July 6

Today we did a tour of W.E.B. Du Bois’ house. He was a prominent scholar and considered to be the father of Pan-Africanism. He was very close to president Nkrumah and lived the last years of his live in Ghana. Most of the information I already know from the readings, but the thing I noticed most was the condition of the books in his personal library. He is portrayed as such a revered personality, and yet the valuable knowledge, personal passions and original compositions are rotting away. Our tour guide really didn’t know where the money to restore them would come from but he said it was their top priority.

We then went into the mausoleum where he and his wife are buried. It is a gazebo which was once his favorite spot. Along the walls were 6 Akan stools like the ones we used to use in WAME, each engraved with an Adinkra symbol

As we left, Michael and the tour guide struck up a conversation about modern music in Ghana, whether groups still incorporate traditional elements, and how the older generations are reacting to the change. Possibly it’s globalization, possibly it’s that the youth are too distracted to learn traditional music and pass it on.

Last night I had a panic attack. I won’t go into the details of the circumstances but it did raise an interesting cultural experience. In the first world, we are used to having a private space to cry, so grieving is mostly done alone. But here in the echoey hostel, even with the door closed everyone can hear you! In most cultures, grieving is done communally. In our culture, it’s embarrassing. Ours is probably the only culture in the world that employs professional counsellors to help us deal with depression.

At the end of the day we visited the JayNii foundation on the beach in Jamestown. This is an organization that provides funding and education to street children from the slum. We were greeted at the entrance by Auntie Jay, one of the founders of the program. The children sang and dance for us and we joined in.

Then we walked along the beach and headed into the slum. We were overwhelmed by the sights and the sounds. First came the fishing boats. Huge hollowed out canoes that made us think of voyageur canoes from back home, only these were cut from whole tree trunks with an axe-like chizzle. The thought of such a large ocean going vessel being made completely by hand is amazing. I wonder where they get the tree trunks from in a bustling metropolis like Accra?

Then there were the kids, which were my primary focus for most of the time. They seemed to come out of the woodwork. Little boys and girls chasing us , hugging us, grabbing our hands and chanting “how are you?” The others were a bit uncomfortable being hugged by strange dirty children, but I was in my element. Only when a little boy pushed his runny nose into my belly that i realized how dirty they all were.

Now I will attempt to describe the conditions. the first shocking thain was the urine and feces in the street where the children and the stray dogs and cats play. The houses, which seem to be just boards and a tin roof are only big enough for one room. We could even see people sleeping. How many people live in one house? They must not keep very many possessions. I can’t help but think of my packing list and how extensive I found it. I bet I have more belonging in my suitcase than these people have in their entire house.

The further we got, the more uneasy we felt. Not for our safety, but for the awkwardness of the situation. We were so aware that we were staring and we felt intrusive. The bus ride home was very somber.

On the way back to the bus we heard a great roar and a crowd of young men streamed into the street. A soccer match had just ended and the local team had won. We saw the victorious team ding a victory lap in a crowd of fans. Only, the jog resembled a dance with each foot falling at exactly the same time. In a place where one person can have so little, music, sports and community are not just entertainments, they are livelihoods. They are sources of joy that people clig to because humans need happiness. The problem with us is, we have so many sources of happiness that no one alone is sufficient.

On the somber and tense ride home a few of us jumped out to get a beer, and after some friendly conversation we were starting to feel better. We decided to take turns flagging a cab, and on my turn i was charged twice what the boys were offered.

We stopped at a liquor store and struck up a conversation with a small group of middle aged men sitting inside. Somehow, we discovered that the owner, whose name was Sam, and I both had a recent birthday, so he invited me to join him for a drink, which turned out to be a large snifter of cognac. I lively conversation ensued, most of which was blurred by the cognac for me. What I do remember is that all of the men were educated. Sam was in finance and his friend was a pilot. Both had been to Canada. Sam had actually done his degree at Queens University, and his favorite hockey team was the Edmonton Oilers.

Sam had two distinct scars, one on each of his cheekbones. He told me that as a child he had epilepsy and his parents had taken him to a medicine man for a cure. They cut his cheeks with a knife and put herbs into the wound and he hasn’t had a seizure since. It is so hard in western society to believe that that would work, and we crave a scientific explanation. But in this man, traditional and modern both have a place.