claimed by a man, leave me alone” to get him off my back, but no luck.  Then he tries a different route:

“I promise I won’t bother you! Just give me your number!”

“I know you will not bother me because I am not giving you my number!”

“Why won’t you give me your number?”  Etc. 

Finally, I look him straight in the eyes and say “I do not like people who do not take no for an answer.  I will not give you my number. I do not want to be your friend. I want you to leave me alone.  Right now.  I do not want to talk to you.  I was better sitting alone. Please let me sit alone!”  And finally (!!) this works and he goes back to sitting with his friend.  His friend looks highly amused at how little success swag bro has achieved at getting my number.  I am livid and so ready to go home.  Men reading this: taking “no” for an answer is key!  No is a complete sentence and no one should have to explain “why” they are saying “no” to anything!  End rant.  

So finally my host grabs me and says that we are all leaving to Takoradi.  Hooray!  We pile into his friend’s car and we get a ride to Accra.  Again I am astounded at how sprawling Accra is – it takes about an hour to drive directly to the bus stop.  Finally we are there and we pile on a waiting bus.  My hosts sit in front of me and I sit directly behind them with a seat open next to me.  You see where this is going – a young man sits next to me and strikes up conversation.  I’m friendly, so I chat back.  Then it comes: “I very much like your stature, you are tall and –" here I cut him off, in no mood for this. 

“Look.  I’ve had to fend of men hitting on me for hours today.  Do not do it.  I do not want to sit next to someone who will bother me.  I just want a peaceful bus ride back to Takoradi where I can sleep.” He looks abashed and asks if I don’t like compliments, to which I reply “not from strangers.” 

And low and behold – he takes no for an answer!  He changes the subject and we talk for some time about his schooling and ambitions.  Turns out he’s a smart kid who wants to study oil management and offshore drilling in America.  Despite the fact that he works for an industry I consider evil, I say that it’s true that with my background in marine management, I could be a potential networking source for him in America.   We stop chatting and fall asleep, and before I get off at my stop on the bus (5 hours after we departed – it’s almost midnight now) I give him my email address so that I could be a potential networking contact.  My faith in men is restored!  I’m fine having male friends in Ghana, I just need them to understand that I’m not interested in a romantic liaison whilst I’m here!  I don’t think that’s so hard to get – and my new friend proved that indeed, that is true.  Whew.

Midnight we are back at the house and I am exhausted.  I wash my feet to make myself feel clean after a long day (something my mom used to do for me when I was a little girl) and I send some texts, then I pass out. 

This upcoming weekend is Wedding Part Two: The Church Wedding!  Wish me luck…

Winneba

This past weekend I took a trip to Winneba to meet up with a friend-of-a-friend.  Back story: before I was going to Ghana, a good friend of mine from high school messaged me and her friend in a group chat to introduce us, as me and this other women will both be in Ghana at the same time.  My high school friend knew this person from their mutual time in the Peace Corp in Thailand.  So I started chatting with the woman staying in Ghana, and she helped me a great deal with my preparation (talking me out of three pairs of shoes I almost brought that would have been a disaster) and cultural acclimation (taught me to not be upset with children calling me "Obruni").  She was already an invaluable resource even before I got in country.  And once I was here, she and I were in regular contact, and she helped me with some of my homesick woes that preoccupied my first week here.  Well, we made plans for me to visit her in Winneba, a coastal town where she lives and works.  This past weekend my hosts were in Accra doing wedding preparations (that I just found out today I'll be going to!  That'll get it's own post after the traditional wedding - stay tuned!).  Thus, I decided it was a perfect weekend to stay in Winneba if it worked for my friend, and she said it did! So I had a delightful brief visit that has been one of the highlights of the trip thus far!

Early Saturday morning (5 AM) I was up with my hosts packing up.  The bus ride to Accra that they would be taking stops at Winneba junction, so I was able to take the same bus as my hosts.  We piled on, and I was able to score the last window seat, in the very back! I very much wanted to look at the scenery as we drove (though I didn't take any pictures of this).  We departed just past 6 AM.

It was mostly an uneventful trip, but about 20 minutes out of Winneba, suddenly our bus blew a tyre (I'm purposefully going for the British spelling because that is how it is spelled here) - one right below me!  It was very loud.  We pulled onto the side of the road... but then got back on the road and kept driving.  I was confused, until we pulled into a gas station and I realized that that was the reason we had got back on the road on the blown out tyre - the driver decided to get to the gas station to attempt repairs.  We all filed off the bus, and luckily since we were at a gas station, we were able to get some breakfast.  We purchased cookies and I got my first Ghanaian ice cream - I have hesitated buying it to bring home in the past, figuring it will melt in the taxi ride home.  But this was the occasion for ice cream!  So strawberry ice cream from Ghana and coconut cookies from Iran were my breakfast.  After about 30 minutes of waiting, we were informed that the tyre was changed (for the doughnut, I assume) and we all got back in the bus.

The bus ride from then on was again very noisy!  Even the Ghanaians on the bus had looks of alarm, which made me feel like I wasn't overexagerating how weird it was that we were clipping along on this very noisy doughnut!  Below is a selfie of my feelings of the situation, and a picture of what the bus looked like from the very back left corner.

Luckily we made it to Winneba junction and I shuffled past everyone with my huge backpack.  I waited a little bit and my friend met me, and we were off! First we went back to her place so I could wash my face and relax under a fan for a minute while we discussed our options for the day.  We deiced that we would visit the market, then go to the smokehouse and cold store the organization she works for built, then head to a "spot" on the beach for some beers, get some food, and figure it out from there.  Perfect!  

After walking around the market, we went to the "livelihoods site" where her organization, Challenging Heights, has built a "smokehouse," or a covered area where multiple smoking ovens were built, and a cold store where fish and other perishables can be stored.  Challenging heights works to fight child slavery in Ghana and built the smokehouse when they realized that one of the most concrete ways to stop parents from selling their children (to what seem like reputable individuals and "schools" but are usually slavers) was to strengthen the economic power of mothers. Winneba is a coastal, fishery-dependent community, thus many of the women living there work as fish processors.  The cold store allows the women to not have to take an entire day to travel to Tema to procure fish, and the smoke house gives the women a reliable, covered place where they can smoke fish all year long, even during the rainy season.  Challenging heights also built many private smoke ovens for individual fish processors, but I only visited the communal one.  Below are some pictures:  

After seeing the communal smoke house and cold-store, I discussed with my friend the possibility of using Winneba as a study site, in order to have a comparison fishery-dependent community in Central Region to compare to my four study sites in Western Region (see the "Shama" post).  We both felt this was a good idea, and she was kind enough to offer to host me for a week. What is especially appealing is the fact that I am able to capitalize on the connections Challenging Heights already has formed with these women, and will need to do less in terms of building trust with them.  Further, they do not suffer from research fatigue, which many fishery-dependent communities do.  Subsequent to this trip, I've communicated with the director of Challenging Heights as well as the Programs Coordinator at Hen Mpoano, and have been officially invited to conduct survey research at the livelihoods site at Winneba.  Hooray!  I'm not gonna lie, I fishery-geek'ed out pretty hard during this part of my visit!  

After visiting the livelihoods site, my friend and I went to a rasta spot on the beach to drink some beers.  Sadly, because I'm terrible at remembering to take pictures, I didn't get any pictures of the beautiful view from here.  But I'll get some the next time I come back!  I did get a picture of my new favorite furry friend, though: 

That is the only cat I've pet so far in Ghana, and after 3 weeks starved for a chance to pet a feline (but seeing them everywhere!) I was so delighted to meed this sweet creature.  This is the reason I am certain that when I return to Winneba I'll go back to this charming rasta spot by the beach.  Also, the Ghanaian lager "Club" is growing on me quite a bit (yesterday I bought four bottles of it for the house). 

Here are some pictures I took on the road from the beach, looking back on it: 

         

And here is a picture of a Jewish center in Winneba(!): 

After getting some Jollof (which I cannot get enough of and am going to eat a bunch of in about an hour when it's lunch time) we went back to my friend's place to rest given how early I had to wake up the night before.  After a brief nap, we walked around Winneba a bit and stopped by a spot where she knows the owner.  She got "indome," which is a brand of ramen that is cooked at stands that only exist at night, and is stir fried with vegetables, egg, and meat if one takes meat (my friend does not).  I got "keliweli," which is delicious spicy fried plantains.  We turned in at about 10, as we were feeling sleepy.  

The next day, after being treated to home-cooked breakfast, my friend helped me take a taxi back to Winneba junction.  There, I caught a "tro tro," which is the local name for a minibus.  I originally thought I would take a tro to Cape Coast and there catch another one to Takoradi, but the tro I got on actually went all the way to Takoradi!  Below is a picture I took from the tro, near Cape Coast. 

I was able to tell the tro driver which stop in Sekondi I wished to get off at, and was able to get off the tro and catch a taxi home without a hitch!  I'm now officially able to travel by myself anywhere in the country and know I'm able to give directions back to my place of residence in Sekondi if need be.  Hooray autonomy! 

So that's the end of my entry on this very successful weekend trip to Winneba.  I'm greatly looking forward to spending a week there a the end of October in order to conduct surveys, see my friend, eat indome, and pet a friendly kitty! 

Shama

Earlier this week I took a trip to Shama district, and visited four coastal communities about 45 minutes from Takoradi, in order to view study sites in preparation for my return to the area with surveys.  The areas were: two fishing areas in the town of Shama proper, and the villages Abuesi and Aboadze.  This visit took place on a Tuesday, the fisherman's holiday, so the canoes and smoking equipment was not in use and I was able to take a bunch of cool pictures of them.

The smallest, craziest road I've ever been on (also this was taken in torrential rain)

View from the car

Canoes!  After reading about the canoe fishing industry for so many years, seeing them in person was sort of breathtaking.  They are larger than I thought they would be!  I saw a few people making canoes but was unable to get a picture. 

Beach.  The lines you see are how the canoes are tied up. 

Poverty.  Many of the houses in the fishing community looked like this. 

Fort San Sebastian, where African slaves were held before being shipped to the Americas.  A sobering sight. 

Racks used to smoke fish

Inside of an indoor fish smoking unit

I love this picture

Outdoor smoking ovens - more susceptible to not being able to be used during the rain, which visited us in torrents at the end of our visit.  They are not in use today because, since no fish are landed on a Tuesday, no fish are processed that day. 

Trash: the beach was littered with it.  Sad. 

Hope you enjoyed the pictures, dear reader!