Identity Dilemma

american, oboruni, african-american, black american, jamaican, rastah!, half-caste, mulatto, mixed race? I've heard it all.

I'm most often referred to as oboruni, which means white person. After four weeks of constant sun, I have the darkest tan I've ever had in my life. But here, I'm white. I've seen Ghanaians of all complexions. Even before I speak, I'm still different. I feel like an alien as people stare at me everywhere I go. Men yell "Rastah!" Children yell "Oboruni" and women stare and look me up and down. Frustrated and confused by this, I asked other African Americans living here as well as Ghanaians what it all means.

In one taxi ride, my rib to rib mate asked my nationality. I said "African American" He asked "Who is African? Your mother?" I said "No, my family came from here long ago." I said this with the asumption that everyone here knows about the slave trade from West Africa to the Americas. He knodded, but then looked confused. "You are African American?" he repeated it twice. Since he had knodded, I didn't understand his question. Then I realized to him, unless my mother of father was born in Africa, I was just American.

It's becoming clearer that being oboruni or american is a muddy mixture of class, race and complexion. It means that I come from a place where "they" all want to go. The place from which most of their popular music and movies come. Where images that they aspire to are made. Where life is lovely and easy.

It's times like these that I wish I were a vocalist or musician. Music seems the only way to adquately express this confusing experience. The song would be a mixture of Nina Simone's moodiness and Miles Davis' formless meandering. It would be a blend of "Sometimes I feel like a motherless child/ a long way from home" and my all time favorite, "Summertime and the living is easy/ fish are jumping and the cotton is high/ your daddy's rich and your ma is good looking/ so hush little baby, don't you cry."

Bittersweet.

My second week in Ghana I met an amazing woman for whom I have much respect. Much respect! Seestah Imahkus Okofu is an African American who moved back to Africa 15 years ago with her husband Nana Okofu. Together they run One Africa, a guest lodge that includes six individual chalets located on beautiful oceanfront property, a restarurant and a small museum. I planned to stay for a couple of days but stayed for a week instead. I love the ocean! The warm Atlantic Ocean!

I had just arrived in Cape Coast and Elmina. After checking into a scary hotel, I walked down to the coast, sat crying in a restaurant, wishing I could go home. After eating red red (black eyed peas with a palm oil and tomato sauce and fried plantain) I pulled myself together and headed back to the hotel. I decided I couldn't stay there. Even if they didn't give my money back I was leaving. They refunded my money.

My friend Shiree, back in Oakland, had given me instructions to find friends of hers in Cape Coast. She said go to One Africa and they will help you find my friends. A taxi dropped me off at One Africa and we tried to reach them by phone. We couldn't reach them so I decided I was going to stay there no matter the price. It was the equivalent of $31 a night. My whole daily budget! At this point I didn't care. I would rather go without eating, just to feel safe.

This turned out to be the right decision. The whole One Africa family took good care of me while I was there. The first night I sat in my chalet vomiting red red. I heard a knock at the door and there was Seestah Imahkus to check on me and to bring me some tea and herbs to settle my stomach.

We would later have many conversations about her return to Africa and her extensive travels around the world, alone. She listened to my frustrations and told me about two books she has written, "Returning Home Ain't Easy, But it Sure is a Blessing" and "Points to Ponder."

After returning to the chalet each day, I'd go outside to the oceanside table and join the ever present group of people for dinner and discussion. They'd ask me about my day and offer interpretations and encouragement in response to my daily frustrations.

I met several great people during my stay. Some, traveller's like me, passing through. Others, permanent residents of Ghana. My week at One Africa kept me in Ghana. I felt much stronger as a result of my stay.

The day before I left to head back to Accra, I confronted an employee at an internet cafe. When I went to the counter to pay my bill, his coworker asked who the bill was for. He said "Aewekj kd kojklj oboruni alkalkjf" and pointed at me. I said in English "I'm not white." He said "You're not? You're Black?" I said "Yes. I am Black." He said "But your color is so different." He apologized and extended his hand in sincerity. I'm still confused by this exchange. Mostly because Black American culture is prevalent everywhere I've been so far. Music, music videos, fashion, movies, all things popular. Some of the good, but mostly the bad. (I would later make a complaint to an internet cafe manager about offensive unedited music they were blasting over the sound system. Does the meaning not translate? No one else seemed to care, women and other foreigners included.)

I see I have much more to learn about what it means to be seen as an oburoni african american something or other.

check out this commentary on oboruni:
click here

Eastern Region Ghana. Part 2

I arrived in Koforidua after dark. I had made a policy to avoid traveling to new places at night. But it's "winter" here and the sun sets at 6pm. This time I couldn't avoid it. On our way, I looked through my bag for the list of hotels in this area. Somehow I had left all the information. I looked in my West Africa guidebook and there was nothing! There was no point in panicking, and I couldn't let on that I didn't know where I was going.

As we approached the lorry station, I kept my eyes out for signs advertising hotels. I only saw one. The Capital View Hotel. Fortunately, the tro-tro stop was in front of a petrol station with a convenience store. I went inside, waited until there were no customers around and asked the woman at the counter for a phone directory. She seemed confused and loudly asked her co-worker to help me with the phone directory. He brought one out and within minutes, I was surrounded by men asking me the usual questions. They wanted to know what I was looking for. I couldn't say I didn't know, so I distracted them by asking them questions. Just as I located the phone number of the hotel, I looked up to see one young man with his mobile phone camera pointed at my face. I dropped my head and he insisted, not asked, that I lift my head and let him take the photo. I said no. Recent experience with village women trying to marry me to their sons and nephews made me wary about being "captured" in this man's phone, not to mention he had just met me 30 seconds before. I can only imagine the story he'd have to go with my photo . . .

I got the number, went outside to call the hotel and reserved a room. It was the equivalent of $25 dollars a night. More than my daily allotment for a hotel. I figured I had no other choice since I hadn't seen a listing or sign for any other hotel. It was a very nice hotel. Running water, hot water, air conditioning, tv and refrigerator. Best of all, I didn't need to hang my mosquito net!

I woke up the next morning refreshed and caught a taxi to the tourist board where I sought information about the Cocoa Research Institute of Ghana (CRIG). There was only one man working and he quickly volunteered to write a letter of introduction so that I could have better access. He gave me brochures on local sites to see and pointed me to the tro-tro that would take me.

My first stop was the Bunsu Arboretum. The arboretum is a planted forest of various species of trees and flowers. There is also a butterfly sanctuary. I met a forestor at the visitor center and we headed into the forest. He began his long introduction about the history of the arboretum. I interrupted to him to say that although I was interested in all the trees, I was especially interested in the cocoa trees. This was my reason for coming. He assured me that we'd see some. The tree that I found the most fascinating is the one that produces the monkey nut. The nut tastes like a combination of a coconut and a brazil nut. We meandered through until we reached the cocoa trees. The forestor then pointed out that these trees actually belonged to a farmer and not the arboretum and that he was not "into" cocoa. He stood at the entrance and waited while I walked in to take photos. After two photos he asked if I was done. I said "not quite." He said if I wanted to talk to the farmer I could hike two miles or so to the village "that way" and look for him. Feeling like I had been hussled out of my money and time, I declined and we headed back to the visitor center.

The arboretum, I was told, is run by the same organization that runs CRIG. So I asked the forestor how to get to CRIG. He said it was just a little ways down the road. We walked, in the blistering mid day sun, single file down the narrow rural road to a farm that is an outpost of CRIG, but not CRIG. No one was there. He suggested another place and I told hin, no, that I would find my way to the main site.

I caught a tro-tro in the opposite direction and arrived at the grand archway leading into the campus of CRIG. I went to the public relations office, showed my letter and asked if I could have a tour. The young woman there was not sure what to think of me and pointed out that usually you send the letter in advance and wait for an appointment. It was obvious that she wasn't busy and I could see she was considering giving me the tour anyway. She showed me the few cocoa products they had in the office and gave me a general overview of what they do. But she still had not agreed to the tour. I was pretty sure I could convince her. I asked if she was a scientist, this did the trick. She was flattered and explained that though she was not a scientist, she's required to know what all the departments do. She agreed to the tour and only charged me the student price.

On the tour, I saw the "museum", more like a nursery, where they study diseased plants. We walked on to where they ferment and dry seeds/beans that are harvested from the trees on their campus. Even though it is not high cocoa season, there are always pods to harvest. They ferment the beans in a large open pavillion with a concrete floor and corrugated tin roof. My guide broke opened some pods and we tasted the sweet fruit that surrounds the beans. We walked into the "forest" and looked at several species of cocoa trees.

After the tour I stopped in the shop to buy some cocoa products that they produce. Only cocoa soap was available. When it's high season they have a range of products such as cocoa gin, wine, brandy, etc.

Everyone I encountered in this region seemed genuinely interested in helping me. I hope this will continue to be my experience as I move north through Ghana. One man went as far to say that I was welcome and that Ghanaians are sorry for things that have happened in the U.S. in the past. I thought he was one of the rare people to mention slavery and to welcome me. But I soon understood he was referring to Sept 11. He paid for my tro-tro fare and showed me where to transfer. He never asked for my number or address. He didn't ask for anything. I am very grateful for the few people like this man who I have encountered.

Eastern Region Ghana. Part 1

This past Saturday I took my first real tro-tro ride to the eastern region of Ghana. Tro-tros are old minivans, in really bad condition, with extra seats added. These vans came equipped to seat 7 passengers. With the "modified" seating, most pack in 12 to 16 passengers. The driver and mate (who opens the door and takes your money) hang out the window and yell the destination and make hand gestures.

I had done my best to avoid using tro-tros, not ready to be packed rib to rib in a rusty minivan with live chickens laying on the floor. But in some regions it's the only way to travel. I had no other choice. After making my way through the lorry station, where you get on or transfer, I began to understand some of the madness. It wasn't so bad after all. If the windows aren't tinted or you aren't positioned directly behind someone's head, the view is nice and it's a good way to see many towns and villages.

My first stop was Akosombo. I planned to take the once weekly pleasure "cruise" on the Volta Lake, the world's largest man made lake. To the tune of a live high life band, I sat and discussed my experiences with two volunteers from Canada. They had been living in the Northern region for the last four months and were making their way south to Accra to fly home. They had advice for me, people to ask for in villages I'll visit, where to stay and the much discussed topic of how much taxis and tro-tros should cost.

The Dodi Princess, our cruise ferry, makes a stop and turnaround at Dodi Island. We "alighted" and were immediately met with outstretched hands. Each passenger was flanked on both sides by small children clinging to their arms and hands. At first it seemed like a welcoming gesture. As we were led along a path, two groups of dancers and drummers sang a welcome song.

The path was steep and when I reached into my bag for my camera, I couldn't free my hand! It soon became apparent that this welcoming gesture of children coming to hold our hands was nothing more than a plot to extract money. The path to the other side of the island was short and we found ourselves in a traffic jam. Their was no where to go and nothing to do. We all stood around looking confused.

We passed an angry Ghanaian man who ranted about what a hoax this was. He hadn't paid his 60,000 Cedis for this! "Why hasn't Ghana developed the island? I paid my money! What are they doing will all the money? Europeans would have developed this island. They would know what to do." We cringed and walked away. Even though Ghana was the first to defeat colonialism and claim it's independence, the evidence of colonialism is still apparent everywhere. So many Ghanaians still feel like "others" do it better. The "others" know what is best.

With nothing to do and no where to go, we decided to head back to the Dodi Princess. I had already shaken off my hangers on. My two new friends were trying their best to break free. At every step four sets of hands would reach up to grab our arms. We asked what they wanted, and now the truth came. . ."geeve mohney"

Everyone on the cruise rode back in near silence. Many people slept. When we arrived back at the dock, we said our goodbyes, exchanged contact information and I took a taxi back to the guesthouse to get my bag.

On to the next town, by tro-tro!

My next destination was Koforidua and New Tafo, home to the Cocoa Research Institute of Ghana (CRIG) and many cocoa farms and plantations.

First Cocoa Farm

Village near Brenu and Elmina (sometime in week 2. i've lost track of date and time)

My new found friend Japhiya (an African American living in Ghana with his family) agreed to take me to a cocoa farm not too far from where I was staying in Elmina along the coast. We took his apprentice carpenter along as our translator. Although English is the official language, most people speak Twi or Akan and don't understand our "American accents."

The three of us drove off the main road along a dirt packed road. We drove past corn fields, villagers walking by with loads on their heads and piles of harvested produce sitting along the road.

We reached a small village and our interpretor went to find the cocoa farmer. The two came back, the farmer with his machete and we continued down the dirt road. Not too far away we pulled to the side of the road where a dense and dark forest of trees stood to the right and a corn and yam field sat to the left. We got out and followed the cocoa farmer as he quickly went along and cut down ten or so cocoa pods. I tried my best to keep up and take photos and video. The pace was fast and the rain was starting to fall. I notice a pile of discarded and burnt cocoa shells. (After the pods are cut open and the seeds and fruit cut out, the outside is burnt and crushed and used to make other products.)

We hopped back in the tro-tro (like a mini-van) and headed back to the village. I told them I wanted to see how they fermented the beans/seeds. When we arrived at the village, we followed the cocoa farmer through his small village to his family's hut. Outside on a drying bed made from bamboo, a pile of seeds was laying out to dry. They have a strange smell while fermenting, something like vinegar. Japhiya asked if you can eat the fermenting beans. I was concerned about all the flies feeding on the beans. The farmer picked up a bean, peeled off the outside and popped the dark center into his mouth.

It was a very fast visit. The major cocoa harvest starts in late september, but you can find some ripe pods all through out the year.

As Japhiya and I drove back to Elmina, we discussed the challenges of the cocoa farmers and how they struggle to survive. The village we visited was typical for this region. The ground around all the huts is made of pounded dirt. There are a few businesses that sit along the road. Behind the businesses are the family houses or compounds. Most are constructed from hand made cement bricks and have a thatched roof. As we walked through a woman came and asked us for money. Two children stopped and stared at us as if we were aliens. When Japhiya said hello, they picked up their sticks and ran.

We stopped at a station to get petrol and Japhiya suggested that I try a chocolate made in Ghana. It's called Kingsbite. I tried the milk chocolate because it wall they had in the store. It was by far the worst chocolate I've ever put in my mouth! I had been warned, but I couldn't believe it. I had to spit it out. I was chalky, dry, gritty and barely tasted like chocolate. I held a piece in my hand for five minutes. It never melted.

It's really amazing that the world's number two producer of cocoa has the worst chocolate and that it imports decent chocolate from several European countries. Exporting raw goods and importing the same goods as a finished product is one of the many reason why cocoa farmers are so poor. I can't help but think that Ghana can make a much better chocolate for consumption here as well as for export. A business idea waiting to happen . . .

As I travel to the eastern region of Ghana over the next week, I hope to visit several more farms/forests as well as the site of the original cocoa farm in Mampong. Also in the same region is the Cocoa Research Institute of Ghana. Research here is aimed at increasing the amount of seeds in each pod as well as introducing a new species of cocoa trees that are resistant to disease.

I'm still on the look out for a better Ghanaian chocolate.

Cape Coast and Elmina Slave Castles

I visited both the slave dungeons in Cape Coast and Elmina. I've had a hard time writing about my experience. Maybe it will come later. Maybe it will come only in a visual form.

Homowo

(This excerpt is from a Ghanaian paper, "The Spectator, Your Weekend Companion")

PRAMPRAM CELEBRATES HOMOWO

"The chief and people of Prampram in the Greater Accra Region on Tuesday started activities marking their two-day annual Homowo festival. Homowo of the Ga-Adangbe people, which literally means "hooting for hunger," traditionally signifies a period of abundant harvest after a prolonged famine.

Paramount Chief Nene Tetteh Djan III accompanied by his elders enter the "La Luwe" shrine to perform rites and to seek the blessing of gods before starting the sprinkling of the kpokpoi (festival meal of maize meal and palm nut soup.)"

_____________________________________________

At the time I was happy I came across this article, because I spent the day in confusion. The procession of brightly dressed and high spirited dancers meandered through the main street of Prampram. I didn't understand what was being said and I was being pushed and pulled along by two journalists that I rode with from Accra. People in the procession would push me forward into the suffocating crowd so that I could be in prime position for photos and video. I think they assumed I was media and they wanted to be sure they were documented. It was searing hot and the crowd was rambunctious. We moved along stopping at several historically important sites to give offerings of thanks. Two teenagers at the front of the procession held carved objects that had been fashioned like guns. They stuffed gun powder inside and ignited it. More than once my ear drums felt like they were being shattered as they set off their guns at less than arms distance from where I stood. They took their role very seriously and I am sure I have some photos that without knowing the context you would swear they were hardcore gangsters.

After a couple of hours the group began to dissipate and people went back to their homes to begin the feast. I was in the company of Chief Linguist Attah Lartey. He wanted to be sure that I saw the whole of Prampram and escorted me from family compound to family compound. I was tired, hot and very hungry. He assured me that we would stop at his family's compound to eat the maize and palm nut soup. At first I did want to try it, but after sitting in one compound and understanding that all 12 people would be eating from the large bowl on the floor (where the flies had already begun to feast) I decided I had been in Africa less than a week and perhaps my stomach couldn't handle it. So I told him that I wanted to head back to Accra. But he had to stay because of the festival. So I was on my own. I would have find my way to Accra, alone. I assured him that I would be fine, though I was anything but fine. I figured, I came to Africa alone, so I better get used to the unexpected.

The trip back required that I transfer from one taxi to another at a town midway to Accra. I was nervous, but all went well and I made it safely back to Accra in an hour and a half.

I think only the video footage can show the true spirit of this Homowo festival. It was all about sound and motion.

Prampram. Nearby fishing village

Today I went to a small fishing village with a sub chief/linguist and met the paramount chief. Pretty amazing. They let me sit in a traditional tribal council. I felt awkward since I was the only woman and I was dressed "western". The sub chief was encouraging me to take photos, but I felt out of place. I stood in the doorway and tried not to impose. I'm supposed to go back on Tuesday when they have their annual celebration called Homowo.

Accra, Ghana

I got to see more of Accra today. On the way to an internet cafe, we passed a corner where they were selling gigantic "portraits" of people. The first six or so were some African politicians I didn't recognize. The last one in the series was President Bush!!! I laughed out loud in the car. The driver probably thinks I'm crazy. I'll have to try to get a picture of it. The weather here is nice. It's similar to San Francisco weather. Breezy, sunny. It's supposed to be rainy season/winter, but there is no rain. I was bit by a mosquito or something yesterday. I was tired when I got in and forgot to put on bug repellant. I did sleep with my net and I'm already missing water. How much bottled water can a person carry?

Africa. Day One!

The flight from Lagos to Accra was late of course, but fine. I fell asleep instantly so I can't tell you a darn thing about the flight. My arrival into Lagos from London was a little hairy. Fortunately the Jamaican Nigerian guy sitting next to me looked after me when we landed. In Ebo he told the immigration officer to take care of me and to let nothing happen. After being taken to a room that looked like an interrogation room, I waited as an older British man sat before three officers insisting that they give back his passport. They had already taken mine. They laughed and spoke to each other in Ebo, obviously taunting the man.

Eventually I was in the hands of airport security and escorted about. They'd say things like "cjlgoiual agoiaoidsfm transit alkjsd;lkago lagoiaojf". "Ehh, ehh" the other person would respond and point at me. I was lead, alone, down dark hallways with no one around. Scary at 5 am when you are sleep deprived. Then they took me to one room to wait for the Ghana Airways office to open. A woman was sleeping on a broken down bench. I waited and watched as several people came in and out of the dim and dusty room. They had taken my passport and plane ticket. So I kept my eyes on whoever had it.

The two lady employees began asking me about my hair. "Is that your hair? Is that all your hair? How do you get it that way? Are you Jamaican? How do you "bath"? Can you "loose" it? I figured after this discussion, we'd developed a bond and they would look after me.Which they did. I was escorted to the front of the long Ghana Airways check in line, where excess baggage of 8 pieces is the norm.

I was then escorted to the line for boarding. I thought it unusual that the plane was nearly finished boarding since the check in line had just begun and I was the first person checked in. But I thought myself lucky and handed my ticket to the agent. She tore it and the next agent waved me on. Still I thought something was wrong so I asked if this was a flight to Accra. He said yes, but I must have looked confused and he asked to see the remaining portion of my ticket stub. It was indeed the wrong flight. The wrong airline at that! I wouldn't have minded except that my luggage had already been checked into Ghana Airways. The agent began to randomly check other passenger's tickets and determined that I was the only one who had been wrongly boarded.

I sat down and waited for what became 3 hours for my flight on Ghana airways. I was nervous because of the things I had heard about Ghana airways and more nervous about the prospect of being stranded in Lagos (nicknamed the wild wild west) without a visa. When boarding time was called people rushed the counter like it was first come first served. As I was pressed into the crowd I asked the man next to me what was going on. He repeated what they had announced. Those with no seat assignment printed on their ticket had to step aside. They have overbooked! Trying not to panic I asked where on the ticket I should find the seat assignment. Mine was printed "8A". Whew!

An hour later I arrive in Accra to begin the first of many "negotiations" with taxi drivers. The taxi driver delivered me to the home of my friend's parents. I have arrived! My first day in Africa.

April in Africa

* destination: Ghana, Burkina Faso, Mali and Senegal
* 31 years old, trekking solo for 3 months

This is the year. This is the year. In January, I declared it. I was packing to move into a new apartment. I leafed through all the guide books and women's travel memoirs I had collected. I found old journals detailing which countries I'd visit and how long I'd stay in each. Had old maps and articles filed away, I knew I would need them.

I decided I'd only sign a six month lease, just in case. In May I gave notice to my job, where I have worked as an exhibit designer for the past four years. When I gave notice to my landlady, it was official! No turning back now.

I pulled out all the old notes, studied and highlighted all the guide books, talked to other travelers, read online forums, talked to Africans and concluded, West Africa had to be my destination.

Those around me are subjected to unsolicited information about chocolate. I love chocolate! Can I say it again? I love chocolate. In recent years, as my palate has developed, I've also become more interested in cocoa/cacao, and where it comes from. Africans and people of the African Diaspora are the farmers and producers of most of the world's cocoa. Cote d'Ivoire and Ghana are the number one and number two producers worldwide. So of course I have to go to West Africa! It only makes sense.

I know there is a major divide between the world's love of chocolate and the conditions under which cocoa farmers work. What will happen when I visit these farms? Will I feel guilty? Will I still love chocolate? Will I become a full time crusader of fair trade and protestor of slave labor? Could I handle a day's work as a cocoa farmer? Do cocoa farmers have a cultural and spiritual connection to the harvest? Or is it only a way to make a living? How many cocoa farmers have tasted chocolate? How has world demand affected local economics, politics, education and healthcare?

As much as I love chocolate, it's not my only mission. Many African Americans make a pilgrimage to the slave ports/dungeons along the coast. I will visit the slave ports along Ghana's coast. Though I've heard others describe how they felt, I can't anticipate what my experience will be. I hope to be transformed by it all. . . Ghana's beaches and markets, Burkina Faso's art and intricately painted houses, Mali's music and dogon villages, Senegal's food and coastal islands.

Will I have returned home? Will I feel a connection to the land and people? Can I slow down and move at an "African" pace? Can I handle the heat? These are some of my questions. Family and friends have another line of questioning: Why are you going alone? Can't you find someone to go with you? What are you going to do for three months? Why did you choose these countries? Will you be safe? Do you know anyone? What if you get sick? How will we talk to you? Whatlanguage will you speak? Why are you going? Why are you leaving your job? What are you going to do whenyou get back? Are you coming back?

Yes, I bought a round trip ticket. After a week in London, I arrive in Ghana August 11. I will travel overland from Ghana, up to Burkina Faso, then on to Mali and Senegal. I will fly out of Senegal in November, stop briefly in Paris and then return to the U.S.

My last two months have been filled with research and preparation. Becoming a nomad is a lot of work. Plane tickets, immunizations, visas, moving into storage,planning, packing, budgeting, worrying, and saying goodbye.

As I was packing, I came across an excerpt I had taken from Paulo Coelho's "The Pilgrimage": ". . . when you travel, you experience in a very practical way the act of rebirth. You confront completely new situations, the day passes slowly, and most journeys you don't even understand the language people speak. So you are like a child just out of the womb . . . at the same time, since all things are new,you see only the beauty in them, and you feel happy to be alive."

The time is here, two days to go. . .