Guest article from a visitor

Observations of women along  on Ghana’s southern coast

‘The blood inherited from the mother is the signifier of the family’

If you need directions to a trotro (taxi) rank, ask a woman. She will provide a direct and clear route forwards.

If you need guidance inside the trotro,; considered and measured advice is conveyed on the skills of other 

the driver, other drivers and responsible behaviour for pedestrians and passengers.

Advice provided for surviving the Cape Coast market, a hustling, bustling place of humidity and energy, is authoritative. It is also somewhat aggressive and, at times, forced on one in an overpowering and loud manner. This is merely a pretext for communicating – woman to woman. No gossip allowed.

On a Sunday morning, women are beautifully attired in traditional cloth and design. The local street filled with noise and vigour, could be a modelling ramp of unique and colourful fashion, enriched by the odd goat, who, in their purposeful way: “bleh, bleh”.

The stature of these women is of great natural poise. Able to carry whatever is required on their heads as they walk their journey with grace and strength.

Stern disciplinarians to all, from small children to the itinerant drunkard. Purposefully making things happen – they are the matriarchal link – the substance of what life is about.

They live their lives sometimes obscured, waiting for this blaring world to clear for a new season of beginnings.

GOAT

Consider the goat. Do it soon. People like you, and me, have been under the consideration of the goat for many moons. So: forget what you thought you knew, beware of the myopia of entitlement, and, think how appearances may have deceived you before. And while you do this, again – it cannot be overstated – consider the goat.

History is written by the winners; glib, but true. The cliche comes from the kernel of truth in a phrase. Apart from some, of course. There’s never fire with smoke. People love making smoke. Some are even professionals at making smoke that looks like fire to back up their original smoke.  Wait for the fire, I say. And while you wait – consider the goat. There’s no smoke with goats, no blustering about. If pressed, you will notice there isn’t any fire, either. Goats have dodged the idiom with agility and grace. And, therein, their talent. The losers didn’t make it, and only a handful of winners did; cowering in advisory roles so that they may scribble their account of History. Where are all the survivors, then?  They are outside my tent right now, chewing a handkerchief. They are a little way down the road, eating and sleeping in cement. They are headbutting a greedy pigeon, just because it deserved it. They are those who learned how to dodge the conflict in its entirety, pronking past all skirmishes to a life of mediocrity. They are goats.

Domesticated, owned and kept, yet still free? Why not. We’re all a bit domesticated in these times, behind every boss is another boss and those who think themselves truly free are either wrong, or no-good hippies. The thing that goats have mastered is how to find liberty in shackles. You can tie a goat to the roof of a bus or you can throw one in the hold underneath. The only uncertainty for them: will I be eating chassis or roof-rack.  In both outcomes, fate will decide if your canvas backpack becomes a delicate digestif. Moreover, they are not wasting time in the pursuit of advancement. It is not a priority, for a goat, to ensure it leaves the world a better place for its kids. They’d like to, as much as you and I would like to. But, their pragmatism leads them down a different path. They take hardships on the chin, make something out of nothing and out of a little, make more.

So as they shun idealism and progress with their hoofs firmly on the ground, they free up a few moments to really enjoy things, to really have a look at the world. Instead of mindlessly chomping on whatever their ancestors chomped on, they will try a discarded fan belt. And the calories and minerals from the fan belt allows them enough free time later in the day to lock horns with their friends, or climb a tree or just have a lie down in the shade.

So next time those seemingly vacant eyes roll over you, consider them. Look back with intent. Just stare at one eye, it’s impossible to look into both. And, when you see what looks like your reflection in that unflinching iris, remember that it’s not. It is what you look like in the mind’s eye of that goat. I don’t think there is reason for alarm, but I don’t think it wants to be your friend, either. It’s just a goat, putting off its tomorrows.

Arise, the saviours of Africa.

Observations from an elderly, visiting goat in Ghana

The times they are a-changing…

But, are they? Some Observations of children from the southern tip of Ghana:

At dawn, they are out. Collecting the residue of life. Washed up overnight on a remote beach.

Gathering and counting containers, to be used again in the community.

At sunrise, out fishing, helping with the hand nets in the bay. No school today.

Rich pickings in the ocean require the whole community’s attention.

Anyway, the Cape Three Points school has empty classrooms, no resources and goats in the playground.

What is learning here? The ABC and the abacus in the steamy heat of the morning; are we not imposing our understanding of the acquisition of literacy and numeracy on the rich fabric of both simplicity and strength, of what is still real in village life.

Have the neglected old-school buildings and teachers that come and go, with chalk and chalkboard, changed anything?

Perhaps the children of the dawn and the sunrise already have the elements of self-sufficiency and resilience that we have lost in our frantic obsession to constantly change.

An Afterthought

The Cape Three Points School for goats. 

No resources required. 

Goat Headmistress advises: apply timeously to avoid disappointment. 

Ghanaian Conversation

Speakeasy in Kumasi

“Hello. How are you? I am fine? Coming from where?”

“We are from South Africa”

“HOH? But, you are white!”

“Yes.”

“Hmmmm.. I am a Doubting Thomas.”

“What if people thought, because you are black, you must be from, say… Nigeria.”

“Hmmm.. Still. I am a Doubting Thomas.”

(later… )

May I ask you a question?

Sure.

Do you know this David Cameron of the Great Britain?

We know of him.

First and foremost. Why on this earth would he now say he is comfortable for one man to go into the bed of another man….

(At this stage we bolted. It was about to become trickier than an Al Qaeda red zone)

Green Turtle Lodge

Consider the scene. Two South Africans, a Dane, a British couple. Drinking beers, playing board games on a palm-fringed beach, chatting idly about nothing in particular. Enter a lady. With a hat. A whitened face from sun block and a one-piece swimming suit from the past.

“Mey Ai Ahsk all ov yoo a question?” (Experience counts for nothing, it seems)

Together: Sure. Go ahead. Why not. Of course

“Vot did you learn about ze Holocaust?”

Dumbfounded. The Dane, quite rightly, turned tail and was on the horizon soon after. I followed him very quickly. The British. Long live the consensus-seeking, gracious, self-deprecating British! They stuck it out to the end. McAlpine stayed to watch. This was a scenario fit for a farcical script. Whoda thunk  it actually plays out in West Africa.

Longdrops near Cape Coast

Reagan!? (American. North Montana, at a guess)

Yoh! (Lowness of the pitch suggests Reagan is male, also Stateside)

There’s a bigass fuckin cockroach in here (suggests Reagan is outside, guarding the cubicle entrance!?)

Shut Up!

Seriously, it’s frickin bigger than the one in my bed last night.

Well, don’t stink the place out too much, I wanna have a look.

I’m literally standing on the toilet right now.

Well, don’t freak out.

You know what I’m really looking forward to about home.

Real toilets?

Nah. Real toilet paper.

Ahhh Yeah.. Angelsoft!

Reagan!?

Yoh!

I didn’t wipe too good cos of this frickin cockroach.

*I have only included all this ghastly detail as a testament to its credibility. In the depths of depravity I can’t even imagine concocting something like this. It was gruesome enough hearing it. There was also a cockroach in my cubicle. I bowed my head to it. I hoped to both acknowledge its thankless station in the world, and thank it for colluding in whatever its friend was up to next door.

Fort St. Antonio, Axim, at 500 years the second-oldest slave fort in Ghana.

Seth Quayson, son of Kingsley, is the keeper of the keys at this most harrowing of places.As palm-nut vultures encircle the ramparts and sweat droplets gather as we stand in the dim, mildewed ‘waiting pens,’ Seth conjectures thus:

‘On the day that Ghana achieved her independence, a great whale died and washed up on the beach right behind Fort St. Antonio. It was too big to move. After many months the decomposition was finished and this bone was rescued. This bone, from Independence Whale, is as old as Ghana. That is why I have placed it here close to this tomb for the Dutch Governor who fell from those stairs above us that lead to his bedroom. He had not seen his wife in such a long time that when her ship was sighted on the horizon, he grabbed his telescope to look. He suddenly felt so near to her that he decided to take a big step onto the boat but of course he fell to his death. This is very sad but also a good learning experience for when the British claimed this fort sometime later they installed these stair rails. It was about that time that the island over there got its name – “Beaten by the Dwarfs.” You see, they are amongst us, but Christianity has chased them away to the edges, to the islands. Everyone thinks the dwarfs are here for mischief or bad luck but, in fact, what they are doing is a kind of a test. They are happy to be your friend and share their power if you are willing to play with them and not to just be so serious about life. They are just what you imagine and there are some powerful people in this village who are just relaxed. There are women who are wlaking on water and a man who helped to rescue his friends outboard motor that sank. He spent two hours underwater, but he found it. But when you don’t believe, or you are resistant to play with them they will just beat you. With sticks. People who don’t believe in ghosts will go to a graveyard and they won’t see anything. People who do believe, I don’t think they will go to the graveyard. So I have conducted an experiment. I have left a bottle of Coke at the Point of No Return and the dwarfs have come in the night and enjoyed some of the Coke without removing the top. And let me now show you what I mean when I say the Point of No Return.’

Seth led us through the tiny male and female holding pens that would hold 200 ‘souls.’ Each chamber then narrowed into a passageway where the slaves would be assembled and informed their day of reckoning had arrived and they could finally embark on a journey to a better life.  ‘These passages are inhabited by bats now,’ they won’t harm you, ‘it is because of all the old souls that you will have that feeling of being heavy.’

Eventually, a ladder leads into the dark tunnel that would lead the souls straight onto the waiting ship, concealed behind the island. ‘When the last of the souls climbed down this ladder they would remove it and so they either climb on the ship or stay forever in the darkened tunnel below, and this is what we mean when we say this place is The Point of No Return.

Madness in The Maghreb

Click here for the highlights package of our recent escape from the madness of Mali:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=BU6CVdr9X8A&feature=youtu.be

And, here, for our meanderings through the Mauritanian Sahara and surrounds:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=_PCswVLRUBE&feature=youtu.be

And, here is a photo halfway through our recent bus journey from Burkina Faso. We will release footage from the mine shaft in due course:

Behind The Scenes

A great deal needs doing by expedition members before a neatly packaged blog piece, often summarising the inner workings of an entire country, is ready for public consumption. I thought it might be interesting, 11 weeks in, to share some of our day to day particulars. Hopefully, this will clarify just what it is we get up to, and how we get up to it. A section on hygiene has been included – largely to garner some female interest – even if it is, as we suspect, just our mums.

Mission Portfolios

Francophone Africa and natural talent have divvied up expedition portfolios rather well. McAlpine has unbridled patience with the locals and his French is not as poor as mine. He takes care of transactions and interactions. As such, he is the treasurer – a position he has grown rather fond of. He has always kept his bond, he enjoys counting sheckles, and, he is ruthless in demanding correct amounts of small change from unschooled mango-selling children. Besides, he is very good at calculating how far in the red we are with our budget and talking about the future tightening of belts to ‘get one back on budget.’ He often says that he collects money. When I point out that most people collect money, he points out that he collects money as a hobby and in his bank account. A good man, you will agree, to have his paws on the purse strings, or, in our setting, the Kitty.

Kitty is a serious third player on the journey. You will understand why after reading some of the public exclamations Kitty induces:

Questions. Usually from Scott.

“How is Kitty looking?” 

“Where is Kitty?” 

“Have you got Kitty?” 

“I think Kitty owes me.” 

“Would you like me to look after Kitty in East Africa?”

Answers. Usually from Dave.

“Kitty is dry.”

 “I think I left Kitty on the bus.” 

“Kitty is in my pocket.” 

“No, you owe Kitty.”

 “Probably not.”

Upshots of these exchanges are twofold. People suspect we may be travelling with a lady called Kitty, or a cat. The first goes a long way in repelling the perhaps not so outlandish assumption we have occasionally endured – that we are a roving homosexual couple. The second does not. In fct, it was only a one-off encounter with a German geriatric who asked me what it is my boyfriend and I were doing out in the desert. Later on, and quite unwittingly, McAlpine locked her in the long drop.

I tend to do most of the robust domestic chores. The carrying of water, hewing of wood and strangling of small animals. Many of you may be alarmed to know that navigation is also my baby. Again, like Capitalism, I was the least bad candidate. If he isn’t cooking or losing things, McAlpine will tell me to stop faffing, being paranoid, and allowing insects to take on human characteristics in the tent. On all scores, the reprimands are deserved.

Shelter

Our tent was christened early on. We imagined the highest peak in North Africa, if it is male, would only settle for the most obedient, constant and long-suffering mistress. ‘Wife of Toubkal,’ then, was born and through many a windy, sandy freezing night, she has shown us only warmth. The very engine room of the operation and, albeit intimately clammy, the provider of a space we can call home. After water, I think that is the second essential thing out here – refuge. Mosquitoes, prostitutes and drunkards may disagree. Never mind, McAlpine brought loads of combination locks. When Wife of Toubkal sleeps alone, it is only because we have found a better option. This can be anything from a rooftop to a shared ‘hotel’ room – budget decrees. The wind and the sand and the sun are not our friends. But the trees and the rocks and water, are. Every day, a battle for shelter takes place between us all.

Lifting heavy equipment whilst cleaning up camp

Conversation

It is not running dry like Kitty, but it does follow a repetitious pattern. Motions of the bowel is a big one, but in a caring, team-spirit, kind of way. Believe it or not, it’s a rather handy conversation starter. It seems to have a profound influence on traveller’s happiness and many are often too willing to engage. Stripped of so many social limitations makes for some base conversation. If we meet someone, Dave usually starts off telling them that he has a girlfriend. After the German incident this became essential. We then go to great lengths to try and appear normal and not scare them away with our distorted reality, forged from the last 3 months with no one but the desert and us. Most of the time, however, it is just us, shooting the breeze in Wife of Toubkal, feeling safe within her canvas from the boundless night. We will ponder things like how mountains are really made, the staggering ingenuity of goats, the resignation of donkeys and why, really, Africa is always sucking the hind tit. We often talk about our charity fund. Trying to guess what the new balance may or may not be long into the night.

Reaching consensus in the 'indaba' room

Hygiene

The one you’ve all been waiting for. So have we. Hygiene comes quietly and needs a lot of nurturing.   I think we stay pretty clean. I have taken McAlpine’s sanitary advice where possible: ‘You can use your beard instead of a scrubbing brush,’ and ‘if your nails are clipped and clean you will feel clean, and that amounts to being clean.’ While we were primed for a war with mosquitoes, a smaller, less likely foe has stepped forward. I think we are being followed by fleas. They can slip through mozzy net with ease. And, they seem to work on vast underground tunnel networks that breach land between the sleeping mat and the inside of the mozzy net. If anyone has information about dealing with them, we would be most grateful. For now, we writhe in the humidity, trying not to scratch.

Fleas also ate the thatch on this rondavels

Crabwalking

The thing about crabwalking is that nobody believes they are capable of it. McAlpine crabwalks like a Trojan. But it may be me, you see. Either way, there is a lot of colliding as we lug heavy things long distances, and quickly forget the basics. Lots of crabwalking seems to be happening in West Africa at the moment. Perhaps if everyone just watched where they were going and made a little room for others’ trajectories, there’d be a lot less gloominess. 

Mostly, though, there is a lot of waiting.

Lighting Up in Burkina Faso

Today is World Autism Awareness Day. Happy Times. 

Dave and I spent the morning in the mysterious Sindou Peaks region of South Western Burkina Faso. Have a look at the pic below. Apart from exploring our beautiful and noisy continent, we are also raising funds for a highly specialised autistic school in Johannesburg, South Africa. 100% of the proceeds will go to The Key School; any donation will go a long way for the excellent and dedicated people from The Key.

Check out the Key School website - www.thekeyschool.org

Donate to the cause - top of the right hand column on my blog - click the 'BackaBuddy' icon.

Onwards...