January 31, 2011: From Bratislava, with Laska

I've been in my hometown for about a week, reveling in bright air, poppyseeds and filial love.

My Grandparent's elevator is, and always has been, baby blue on the inside. Just above the panel where you press the buttons, there is a small enameled plate that provides instructions on how to use the elevator. I have read that panel a million times, but only ever gotten to the third or fourth line since the ride is so short.

In my Grandparent's apartment some things change, but some things always stay the same. For instance, they have two small dishes on the sideboard in the living room. They are both porcelain. One blue and gold, and the other white and oval, with a little landscape painted on the lid. Every time I come to visit, I lift up the lids of both dishes and invariably find chocolate covered almonds in one and jelly candies in the shape of various fruits in the other.

The room I usually sleep in has a window that faces the street. In 1968, when the Russians invaded Czechoslovakia, my father sat in that very window and watched the tanks roll down the street. He says that people ran out into the street and took down all the street signs, so the soldiers wouldn't know where they were.

Last night my Grandmother and I went to a play, which was already well underway by the time we got there. We sat in the cafe and talked a little about the invasion. She had been a reporter before the invasion, and when the Russians occupied, they shut down the TV station. She, and several like-minded people felt it was important to keep the population informed.  The writers would gather, sometimes at my Grandparent's apartment, where they kept right on writing the news. An actor friend kept watch for the police in the courtyard, and my great-grandmother stood by the window watching for his signal. The technicians would set up their equipment wherever they could; they broadcast the reports from garages, apartments and the fire station (apparently the firefighters were sympathetic).

Eventually, they stopped broadcasting and, I presume, settled into a sort of socialist gloom.

My heroes.

Stories from Ambrose

While driving to Ho, on our way to Kpalime, Ambrose and I sat beside each other. He told me children's stories. I promised you some time ago that I'd share them with you. Here are two, retold by yours truly.

Grandmother's Garden
Grandmother had many treasures buried in her garden. She was old and weak and believed herself to be on death's door, so she called her grandson to her bedside. Grandson, she said, go to the garden and gather some yams. Cook them for me before I die and I will tell you where all my treasures are hidden. But, grandson, when you go to the garden, don't harvest the yams that call out to you. Harvest the yams that are harder to get, but which are ripe and good. Cook them for me and I will tell you where to find my treasures. 

The boy went out into the garden and heard some yams calling to him, pick me, pick me, they said. Against his grandmothers advice, he picked the yams that called to him; it was so  easy to harvest them. He put them in the pot and boiled them and boiled them. His grandmother called to him from her sickbed, are the yams finished? I am so hungry! But alas, the yams would not cook. 

The boy went out into the garden again and picked different yams and set them in the pot over the fire to boil. When they had finally finished cooking, he went to tell his grandmother they were ready. He rushed to her bedside, but found his grandmother departed, having taken the secret of her treasure to her grave. 



Frog girl
There once was a family living in a small village. Their youngest was a girl, bright and curious. The family was very poor and struggled to feed all of their children. One day, a woman came to the village looking for a maidservant to help her with chores. The family was pleased to offer her their daughter, who they assured her was a hard worker. 

The woman bought the young girl for a small sum, and took her home to her own village. In fact, the woman had no need for a maidservant, her greedy heart craved only money. Instead of taking the girl home, she took her to a priest who transformed her into a frog, a frog that vomited money. The woman kept the girl in a small room, and she lived there in her transformed state, throwing up cash, which the woman grew rich on. The woman grew richer and richer. 

After some time, the woman's neighbors began to grow suspicious of her wealth. One day, they came to her house and broke down the door of the room where the frog girl was kept. They were horrified to discover the frog girl and immediately killed the woman who had been keeping her.

They cursed her wicked ways and set the frog girl free. The good people took the frog girl back to the priest, who transformed her from a frog back into a girl.

January 26, 2011

Bela Mohammed drove us to Accra. Bela is a large man, both in physique and heart. His sleek black Volkswagen was far more appealing than an STC bus playing terrible African movies. We drove along the coast toward Accra, Bela talking all the while, waving at friends and checkpoint guards. We talked about many things, education, healthcare, the oil industry and the prospects for a bright African future. Incidentally, he was unconvinced of the latter. After a lapse in our conversation, I asked him if prostitution was a big issue in Ghana. After a bit of a pause, he said, "Well, some of those girls are good". I took this to mean that they were good hearted lasses lead astray. He continued, "Good in bed, you know. Good at what they do". I nodded and said "Hm".

Bela drove us to a hotel we'd stayed at last time we came through Accra so we could pick up David's paddles (did I tell you he bought the same kind of paddle we used to paddle the boat on the Black Volta?). They look like spades or hearts with really long shafts.

At the airport, David wrapped the paddles in a scavenged piece of cardboard (formerly a BonAqua box) much to the amusement of others in the terminal building. You know how loud packing tape can be. Though I thought the packing job was splendid, the ground staff made David get the paddles wrapped in that luggage saran wrap anyway.

We flew over the Sahara at night and I imagined the tiny lights as great cities in the sand. 

Goodbye Africa!

Landed in Brussels in the dark. The sun rose as I flew toward Vienna.

My kind cousin Janko and my kind uncle came to get me at the airport.

So, I've driven along the road to Bratislava countless times, but this time I saw things I'd never seen before. You know, I've never been to my homeland in the winter months. The leaves obscure a lovely landscape. In their absence,  I saw snow capped mountains and castles on hills and astronomical observatories. Everything was blue, white and grey, quite the opposite of an African spectrum.

I arrived at my grandparent's house and fell straight into the warm embraces and soft comforts of home. I luxuriated in feeling cold and stared at the bright white snow in the courtyard until my eyes watered.

So, there end my African adventures. I'm more than certain the sultry sun and the hot hearts of Africa will not fade quite as fast from my mind as they will from my complexion. There is still so much I haven't told you! There are still pictures I promised to show you!

January 25, 2011

A Cape coast morning and the first day of sunshine blue sky we've had since our arrival.

The Cape Coast slave castle is right by the ocean, built on an outcropping of red rock with a long beach on either side. It's a white washed castle with blue shutters, the main tower is a crenellated octagon. I just learned the word crenellated.

The tour started in the male slave dungeon. After descending a steep, dark passage, the dungeon opened up into five small rooms that held 200 people each, for three months. The arched ceilings were rough brick but the floors were worn smooth. The room farthest from the entrance had three small holes on one end for ventilation and through which rain water was allowed to run. The rainwater trickled down into a small, shallow channel that served as a the sewer. At the opposite end of the room there was a larger hole  through which the guards kept watch. The guards threw food and water to the prisoners from this hole too. It was unspeakably cruel.

We toured the rest of the castle and its many rooms. There was a women's cell where the women who  had resisted rape were imprisoned. There was a square of the floor that had been left unexcavated when the castle was restored. It was about 3 inches thick; hard packed dirt and food and blood and flesh and waste.

Quite a moving experience.

Later, in the museum, we learned about Henry "Box" Brown, a slave who mailed himself to freedom.

Oh yeah, and, in one of the dungeons there was a shrine. It had been there before the fort was built and had been forced to move. After the fort was restored, the shrine was rebuilt. As we stood outside later, blinking in the blinding sun, a priest and two attendants came to take care of the shrine. They beat a small drum as they walked. The priest was elaborately dressed in a white robe, with small white dots painted on his face and white and blue paint on this arms. The attendants were also robed in white. One had a tattoo of a smoking skull wearing an Uncle Sam hat, underneath which was tattooed the word "Dollars". Hm.

Currently, David and I are sitting on the beach, the sun is slowly setting in the west and shining off the surf just so. It's quite anachronistic that such unspeakable things happened in a place so beautiful.

Last night in Africa.

January 24, 2011

We left Abidjan this morning. David and I are going to visit the old slave forts in Cape Coast before returning to Accra, to catch a flight off the continent.

We were driven to the Ivory Coast/Ghanian border by chatty Conan, who drives for AP journalists and tourists, too. Conan dropped us off at the depot on the Ghana side, a covered area with some food stalls and rows of wooden benches. We got to know it pretty well. We waited literally forever for a bus.

While we were waiting, two men got into a fist fight in the dusty square in front. Several times, we almost lost heart, but my personal saving grace was a puppy named Mimi, owned by a young man named Christ Emmanuel. Christ had just bought the little ragamuffin in Abidjan and was taking him home to Accra. 

I also ate some boiled peanuts.

We finally got on the bus, which was, thankfully, air-conditioned. The driver screened several entertainments, including music videos and the zaniest Nigerian movie. I was never really sure about the plot, but it did involve a small man or boy who spoke in various accents, and a shunned woman in love with a man named Moses. The dialogue was in a mish mash of English and some African tongues I couldn't identify.

The ride was otherwise quite uneventful. The usual scenery, including a few coffin makers by the side of the road, their coffins lined up in a neat row outside the shop. Did I tell you you can buy bottles of liquor at the gas stations?

At the Cape Coast end, we got a ride with Belo Mohammed to the Mighty Victory hotel, and though David asked we never did find out quite what the Mighty Victory was. Had Red Red (black eyed peas in tomato sauce and  fried plantain) and chicken Palaver for dinner and slipped into sheets embossed with the logo of the hotel, a mighty blue circle with the letters M and V inside.

January 23, 2011

I have almost no pictures of Abidjan to show you, and I'm sorry. Not that there wasn't a lot to photograph. Too much, really.

This morning, I had my hair styled by Fernandez, a lady hairdresser who sometimes stays at Jen and Marco's. She also taught me to tie Pagne around my waist, the way that many women wear it here. Wrap, tuck, fold.

For breakfast Marco made pancakes, which we ate with maple syrup made by Jen's uncle.

Later in the day, we took a drive to feed the chimps in Grande Larou. There was a grand rain storm as we were getting out of town, rare for the dry season.

To feed the chimps, we took a canoe over to a small island where they all live. The four of them saw us coming a mile away and eagerly met us and our bananas. They were amazing beings. I guess I need not say that they were so so human. Well, did anyway.

I tried some palm wine, which Marco said was just what the child soldiers who manned the barricades into Blokosso drank and got drunk on.

We passed massive plantations of palm and rubber.

Oh, I forgot to tell you, on the way to the park we got stopped by a police man who was pleased to tell us our visas were only valid for 7 days and had expired. Marco pointed out that he was looking at our Togolese visas. He was deflated, and let us pass.

We drove back in the dark, getting some air on a few bumps. Trucks signaled not to change lanes, but to let oncoming drivers know how closely they could pass on the side.

January 22, 2011

Ca va? Ca va.

That's the standard greeting in French speaking West Africa. I appreciate its sincerity and simplicity. I appreciate the way the question is delivered with a hint of fatigue and replied to with a touch of relief.

Ca va. Today we went to Adjame market, a bustling, chaotic place where vendors and shoppers jam the boulevard, competing with trucks and carts for road space. Everything is sold in Adjame; housewares, fabric, jaguar teeth, colanders, lacy underpants and even the elusive tiger nut (like a mix between a peanut and a fig). We climbed up to open sided building and watched the colorful parade of humanity below.

After the market, we set off for Youpugon, another Abidjan neighborhood. Nico and Marco wanted to visit a football academy there, to do some interviews and take some photos for their project. Jen assisted in rounding up students and getting them ready for photos, and Nico got some great shots of kids.

We came home to Blokosso. Back at the apartment, we met a man crouching in the lobby, burning the hair off a fresh white rabbit. By the time we came down for dinner, he had begun roasting it over a small fire.

That night we ate at Alocodrome, a thrumming outdoor food market place. Ben, Reine (Marco and Jen's old sort-of-housemates)and their daughter Grace joined us for dinner. We sat across the street from the courtyard complex at a set of tables and chairs amidst a hundred other tables and chairs and kids selling kleenex and screwdriver sets. Several women approached our table and encouraged us to visit their personal stalls inside the Alocodrome. Eventually, we made our way into the complex to order.  

The place was booming. The concrete food stalls, or blocks, all had grills manned by glossy lassies. There were dozens! They were grilling up all manner of things and shouting out their grilled offerings. We chose a fine fat fish and a few chickens over the roar of the Coupé Décalé music, an Ivorian style of dance hall.

Shortly thereafter, we retreated to our slightly less hectic seats and toasted to the sweet Abidjan night. Amazing!