Beads

From the motorway at Tema about 15 minutes from Accra, my two visitors and I headed north toward Akosombo. Judy from Washington and Uthman from Kampala were in town for a week to work on a rural telecom project, and I was furnishing their weekend entertainment.

As this was to be only a day trip, we decided to save time and pass by Shai Hills, a savannah wildlife sanctuary with decent opportunities (by West African standards) to spot the olive baboon, kob antelope, and bushbuck. Birds are said to be a better target -- black-bellied bustard, the Senegal parrot, and the double-spurred francolin. Will catch it next time, perhaps camping.



Our primary destination was the Cedi Bead Factory, west from the Kpong junction. The road was fantastic, and we were there in under an hour. Samuel parked the car under a tree as we were approached by the foreman, who also turned out to be our tour guide. I didn't quite catch his name, but I think he was also the owner, Cedi himself. He certainly seemed to know his craft.

Bottles of various colors are crushed, and the resulting find powder is then sifted from larger bits. Different colored powders are layered in molds and then fired to produce several different types of beads.



It was a facinating tour, and quite unexpected. There was no charge, though obviously we were expected to purchase a few items from the gift shop, and of course we offered the customary tip to our guide. I bought a sampler that I intend to display in a decorative bowl in my living room: a speckled fish, a translucent cross, a simple brown ball, and various balls with painted patterns. The patterns are painted on with more of the glass powder, moistened slightly to adhere to the bead, and then fired again to seal.

Cedi also maintains a stock of older trade beads. These tend to be a bit rougher in texture, and noticeably different from those made from bottle powder. They're generally from Europe. Cedi's crew till refurbish damaged ones with a quick firing to restore luster. I thought about buying a strand for a friend of mine who collects, but the price proved to be higher than the amount of cash I'd carried in my pocket. Something for the next trip.

After Cedi Beads, we continued on for lunch at the lovely Aylo's Bay Leisure Spot, with excellent grilled fish and crayfish, cold beer, and a view of fishers in dugouts casting circular nets in the Volta River. Afterward, on our way to dessert, we drove up to the Akosombo Dam for a brief tour courtesy of one of the security guards, and then tea and kelewele (fried sweet plaintain) at the Volta Lake Hotel, part of the Accor (Novotel) chain and well worth its four stars with a view over the lake itself as well as the dam and the gorge below. An excellent day trip.

Cocoloco

I'd not been past Tema on the motorway in quite a few years, and so I was braced for a tedious ride over a crowded, pot-holed, somewhat paved path that has served as the primary route between Lagos and Accra, a road over which some 60 percent of West Africa's intraregional trade is reported to pass. Instead, I was delighted to find a brand new highway, with wide lanes and aprons, well marked, and fast. We arrived at the Ada Junction within an hour, turning right down the more conventional bumpy yet serviceable community road. Another 15 minutes and we'd arrived to the turnoff to Cocoloco.



The Cocoloco Beach Camp Resort is what I'd describe as a backpacker's hostel, similar in many ways to the camping hostels in some of the game parks of East Africa. Accommodations are curiously located across the road from the beach, rather than right on the beach, perhaps because of the occasional heavy storms that tend to whisk away anything near the beach not deeply anchored into the ground. My bedroom was Spartan yet clean and reasonably comfortable, though I'd quibble a bit with the architecture of the place.

The nicest six rooms, including mine, are in a conventional cement block structure, though without jalousies or some other means of cross ventilation short of simply opening their doors and letting in both a breeze and thousands of mosquitoes, they are simply far too hot for a pleasant night's sleep. I managed by placing my bed directly under an open, screened window, catching a gentle, cool convection current from the slightly cooler though increasingly humid outdoor air.



Nonetheless, Cocoloco is a fantastic location within surprisingly easy reach of Accra, and not at all crowded even on a holiday weekend. A friend and I strolled down the beach to the nearby village, dodging literally thousands of skanky plastic bags and the occasional small mound of surf-rinsed human excrement, the beach serving as both convenient trash disposal mechanism and flush toilet.

Near our resort, the beach and the surf were substantially cleaner, so we tried our luck with the pounding surf. It was quite pleasant and calm about 20 meters off shore, but in between it was touch and go as waves some two meters in height would suddenly rear up, sucking out the water beneath them, and then pulverizing anything in their path. Proper timing was key to getting beyond them. I managed my outward journey quite nicely, and lounged for a bit in the deeper and pleasantly tepid water beyond the waves. On my return to the beach, however, I had my face mashed into the sand, and spent the rest of the afternoon picking bits of shell and sand from inside ears and just about every other corner. I carried at least a kilo of sand out of the ocean in each pocket of my swimming shorts. Exhilarating, though not for the faint of heart.

We lounged away the rest of the afternoon in hammocks strung between palm trees, with cold beers, the rhythmic sounds of the surf, and a spectacular sunset as backdrop. Busloads of Ghanaian groups, some from churches, other from businesses in the area, stopped in briefly during the day, joining us in celebration of Farmer's Day. One group entertained us with a vigorous and exciting game of beach volleyball, replete with raucous yet good-humored arguments about balls either over or not over the imaginary line in the sand stretching between piles of shoes.

Dinner with friends at the Cocoloco restaurant was standard chicken and chips, since there was no seafood to be had that particular evening. We'd brought our own bottle of wine, and continued to sip that into the evening while playing a game of dominoes. A group of young German backpackers quietly had their own supper at the next table. Nearby, loud highlife music blared from the resort's sound system while staff danced wildly. We lost all electricity around 8pm, blessing us with the sounds of crickets and a spectacular view of the heavens in the sudden darkness. I suspected the bright red star directly overhead, in the heart of a brilliant Milky Way, was probably Mars, while the bright red star at the horizon was in reality Venus, rouged with Hamarttan dust.

In the early morning hours I awoke to the sound of some poor soul retching in the nearby toilet, probably one of the Germans who'd not yet learned to avoid those little plastic bags of cold water Ghanaians sell in their marketplaces. Later with the sunrise we breakfasted on fresh cut and delightfully sweet pineapple, tea, fried toast, and omelets before paying our tab -- $10 per person for the rooms, basically well worth the price, though I'd have gladly paid $50 a night for a cooler room closer to the surf.

Panto

Around 5pm I got the call.

"Tom's not well, you've got to come. Drinks at 6:30, dinner at 8, and of course you'll have a costume. I've got just the dress. You're playing the part of Stu N. Dumplings, who'll himself be dressed for the part of the Widow Twankey."

The first dress was a lovely rose slip of a thing, sleeveless, but unfortunately a bit too narrow on top, so that my shoulders had to stay hunched with arms extended, dangling like a scarecrow. Fortunately there was another ready at hand, more of a smock, and the straw hat and scarf were perfectly sized.

"Oh, but you can't wear a shirt under it. It'll spoil the look."

"Sorry, I don't do sleeveless."

Murder at the Panto

We downed our drinks and piled into the car. "Is there really a hotel on Achimota Road?" I asked. "I don't recall seeing one."

"It's to the right when we reach that big road at the end," driver answered. He'd be playing Nosmo King, in turn playing a visiting comedian, in the evening's production.

"The motorway?" said driver's wife, Annie Seed, the sweetshop owner, adjusting her fairy-godmother tiarra. "Ah, you'd have as well taken Independence out to Tetteh Quarshie, I should think."

Nosmo King considered for a moment. "I suppose I could put you in a taxi and then we could see which of us got there first."

"Hmm, no, I rather think we'll pass that side on the way home, and then we'll see which way is better."

"I must point out," I interjected, "that the driver of the tro-tro next to us is performing a careful inspection of our outfits."

Companion in the rear seat with me leaned over, her sheer veil dislodging as she blew the driver a kiss. All the tro-tro passengers burst into laughter and smiles.

We arrived at the Cresta Lodge for the cocktail in the lobby. I shifted my dress and adjusted my hat. Fortunately there were literally a hundred people ready to perform, all equally well costumed, and some elaborately so. We sipped sangria for a bit. Business people and tourists arrived from the airport with bags in hand, wondering perhaps if they had selected the right hotel.

Dinner was good. The murder was solved. There was the odd wardrobe malfunction. A good time was had for all concerned.

Tribes

Accra street names remind me of London. Travel straight ahead, no turning, and the street name changes right out from under you. Enter Accra on Winneba Road, which not surprisingly comes from the direction of the town of Winneba, proceed straight (no turns) onto Graphic Road, then straight ahead onto Liberia Road, which winds its way eventually (straight ahead) to Liberia Road Extension, which is an odd little bit of dilapidated road surface past absolutely colonially ancient government buildings, at which point you absolutely must stop and turn around because, well, you've reached the ocean.

An excellent place to turn around is the little car park of the Afia Gallery, Afia "Beach" Hotel, and Tribes Bar and Restaurant -- all one car park (aka "parking lot" as the Americans like to say). I say "Beach" Hotel, rather than, say, "Beach Hotel," since technically I suppose the hotel is "on" the beach, though my sense is that nobody staying in the hotel really uses the beach...



Independence Square, Accra

The restaurant and art gallery, all in one facility, are absolutely delightful. Within the art gallery there are all kinds of wooden or cast bronze pieces, garden as well as table size, many seeming as if they belong under lock and key in a museum somewhere. A graceful bronze figure of a woman playing a guitar-like instrument, about a foot tall with a lovely tarnish, catches my eye. Up the stairs, which are themselves carved from wood and a work of art, are dozens of lovely woven products in all manner of designs, including traditional kente.

From our table on the wide, covered, open-air veranda, we had a clear view of the sea and a steady, cool breeze. I ordered a fruit punch of watermelon, orange, and pineapple juice, which the server assured me was "beautiful," and it was. My friends had eggs various ways, with toast and English sausages, all nicely prepared and presented. My own French toast was made from little rounds of French bread, topped with a sour orange sauce, with only a bit of sugar -- surprising in that it wasn't the sweet syrup I was expecting, yet very tasty. The coffee arrived in a promising pot with a small gravy boat of condensed milk -- alas, merely Nescafe instant.

After breakfast we wandered down the slope to the escarpment, greeted from below by two young boys riding bicycles on the beach. As one proposed that we come down for a swim, the other irrigated a bit of grass nearby. We essentially ignored them both.



James Fort

Far off to the right we could make out the ancient walls of James Fort, the old British stronghold from colonial times, now quite dilapidated and used as a prison. In the other direction, the walls of the Castle at Christianborg, office of the President of Ghana, gleam from beyond the arches of Independence Square. The surf is gently hypnotic, the beach wide, flat, and a characteristically urban gray, though I suspect the underlying sand is substantially whiter. Hundreds wade in the shallows, though none are tourists.

We imagine what the area might look like if cleaned up and "properly" developed, a process that inevitably seems to involve some degree of insulation of visitors from locals. I'm reminded of the beaches of Recife and Fortaleza in Brazil, where beach restaurants employ literally thousands in jobs that pay well and serve tourists and upper-crust locals alike. Each restaurant posts staff out on the street to encourage patronage, offering to store knapsacks and wallets in free lockers, with tables out on the sand under umbrellas or on the veranda with ceiling fans, a cool drink, and fine grilled fish served in between the occasional dip in the surf, sailboat rental, or snorkeling excursion. To find such things in Ghana, one must venture an hour or two outside of Accra.

Champions

It being the last weekend before Halloween, there were several parties from which to choose. I'd spent the day opening, sorting, arranging and emptying boxes, since my sea freight from overseas arrived Friday afternoon after a two-month voyage -- my books, pictures, useless boxes of old files, that sort of thing. A nap and a light supper, and I was read for some music.

A colleague hired a DJ and entertained the neighborhood with lively dance music plus an open bar. I stopped by early, dressed in an old Dagomba smock I'd picked up 20 years ago, plus my leather Indiana Jones hat, and billed my costume the Dagomba Gaucho, sufficient for entrance at least.

After depositing my chips and dip, I chatted with a Swiss couple, accompanied by their two young daughters dressed with face paint, dog ears and whiskers, mostly about how life used to be quite wonderful in Ivory Coast before the current turmoil. The husband is a rep for an international food processing company, and they're now more or less refugees in Ghana waiting for the situation in Ivory Coast to sort itself out. I suspect much of the current economic boom in Ghana can be attributed to the troubles next door. He wondered if the boom in Ghana can possibly last if Ivory Coast eventually settles down, given what he characterized as the interminable delays and costs of doing business at Tema, Ghana's principal seaport.

After about an hour, I hopped in my car and headed out to the Next Door, a bar on the ocean about a 15-minute drive from Central Accra. Great local live band, good food, surf pounding just a few feet away. Another colleague had invited out-of-towners attending a conference to join him there for dinner and dancing. The conference dealt with the sustainable production of cacao, so there were representatives around the table from the big chocolate multinationals as well as local commodity brokerage houses and farmers organizations, and a smattering of donor staff and U.N. Many of the aid staff had popped over from Liberia and Sierra Leone on one of the U.N. cargo flights.

All munched on grilled red snapper and kelewele, shouting ourselves hoarse over the music. A donor staffer from Freetown shared stories about friends lost, or at least lost track of, during the war, and efforts to reconnect with them.

On the way back to town, and feeling the need for a bit less noise, I stopped by La Palm, which has a quite fabulous garden restaurant and bar, one of my favorite spots in and around Accra, though quite a bit upscale and therefore quite pricey. The high prices include barstools located no more than 10 meters from an escarpment overlooking the pounding surf of the Gulf of Guinea.

I ordered a drink, and while the barkeep was mixing, I wandered over to the rail and contemplated the sea. It was a clear night, with the usual string of lights offshore from vessels waiting their turn at Tema a few miles to the east. When I returned, my drink was waiting, along with another drink two barstools over beside a shiny black purse that I'm sure had not been there moments earlier. A woman sensibly dressed in the local version of smart casual eventually joined the drink and the purse, and after a few sips greeted me.

Knowing the drill, I nonetheless engaged her in a discussion about her day job at an Osu hair salon (or saloon, as they call them here). Turns out her saloon only cuts women's hair. She didn't seem to know the ladies who cut mine out at the Golden Tulip saloon.

I paid for my drink as well as hers and stood to depart. She wished me well, and extended a hand to say goodbye, but in the process inadvertently dropped what she'd been holding-- a couple of Champions. I smiled, reached down, and handed them back to her. During the exchange, she rubbed the nail of her middle index finger in my palm, lightly scratching.

"Good night," I said, not accepting the offer.

"Good night to you, too," she smiled reluctantly.

On the way home I stopped back by the Halloween party, still going strong at 11:30. Of course, most Ghanaians don't really seem to get started until about midnight-- a friend once took me to a club that was practically empty at 10pm, but assured me it would be one of the liveliest spots in town just a few hours later. Perhaps the Halloween crowd would be moving on soon to their next phase.

I made the rounds, running into a few more acquaintances, including one of the local staff from the office who'd clearly had a few. Out in the garden I plopped down next to a couple of friends who are regulars at the Champs Quiz Night on Thursday nights. We plotted our next effort to claim the grand prize, and I headed home to bed.

For a Change

In Washington there was nothing I liked better than a good evening at the theater. Studio, Woolly Mammoth, Round House, Theatre J, the Kennedy Center, Clarice Smith Performing Arts Center.

A vibrant theater scene is not immediately apparent in and around Accra, though I expect there's more here than meets the eye. Telenovelas, performed in local languages, are as popular in West Africa as anywhere, of course, and are perhaps the most accessible form of drama, at least insofar as my limited experience here to date has indicated. My experience in Sierra Leone in the '80s suggests Ghanaian drama will not look like European or American theater, which of course should not be surprising to anyone.




I was rather surprised to come across something completely unexpected this week. Theatre for a Change uses interactive theater "to promote young people's rights to lead healthy lives free from abuse, and to explore and transform patterns of behavior that put young people at risk." Sarah Easby, a masters student from the U.K. writes a fascinating account of one of their performances.

HIV/AIDS is central to many of the performances, a difficult subject for discussion under any circumstances, and equally so in Ghana. I look forward to learning more about the program.

Murtala Muhammed

On my first ever trip to Africa a quarter century ago, I touched down at Nigeria's international airport in Ikeja, near Lagos, on my way to Ghana.

In those days...

"What are you doing in Nigeria?" the immigration officer demanded.

"I'm sorry," I humbly replied. "As I explained to your colleague a few minutes ago, I am just in transit, and it seems I needed to collect my bags and check them in at the Sabena counter. That required me to pass through immigration to baggage claim, and so your colleague told me it would be ok. Now I'm returning to catch my flight."

"Which colleague told you to pass through? Where is he?"

"Hmm," I looked around. "He doesn't seem to be here now."

"Then where is your visa? You have no visa for Nigeria in your passport!"

"Well, I was only in Nigeria for about 15 minutes to collect my bags."

"But you have no visa! You are in Nigeria illegally! Come with me!"

I subsequently was parked in a very small room. Every fifteen minutes or so, a police officer would enter and inform me that I was in very deep trouble, and then depart shaking his head. After about two hours, they released me with a warning that I should always obtain a visa before entering Nigeria.



It's a bit different now...

I caught a flight this morning on Virgin Nigeria from Abuja via Lagos to Accra, and passed through Murtala Muhammed International Airport once again. Named for the Sandhurst-educated army officer who briefly led Nigeria before himself being assasinated in 1976, the terminal that was new 25 years ago is a bit faded now, certainly ready for a face lift, but clean, with well stocked food carts and cafes. A corner of the terminal has in fact been nicely renovated by Virgin, complete with a special waiting area with new seats and flat screen televisions on the walls.

Out in the main terminal areas, a police officer checked to make sure I had a boarding pass before waving me on to the immigration desk. He reminded me to complete a departure card, noting that I did not seem to have one. "Wait just a moment," he said, and then dashed off, returning with one of the long blue cards in hand.

"How was your stay in Nigeria?" asked the immigration officer as he looked over my card and passport while making notations in his computer.

"Very nice, thank you. I'm in transit from Abuja."

"Oh yes," said the immigration officer, "Abuja is our capital. How did you find it?"

"It was lovely," I replied. "I stayed at a wonderful hotel, and I was very impressed with the wide streets and all of the construction in the city. It seems there are many new buildings being constructed."

"Oh yes," said the immigration officer, stamping my passport. "Abuja is a very active city. I am happy you found it well, and I hope you will come again."

"I certainly will."

How de Body?

I finished a good read today, How de Body? by Teun Voeten, which I highly recommend.

It reminded me of a little story I wrote under a pen name back in 1995, which I reproduce here. The old friend in the story (Alusine is not his real name) recently popped up on my radar screen. I hear he's playing football again, and was on a team that traveled overseas -- Brazil maybe.


Amputee Football In Sierra Leone

Photo copyright by Adam Nadel, used with permission.



LETTER FROM AFRICA
c. May 3, 1995 by Alistair Coker

Alusine is an old friend. I first met him quite by chance, or so
it seemed to me at the time. I was walking down a dusty road in a
rural village, chatting with a colleague about some work we were
undertaking there, when a young man simply walked up and introduced
himself to me. He asked if we needed any assistance in reaching
wherever it was that we were going, and he offered to take us
there, no matter where 'there' was.

Since I needed assistance for a variety of small tasks, and since
Alusine seemed eager to please, I employed him for a nominal sum.
For some reason I decided I liked him. He was outgoing and
unassuming. When he didn't know something, he told me so. He was
also quite frank about money. I seemed to have more of it than he,
and he was determined through hard work in my employ to achieve a
more balanced state of affairs.

Some time later I learned that Alusine had quite a number of
diverse interests. We encountered each other in Freetown one day,
where he promptly invited me to witness a football match in which
he was the goal keeper. I was impressed with his performance and
told him so. He thanked me, whereupon he removed his shoes, showed
me where holes had worn through the soles, and explained that he
was in dire need of this most essential of equipment.

I did some quick thinking. The man definitely had potential. I
had visions of myself escorting him to World Cup matches in faraway
lands. We walked to a shop by PZ and purchased a new pair of
superb football shoes.

Alusine's football championship hopes were not to be fulfilled,
unfortunately. His team failed to win a number of key matches, and
he lost his job with the team's sponsor.

Several months ago Alusine again appeared at my doorstep. He was in
full military uniform, and cut a quite spectacular figure. Had I
been a rebel, I'm sure I would have immediately turned and
scampered off.

Like so many impoverished young men in Freetown, Alusine had joined
the military in search of a better life, a bit of cash, and,
perhaps most importantly, a bit of respect. He had achieved most of
these things. From the stories he told me about life at the front,
he clearly was having the time of his life. It was exciting. It
was adventure. Important people in large cars stopped whenever he
asked. Young children marveled at him.

I must say I enjoyed simply being with him. He was confident and
as outgoing and unassuming as ever, but he had learned to use his
uniform to advantage. We had a pleasant visit, discussed his
recent marriage and the birth of his daughter, and talked about the
earlier glory of his football days.

And then he was off, back to the provinces, back to the war. He
left a picture with me, posing with comrades, AK-47s at the ready,
a semi-circle of young smiling village boys gathered round. I have
the picture in my parlour.

Yesterday I was informed by messenger that Alusine had sent for me
from the hospital at Wilberforce. He has had one leg amputated. I
will try to visit him on the weekend.

Pounding rain

My home is actually about a mile from Kokomlemle, the neighborhood in Accra with the really nice name. If you have trouble getting your mouth around it, try this pronunciation guide:

KO-ko-meh-LAY-meh-LAY

Say it fast, as it really sounds like this:

KO-ko-m'LAY-m'LAY

Peace...