Adventures in Ghana
I spent 14 months in 1972-73 with Dolly in Ghana, West Africa. We travelled there to gather data for our respective doctoral dissertations -- mine on optical illusions and Dolly’s on the religious and political history of the town of Kete-Krachi in Ghana’s Volta Region. It was an adventure in all regards.
A brief description of my research in Ghana is provided in the second panel of the Book Excerpts section.
Cruise to West Africa. We sailed from Montreal on a Ghanaian freighter, the “Benya River,” with our Toyota Corolla stowed in the ship’s hold, in September 1972. Though the freighter could accommodate 12 passengers, there were only two others besides us. It was, as I recall, an 11-day cruise across the Atlantic. The weather near Newfoundland was really rough; I discovered that I could minimize sea sickness by positioning myself midship on our deck, i.e. at the exact center of the ship lengthwise and widthwise, where the rocking and rolling of the vessel during storms were least perceptible. Ports en route, upon reaching the African continent, were Dakar (Senegal), Monrovia (Liberia), Abidjan (Ivory Coast), and finally Tema, in Ghana.
Pigmentation Puzzlement. On that cruise to Ghana, all of the ship’s Ghanaian crew members were so black, I couldn’t tell them apart! Fourteen months later, when we departed Ghana on a KLM flight to London, the passengers onboard were all so white, I couldn’t tell them apart! No joke.
Dashes. On arrival at the port of Tema, our Toyota could be powered on, but some elements of the drivetrain had been disengaged, preventing the car from moving. Port staff were only too happy to fix the problem in 10 minutes – for 20 American dollars (we hadn’t yet converted dollars to Ghanaian cedis). This was our introduction to the concept of the “dash” – meaning “bribe” – in Ghana. If you wanted something done, you’d better offer a dash to someone who could take care of it.
Driving. As a former English colony, Ghana did not change from left-hand traffic (requiring the driver’s steering wheel to be on the right side of the car) to right-hand traffic (requiring the driver’s steering wheel to be on the left side of the car) until 1974. Therefore, throughout our stay, we drove our left-side steering wheel Toyota in left-hand traffic, which made passing in two-way traffic daunting. To complicate matters further, I often drove a borrowed, right-side steering wheel van whose manual shift on the floor was operated by the left hand, on the left side of the steering wheel. And to maximize complication, when we drove across Ghana’s eastern border into former French colony Togo to buy supplies in that country’s capital, Lomé, we had to transition to right-hand traffic, which was fine if we were in the Toyota, but not so fine if we were in the van!
Dashes and Driving. Speaking of dashes and of driving: Initially, we lived for six months in Ghana’s capital, Accra – actually, a few miles north of Accra, in Legon, site of the University of Ghana, where Dolly researched in the history archives and where I taught Introduction to Psychology as a faculty lecturer. The distance between Accra and Lomé in Togo was 105 miles (about four hours one-way). In Lomé, we made sure to buy several cartons of French cigarettes to provide dashes on our return trip, as there were at least five checkpoints, staffed by armed Ghanaian military, to pass through in Ghana en route back to Accra. At each station, the drill was the same: “Where are you driving from?,” “Where are you going?,” “What do you have in your car?,” etc. etc. All this could be cut short by telling the soldiers that we had unfortunately bought too many cigarettes in Lomé and “would it be okay if we left some of the packs here with you?” Upon receipt of the smokes, the soldiers’ stern expressions morphed into smiles, and they waved us right through. Easy peasy. Welcome to Ghana!
Eating. We got out of the habit of eating with utensils, except when in restaurants. Most meals included fufu – a concoction of plantain, cassava, yam, and water pounded into a starchy, stretchy paste in a large wooden mortar by women (I never saw a male pounding fufu) using a four-foot-long, heavy wooden pestle. Fufu always accompanied a bowl of stew because it could be molded by the fingers of one’s right hand into little edible spoons for scooping up and scarfing down the stew (along with the non-chewy, easily swallowed fufu spoon). This made for messy right hands! So, if there were other people at the table, to pass food items to them, the diplomatic protocol was to use one’s left (non-messy) hand to grasp and pass the item while positioning one’s right hand under the left arm and saying (preferably in local dialect) “sorry for left.” Why? Because pervasive in Ghanaian culture is the notion that the left hand is the “toilet hand.”
Incidentally, it was also considered bad form to use one’s left hand to wave, shake hands, or to give or receive items in any context. It was also impolite to display the underside sole of one’s shoe or sandal to a Ghanaian.
There was always plenty of fresh fruit. In the rural village of Kete-Krachi, for example, mangos, oranges, lemons, limes, papayas, and avocados grew in abundance and often could be picked freely. In cities like Accra and Tamale, it was common for women on street corners to sell unshelled groundnuts (peanuts) along with tiny bananas (the size of one’s little finger) from round trays perched on their cloth-wrapped heads. Nothing beats a quick groundnut-banana snack, and those street vendors knew it!
Readily available vegetables included rice, maize, yams (as big as a small leg in some cases), tomatoes, onions, okra, squash, eggplant, and many types of peppers for those who preferred to spice up their food. These were sold most commonly in open-air markets, even in the cities. Incidentally, these markets were staffed and run by wealthy, respected, powerful women. I can still hear those who were vendors of rice chanting to me: “Just like Uncle Ben’s!”
As for protein, I always had canned sardines ready to eat as a backup, in case fresh meat and fish weren’t available. I loved those tasty sardines then, but never think of them now. The meat we ate paralleled the American regimen of beef, pork, and poultry. (I became fond of eating chicken legs entirely, inclusive of all bone, at the urging of my Ghanaian hosts. And I’ll never forget doing so sitting adjacent to my European KLM-to-London seatmate, who stared aghast at my savagery). In Kete-Krachi, where we had two cooks, bushmeat was often served for dinner, provided by locally abundant tiny antelopes and grasscutters (like our groundhogs). Plus, we often ate tilapia that I caught in nearby Lake Akosombo.
Oh, and for breakfast, there were always guinea fowl eggs – smaller than chicken eggs and very hard-shelled, but very tasty!
In Tamale, where I did most of my field work while Dolly travelled to far-away villages for weeks at a time to obtain oral history accounts from village elders, I typically ate delicious dinners at the local “Don’t Mind Your Wife Chop Bar.” It seemed that every village, town, and city had at least one local eatery that was so named.
Agyinamoa. As a final note on the subject of eating: we encountered an unexpected source of protein while living in Kete-Krachi. By way of background, Dolly and I owned a cute little cat we named “Agyinamoa” (meaning “cat” in Ashanti). But, though cute, he was outrageously active in ways that annoyed us, and he never grew out of it. We’d jokingly complain about Agyinamoa pretty much all the time, often within earshot of our devoted, “problem-solving” (literally – she could fix anything) cook, Mensa, … (So, you know where this is going, right? My advice: if you love or even just like cats, call it quits on continuing, think about something nice, and move on to the next section!) …who on one memorable evening served us a truly stellar stew…, delectable…, seasoned perfectly…, the meat sweet and delicate…, not at all like chicken! I had two big helpings!
Later that evening, when complimenting Mensa on her marvelous dinner production, she looked at us with those devoted eyes and proudly declared, “____ (Why bother to type it? You know the rest.)
Hygiene. In Legon and Tamale, we showered to clean up. In Kete-Krachi, we often bathed at night in the shallows of Lake Akosombo, despite the threat of crocodile attack (we never encountered one). Also in Kete-Krachi, we acquired the local custom of toothbrushing with a pencil-sized twig which, when chewed, frayed out into fine strands at one end that worked well for both brushing and flossing (toothpaste was unnecessary). Every morning, it seemed like everyone in the village had one of those twigs sticking out of their mouths.
TV and Movies. On rare occasions when we were in the vicinity of a television, we observed a Ghanaian preference for reruns of “I Love Lucy.” On Sunday mornings, when local church services were broadcast, they were frequently interrupted by raucous beer commercials – a striking juxtaposition of incongruous elements, by Western standards.
Movie theaters were outside – like our drive-in theaters, but with rows of chairs instead of cars for the audience. When it rained during a show, the movie’s visual content – reflected in an infinity of raindrops – stretched eerily from the projector in an ever-widening rectangle arching over the audience to the screen. Very psychedelic, by Western standards.
Religion. It seemed like Christian missionaries from America and Europe had all the expensive comforts of home in their huge Winnebago-style RV’s. I wondered if their home church congregations were aware of the lavish “poor missionary” lifestyles that they were funding. In any case, the missionaries had succeeded in “Christianizing” half of Ghana by the time we arrived there. One-fifth of the population were Muslim, and a significant segment still adhered to traditional indigenous religions.
The latter were generally based on belief in a supreme being, with emphasis on lesser deities specific to each region. Much importance in indigenous religions was attributed to deceased ancestors, who were seen to be ever-present and capable of influencing current events.
For example, on arrival in Kete-Krachi, protocol required that we obtain the blessing of the powerful local witch doctor – the Krachiwura – to pave the way for Dolly to request oral history accounts from area elders. The blessing ceremony, attended by us, local dignitaries, and the Krachiwura occurred shortly after daybreak. We all were seated in a circle on a concrete floor. The Krachiwura initiated the meeting by pouring libations (peppermint schnapps provided by Dolly and me) onto the floor, in honor of local deities and ancestors…
…When suddenly, the proceedings were interrupted by a loud, laughing commotion just outside our building. The Krachiwura advised us that “our people laugh when they are stressed; I must go to see what the problem is; please excuse me.” He went outside to investigate, then rapidly returned to grab a black satchel, then exited again, with apologies. Watching through a window, we then witnessed these events unfold:
A crowd of several dozen locals were assembled around a mother holding a silent, limp, lifeless baby. How strange it was, by Western standards, to see them laughing so hard at such a tragedy! The Krachiwura strode confidently up to the mother and baby, reached into his satchel to scoop out a handful of black powder, spat on his hands, made a paste of the powder, and rubbed it aggressively all over the baby’s body…
…Whereupon, the baby jerked, cried out, kicked and flailed its arms, full of wiggly, noisy life again! The crowd’s laughing ceased and was replaced by appreciative praise of the Krachiwura, who modestly accepted their accolades, then returned to our ceremony, stating, “Ah, the life of Krachiwura is not so easy! Thanks be to our ancestors!” He then suggested that we all simply polish off the schnapps, which required a lot of chug-a-lugging, as Dolly and I had brought a way-too-big bottle of it. Thus ended a blessing ceremony that was intoxicating in many regards!
Drumming. Whether in a small village or a large city, there was never a night that was not animated by drumming nearby or in the distance, for example celebrating events like births, marriages, plantings and harvests, or mourning losses, etc. Drumming was the night.
The Old Man. Ordinarily, Dolly and I worked separately, owing to our different research agendas, but on occasion I accompanied her on her treks (along with her translator) to villages in search of oral history accounts provided by village elders.
I’ll never forget the time we sought out an old man (as in 100+ years old), who was said to be an encyclopedia of regional history, in a remote village in the bush. On this occasion, we drove hurriedly, in hopes of catching him before he expired – only to learn on our arrival that he was gone – not in the sense of being deceased, but in the sense of his being away at the village’s nearby farm, putting in a full day’s work of cutting sugar cane!
So, we had to wait until the end of his workday to meet with him, and his knowledge and wisdom did not disappoint. Mentally and physically, he was in great shape.
To fill up the vacant hours prior to his return from the farm, I did what I always did when appearing for the first time in a village: I entertained the children, which endeared me to the adults. It was easy to do. All that was required was to sit and smile in a central location while dozens of children’s hands touched my white skin and blond (at the time) hair. To the extent that they spoke English or my fairly decent Ashanti, we had informative, fun conversations
One memorable conversation was with an eight-year-old boy who queried, “Where from you?” When I replied “Chicago,” he smiled as he pantomimed firing off a machine gun, making machine gun noises deep in his throat. Chicago’s stereotypic reputation as a gangster town had penetrated even his psyche!
Snakes. It paid to watch one’s step when walking outside. All of Ghana’s 92 species of snakes are said to be poisonous. My best snake memories are of driving on narrow roads in the bush, passing by coiled-up forest cobras, whose hooded heads first alerted to my oncoming Toyota, then swiveled in sync with the car as I whooshed by them, as if to sing, along with Sting, “Every move you make, every step you take, I’ll be watching you.”
Communication. In 1972-73, in a world without mobile phones, computers, the Internet or even faxing, there were only the long-distance telephone (which we never bothered to use to communicate with family and friends back home) and airmail letters (also known as “aerogrammes”) on which one wrote or typed a message and then folded up and licked to be mailed. The latter were our means of slow-moving communication with contacts abroad.
We kept up with emerging news of Watergate and international events with a short-wave radio, tuned either to the BBC (preferred) or to VOA (the Voice of America, which consistently voiced bias favoring then-President Nixon).
Pigmentation Dissatisfaction. In the humans-are-never-satisfied-with-what-they-have department, I’ll never forget swimming at a beach at Takoradi in Western Ghana, on the coast of the Gulf of Guinea. While white bathers applied lotions to darken their tans in the sun, black Ghanaians were applying lotions to lighten their skin.
Horses. One of my favorite memories of living in Tamale, the hub for my optical illusion research, was exercising the horses at a local polo club for ex-pats. On learning that I had a history of showing horses in jumping classes, the club members were delighted to let me run their ponies. It never occurred to me to learn to play polo; just riding was enough for me.
Ashanti. I made it a point to learn conversational Ashanti, the most pervasively spoken of Ghana’s 80 languages. This came in handy during illusion susceptibility testing if my translator was unavailable, and it was a superb lubricant of interaction with virtually all Ghanaians, who appreciated and were honored by my attempts to avoid English.
For some reason, I’ve retained about 80% of the Ashanti I mastered at the time, and it’s been great fun to summon it for present-day interactions with Ghanaians.
Merriam-Webster defines “adventure” as “an exciting or remarkable experience.” In all regards, my time in Ghana was a nonpareil adventure.
