July 14

Today began with a tour of the National Gardens, which really should have been called the national tree museum.  It is several acres of lawn displaying specimens of all of Ghana’s significant trees. Ghana’s economy is based on raw material export so the palm tree, the cocoa plant and many other spice trees are very important to Ghana. Interestingly enough, only the palm tree is native to Ghana. The rest are all imported from India by the British for mass resource production.

                We got to try palm wine, a naturally occurring liquid when the sap ferments inside the tree. It tastes a lot like Kafeer, but is almost as alcoholic as beer. One of the branches of highlife is named after it because palm wine spots were popular places to perform.

We went to lunch and tried fufu. A slippery paste made from mashed yam and plantain, served in a lump in a bowl of soup made either from fish or goat. The fish soup was very tasty and I ate most of it, but I don’t think I’m going to get used to the texture of Fufu.

Then we took a trip off the beaten path. We went to visit a shire. Somewhere during the morning we met a man who said he would take us to the local shrine. I think we assumed that we were just going to walk into a building and look around. As usual, our assumption was wrong.

 We walked down yet another winding rocky back street and eventually entered a courtyard where a man was eating his lunch. He invited us to sit and we amused ourselves with a litter of kittens as he finished eating.  First of all, a comment on table etiquette: in our culture, if 6 strangers walked in in the middle of your lunch, you would a) be annoyed and b) stop eating. But he asked us to wait and proceeded to eat with his feet proper up on his carved money table.

 When he was finished, he introduced himself as the curator of the shrine. He said that we couldn’t go in except on festival or ritual days, but he would be happy to answer our questions. He told us that yams were forbidden during festival and how he is not supposed to leave the shrine on Thursdays. The one time he did, he got into a car accident.

He then told us that if we really wanted to see a shrine there was another one he could take us to. It was called the crocodile shrine, and an old woman was called to take us there.  She greeted us loudly and energetically, and made a gesture that seemed to be making fun of our noses. She then pointed out that we couldn’t visit the shrine without bringing an offering. So we each had to buy an egg and a bottle of schnapps, which immediately appeared for sale as soon as they were mentioned.

                I remember from a video viewing that Schnapps are very important in libation rituals, which is interesting considering they are a European import. I suppose it speaks to the fluidity of traditional religions.

                There was some debate as to where or not I should be allowed to wear flip flops into the sacred forest, and after some discussion it was decided that everyone had to remove their footwear.We climbed into the van, each holding our egg and bottle of schnapps, along with our guide who kept trying to negotiate what his fee would be for helping us with all of this. We were driven to a cops of trees where we met the curator, the old lady, and a big man who we were told was the chief of the village, as well as several teenaged boys. We all removed our shoes and stepped gingerly into the forest.

                Instead of the reverent silence that I was expecting, there was a lot of shouting and what seemed like arguing over where to stop and how to proceed. When we reached the spot there were no crocodiles to be seen, just a glade full of ferns. However, all of the trees surrounding the glade had a very distinct waterline on them about five feet up the trunk. When you imagine the glade as a deep pond, you can imagine that there might have been a crocodile there are one point. The curator told a story of an Obruni that didn’t know the bog was there and drove a motor bike into it.

                Once the talking and bickering were done, they were ready to begin. I remember reading in Steven Freidson’s “Remains of Ritual” that there is not much of a formalized system for these rituals, so there is always a fair amount of discussion before a ceremony. From an outsider’s perspective however, once can’t help but feel like it’s being made up on the spot.

                The curator opened Michael’s schnapps and started to pour it on the ground as liabation, while saying ritual words in a loud voice.  The old lady and an old man echoed him. He asked Michael what he wanted and Michael answered safe travels for the group. He then took each of eggs and asked for our names and one at a time threw them into the bog. The he poured one last liabation, took a swig of schnapps for himself and then flung the remainder of the bottle into the swamp with swirling motion so that the cap flew off and the schnapps sprayed everywhere.

                One of the teenagers collected the remaining 5 bottles of schnapps and I noticed him opening one on the way back to the cars. On the drive home we discussed the feeling of being ripped off or taken for a ride. Michael reminded us that it was like making an offering to the church, or at the very least, paying for the experience. He also assured us that the locals have to pay and do the same things. Whether you believe in the religion or not, it is still important, I think, to show respect for the ritual.

At the end of the day, a few of us went back to the stadium to watch a soccer match. As it turned out, it was the national finals featuring the Northern Region vs the Asante Krotoko from Kumasi. The way that nations treat their athletics is one of the true expressions of culture. The stadium was less than half full (which is still a lot of people, because the stadium is huge) but the noise level feels like a Grey Cup game. People were dancing, drumming, blowing trumpets and horns and cheering, the entire game, even during injury time. It’s a miracle that anyone is watching the game at all, but when a team scores or has a scoring chance the who stadium erupted.  It was really hard to focus on the soccer itself, even though it was a close game.

The ticket seller let us in for free and we each bought a jersey from a vender outside the entrance. We were approached by several young men asking for pictures with us in our jerseys. We discussed that some of that attention must be cultural. Africans are generally very open and friendly, and some of it is the novelty of white people, especially the two blonde girls. But I recognize that if a group of men asked for my picture at an Eskimos game, I wouldn’t be comfortable.