28 Days in Ghana The following are excerts from my Ghanaian Journal

18 May 99, 10:55 p.m. I have boarded Ghana Airways at Kennedy Airport in New York and I'm in seat 18a, a window seat. As I look around at the other passengers, I see nothing but Black folks. Since this is a non-stop flight, I know their first stop will be the Motherland; the land where man took his first breathe. There are women with children, men dressed in suits and, people in traditional African clothing. Sifting through their accents, I heard many destinations. Liberia, Nigeria, Cote'dIvory, Kenya, and Ghana. Different shades, different accents, and different destinations. Although I don't know what to expect, I feel this will be a wonderful experience.

19 May 99 It's 8:57 a.m. Ghana time. I am finally here after ten hours of crossing the Atlantic Ocean in the air. I got my luggage. So far, so good. A tall slender quiet man had a sign with my name. He would be Jerry. He and Robert the driver, took me to their boss and my host Joe Appeaning. Joe was seated behind a large dark desk with papers neatly stacked in piles on each corner. Joe is a short dark skinned fellow; medium built who looks to be in his mid to late forties. Later, I would find out he is 59. Jerry and Robert took me to the guesthouse and I settled in.

These children entertained me while photographing their village. 20 May 99 I woke up to the sound of roosters crowing. They start off early. Like 4:30 a.m. early. When one rooster starts, they all join in the chorus. Yousef and I went walking today. In the two days that I've actually known him, I feel that I've known him for quite some time. His spirit is just that comfortable. He is very free with his knownledge. We walked a few blocks, turned a few corners, and ended in the middle of what looked like a market. There were children all over the place.

22 May99 Last night I drank too much Gulder's beer. It would not have been too bad, but I had to get up at 4:30a.m. to meet Joe. The roosters helped with their crowing. Joe was one and a half hours late. I could have slept a little later. That would have helped the Gulders reaction. On the way to the village, we stopped to eat. Well, not being able to sleep that Gulders off and the motion from the truck didn't help my stomach or my head. Needless to say I made it to the latrine in time. The drive to Patriensa was about 4 hours. We made it just in time before that took the casket out of the church. When people saw my camera, they urged me to take pictures. I felt a little funny about documenting peoples' sorrow. Especially people I've never met. I got over that funny feeling and let the urging of the people take over me. Seems like the whole village was out. In fact, on the way to Patriensa, villages we passed were in mourning. A lot of people were dressed in black. Later I found out that funerals are usually held on Saturdays so people will have time to travel. At this funeral, the only sad emotion seemed to come from a few women. Most likely his wife and daughters. Everyone else was talking and laughing, looking at me wanting me to take their picture. After a while Joe introduced me to Osei's father and another man was claimed as an uncle.

 

These women lead the funeral procession to the burial site of a village elder. The funeral march was interesting. About 20 women were dressed as academic graduates, complete with four cornered caps and flowing black gowns. I was told they were the choir. They walked directly in front of the mini truck that was carrying the casket. But in front of the graduating choir, there was an additional 20 women with white head scarfs, wrap around skirts, white t-shirts with iron-on images of I'm assuming deceased people, because they had two years with a hyphen between. I don't know if the iron on was the person in the casket or what, but I saw the same face a lot. After the truck, the whole village seemed to follow.

As I was recording this whole event, I couldn't help but listen to the people talking and laughing, but I would see the few faces of sorrow. I kind of felt sorrow for the family, because it seemed to my western mind, people were not sharing their sorrow. But it didn't seem to bother the family. The children of Patriensa were following me around calling me Bruni, which I later found out meant white man. When I found this out, I tried to explain how I was African who lives in America. I tried to explain the history of slavery. My friend Olivia translated for me. The children were quite tentative. Them seemed to understand.

23 May 99 I awakened to the rooster's song. They are not music to my urban ears.

3 June 99 It's 5:08 a.m. Central Standard Time. That's right Central Standard Time. I'm writing from my own house in Chicago. I have made it home safely. Two nights ago I was in Accra and I didn't think I was going to make it. The mosquitoes caught up with me while in Tamale. Earlier on June 1, Josef and I went for a walk to a shantytown about 1/2 mile from the guesthouse. I had visited this area earlier in my stay and I saw these boys playing with a deflated soccerball. I promised myself I would buy them one before I left Ghana. All while we were walking I felt drained of energy, and I mentioned my fatigue to Josef. I really felt like I could just fall over and sleep somewhere. Josef just said I was run down because of the traveling. I said maybe so. I pushed on to give the ball to the boys. Later that evening, Joe and his sweetie Ruby came by around 7:30 to take me out for my last night in Accra. I was lying down and I just couldn't get out of bed. My body felt too heavy. I just couldn't make it. Around 1:00 a.m. I awoke in a cold sweat. My bed was drenched from fever. Although I had been sleeping, I was still extremely tired. I managed to crawl to the bathroom just in time to vomit, twice. Streams of sweat poured from my forehead. My head ached like it was stuck in a vise. I wanted to call out for Garlba the night watchman; but I didn't have the strength. After about 15 minutes of vomiting and the runs, it dawned on me to take a Latrium pill. I desperately thought it would stay down. I wasn't suppose to take it until later that day, but I didn't feel I was going to make it. I took it anyway. In a matter of minutes, I felt better. I felt well enough to go back to sleep. And I did until 6:30 a.m. Joe arrived about 8:30 to take me to the airport. I told him what happened and he suggested I go to the doctor. He read my mind. I didn't want to be flying in the air, get sick and die. The doctor said if the United States doctors had given me a shot, I would not have had this problem. Instead they gave me pills to take once a week. I was told later, they don't give shots because the US does not have Malaria problems. When the nurse told me to drop my pants and that the shot would hurt, I didn't mind. I just didn't want to go through that sweating, vomiting and diarrhea episode again. She also gave me three small brown packages with three different types of pills.

5 June 99 It's 3:00 in the morning Saturday and I can't sleep. My body is still in Africa. Some of my emotions are there too. I feel overwhelmed with grief, lack of emotional control, just many things. I feel like I need a good cry to let it all out. My heart really goes out to the African children. Some don't even know there's a better life out there. All they know is what they see and that is not much. Just reddish brown dirt, minimum if any money at all, and hunger.

 

22 July 2000 I am practically in the same set of seats I was in on my first trip to Ghana, but this time I have to share. No stretching across all three seats this time. It's hard to believe I'm taking my second voyage to Ghana, almost a year to the date. This time it's to document a technology conference in Accra. The coordinator for the affair, Kofi asked me to go, and I said why not. I look forward to seeing my friends I met last year.

24 July 2000 Our bus turned down this narrow dirt road with tall slender blades of grass on either side. As we picked up speed, the grass became a wall of green wavy blur. The grass was so high, it was as if we were driving through a topless tunnel. Fred, our driver, must have known this road well. He knew exactly when to slow down and swerve because of dips, bumps and clumps in the road. After about 30 minutes of this roller coaster ride, he started slowing down. We came upon some mud houses to our right and he slowed down and turned right. The Kente cloth village reminded me of an old dusty western town like you would see in the movies. Red dust covered everything. There were dried up weeds and a few people standing on the corner just waiting for something to happen. We drove a little bit farther and stopped at this dilapidated brick building with a shabby wooden windowless door.

This man is weaving Kente cloth on an apparatus used 100 years ago. Kente was once only worn by royalty. Nowadays it is commonplace. There are no machines at this factory. I'm told the Kente cloth is still spun they way they used to, by hand. They use this wooden pegged apparatus shaped like a caged collapsible swing, which seats one person. They then sit in a backless chair with a pole going across their lap that eventually receives the finished roll of cloth. The threads are pulled from a single ball about 15 to 20 feet away, stretched to a crossbar at which the operator lifts and pulls, in sync with two stringed foot petals. The motion is sort of like alternately patting your feet to an unheard rhythm. The threader pulls and crosses the threads intertwining the colors to create a Kente design. When all the threads are pulled through, the edges are cut and hemmed so they won't unravel. It is truly amazing and historic to see this cloth weaved. Traditionally, Kente cloth was made for and only worn by royalty. I'm told the designs have certain meanings. I'm sure the captured Africans who were sent to the Americas, brought the design ideas to their quilts, but their purpose was different. The designs on some quilts were shaped like arrows pointing in the direction toward freedom. They were flung over a fence to help direct runaways to the north. As I think about it, I remember my grandmother's quilts having diamond shaped patterns. I'm sure that example was passed along from her mother who was a slave. That's one of many traditions that crossed the seas with the millions who survived the Middle Passage.

31 Aug 2000 Earlier in the day, while Kofi's sister Afia was preparing lunch, I entertained myself by playing games with the children of the house. She has four children, two boys and two girls. Their brother Apere has three daughters. Although there was that language barrier, we managed though Simon Sez, Find the Nut under the Shell, and Freeze Tag. They were very entertaining. Between playing Simon Sez with the children, I had the opportunity to watch Afia as a mother and a daughter. Her beautiful brown skin glistened with sweat under the mid day sun as she retrieved fried plaintains and peanuts from a pot of hot palm tree oil. Although she knows I was observing her, she seemed genuinely patience and answered each question with a smile.

Although stoves are in most households, meals are still prepared outdoors on Hibachis using coal. After Afia and I ate a lunch of fried fish and cassava, her mother returned from the farm carrying on her head a large basket of fruits and vegetables. I sat there in awe as I watched this woman who was every bit of 60, grab this basket, pick it up off her head, and set in on the ground like it was empty. This basket was filled to the rim with stuff. Around 3:00 p.m., the heat of the sun was enough to end my day's work, but it only seem to fuel Mrs. Kwame who had left at sunrise to work the fields at their farm. Not breaking her stride, she joined in with Afia and her daughters as they prepared dinner.