The Center of The World

Considering in about an hour I will be docking in Salvador, I should probably recap at least something from Ghana before I get to Brazil! These 6 days at sea have really been packed with schoolwork and projects, and trying to soak up the most from our days, since I hate to say it, but we only have fifteen left.

On April 11 (forever ago, right?) we docked in Ghana. We all thought we would be in Accra, the capital city, but the main harbor is in the industrial sister city, Tema. So Semester at Sea arranged for a (shoddy) shuttle system to go back and forth on the hour. This was the first port city I have been to so far where I was more curious about what I would see than I was excited. I had watched The Lion King the night before, and of course I knew Accra wouldn’t look like that. But what would it look like?

Apparently, it looks like almost every other small-scale city I have been to so far! There were a few main streets connecting the major sites, along which street vendors crowded the sidewalks. The streets were dusty and the buildings in “downtown” didn’t rise above two stories. Cars and taxis weaved through the lanes, but much more tamely than I’ve seen in Shanghai or Chennai. I would say the only major difference between Accra and say, Ho Chi Minh City, was that 90% of the people in Accra we carrying things on their heads! I wasn’t surprised that people did it- I was more shocked by the sheer weight of the things they carried. You name it, they balanced it: bowls of fruit, baskets of flip-flops, trays of jewelry or snacks, chairs, groceries!

Even though I was only in Ghana for a short four days, I think I really maximized my time by seeing all of central Accra, the Castles and Slave Dungeons in Cape Coast, the OSU Children’s orphanage, and the Makola Market. I think my experience in the market was my most “real” day, spending time with local vendors rather than reading plaques on the sides of buildings. I found my way into the heart of the market, where tourists rarely venture into. Through 2 foot wide pathways, I weaved through the maze of stalls selling spoons, cd’s, and dresses, until I reached the fabric section. Stall after stall was covered with yards of brightly printed fabrics, and I couldn’t help but stop to look at the patterns. As soon as I paused for a moment there, a woman popped out of nowhere, from her resting place under the cool fabrics. After lots of back and forth, I agreed to buy 2 yards of fabric to have a skirt made. Behind me, a row of seamstresses sat at their sewing machines, deftly creating traditional skirt and top outfits. The women said to come back at 2:30 to pick up my finished garment.

I tried to find my way out of the market by a different route than I used coming in. Big mistake! I managed to get completely lost in the food section of the market, when all I wanted was to find my way out! In no real hurry, I passed stalls of spices, dried tilapia, live crabs, pigs’ feet, corn, and flour. It smelled… interesting. All the while, I had to constantly step aside so girls with 50 pounds of fruit or fish or soda on her head could squeeze by me in the tiny corridor.

Eventually, with a little (a lot) of help, I found a main street. Along every street in Accra, between the pavement and the sidewalk, runs an open sewer of varying depth. Concrete planks connect the two surfaces to avoid any, say, accidents. As I was walking down the street with my friend, we were approached by a man selling big African-print shirts. I decided to play the bargaining game (yay for getting one for $6 instead of $25!) and as I stepped forward to choose a shirt from his selection, FWOOM. My right leg had sunken 18 inches into the grimiest sewer I had seen the entire trip. The trash and muck kept me down like quicksand as the shirt-man and my traveling buddy tried to yank me out of the depths. I was too grossed out to cry, so of course, I laughed. As did the other 30 people on the street who got a week’s worth of amusement out of my fall! (Always happy to help.) Lucky for me, a woman selling sodas about 10 feet away came to my rescue with a bucket of water and she generously helped me wash my leg, foot, and shoe. She then gladly took a photo with me.

So that’s my sewer story. Don’t try this at home. I suppose that’s why the sewers in the US are generally actually underground. I found my way back to my seamstresses and chaatted while they finished my skirt. Foustina, the woman who sold me the fabric, and her 18 year old daughter, Priscilla, on holiday from school, were especially friendly and hospitable, as 2:30 turned into 3:30, into 4:30. When my skirt was finally finished I couldn’t have been more satisfied. It looks just like the ones they wear there! I will gladly model when I come home.

Now, onto Brasil!