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."
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.
Sunday, November 13, 2005
Wednesday, November 09, 2005
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.
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.
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