A dream within a dream: Week 2

Rastafarians and their Rasta men ways in the midst of wave battles and slave castles has made this past weekend feel like a dream within a dream.

Classes had not started yet despite being at the University of Ghana for almost two weeks and some were getting anxious for adventure. Without much planning, several English men, a Bruin, and a Winnipegger decided to pack up. Using only the help of a Bradt Ghana Travel guide, which soon became the highest regarded figure in our company, we set off for the bustling fishing town of Cape Coast. Upon setting out on our adventure within an adventure, it was soon established that travelling anywhere in Ghana should not be underestimated. Just getting to the STC Bus Station was a journey in itself and took the better part of 3 hours using a taxi, two tro tros and a lot of walking and asking for directions. Once in the proper bus on route for Cape Coast, the traffic built up to the point where we were literally averaging a couple of feet every 15 minutes. Around 2 hours into the ride and having gone no more than a kilometre, I vowed to never stress about Winnipeg’s traffic again. In the end, what in theory could have been a 2 and a half hour bus ride ended up taking the better part of 8 hours. Having arrived, we stumbled out of the bus and seemingly into the middle of nowhere. All of us were dazed as the heat of the African sun warmed our faces, red dust lifted into the air, palm trees swayed in the light breeze, and anxious taxi drivers shouted “where you going?!” After some guidance from Bradt, Oasis Beach Resort was the next step.

I feel as though the term surreal gets thrown around a lot in situations of unsurrealness, but when used correctly and in proper context, it is a very powerful word. A word used to describe the feeling you get in a situation that does not seem like it could possibly be real. A word used to describe the feelings of a dream like state or having the sense that you’re watching a really cool movie where you are the main character. Stepping past the fence and through the old and creaky wooden door, a mellow three little birds by Bob Marley filled my ears, African beer posters lined the wooden balcony above us, a lone pool table lay awaiting some action to our right, a bar full of whichever drink we pleased sat to our left and the crashing Atlantic waves mesmerised our sights ahead which created one of those truly surreal moments. The spirit of our early youth overwhelmed us as we raced to our new hostel to change into our swim suits and then frantically ran towards the warm inviting waters of the Gulf of Guinea.

After some time of cycling between playing in the waves and sun bathing, I met some kids on the beach who came up to us and got a major kick out of playing with our hair and poking us. The phrases “Eti sen!” and “Wo fro wo sen!” were shouted over and over and the correct responses I gave were “I’m fine” and “me din de Matthew”. The sun was setting, the smell of ocean was in the air, salt lingered on my tongue, my hair was getting tugged on and braided, shouts of joy bounced around us and the high of life flooded through me like a drug. However, for every high in life, there is most certainly a low and soon after this moment a small girl who was selling oranges, which she balanced quite impressively on her head, walked towards me and proceeded to stare at me with her big brown eyes and point towards her oranges. Her name was Mary and she had a black shirt on with a condom company’s logo on the upper right hand side. A long skirt touched her ankles and flip flops protected her feet from the few sharp pieces of metal and wood that lay hidden in the sand. She continued by sharing that she needed to sell more oranges so her mother wouldn’t beat her and so that she could eat tonight. I don’t know if Mary was telling me the truth about her current situation or not, but I’m sure that this is the reality for many of the kids that I’ve been in contact with. Many of the kids here call the streets of the urban jungle their home and their persona reflects this environment. These children are tough and have a quality about them that is very unique and unlike I have ever witnessed. I got a bit of a laugh thinking of how any child in the West who complains about not getting enough toys for Christmas should swap places for a day with Mary or any other of the kids here. Moments like these have opened my eyes a bit wider and have helped to put some things in perspective for my life.

Another one of these moments was created at Cape Coast Castle which is reputed to have been one of the largest slave-holding sites in the world during the colonial era, where Ghanaians – many of whom were traded to the British by Ashantis in return for alcohol and guns – were stored before being cramped into returning merchant ships and deported to either Western Europe, the Caribbean or North Eastern regions of South America (Bradt Ghana edition 5, p. 168). The castle rests on the edge of town overlooking a rocky stretch of coast and is surrounded by active fishermen during most hours of the day. This white washed building is far more attractive than you feel a place with its history ought to be. But, once below, in the claustrophobic dungeons which saw tens of thousands of Ghanaians incarcerated during the peak of the transatlantic slave trade, it is a grim and sobering place indeed. During our tour and exploration through the castle I found one particular dungeon to be the most disturbing of all. The cell that I speak of was the room where inmates who had been aggressive and uncooperating were sent. It was a small dungeon, fitting no more than 20 people, and once the door was shut it became pitch black and very hard to breathe. While standing in the cell, we were told that the door would not have reopened until every inmate who was sent there died and this news sent an eerie shiver down my spine. Thinking of those who had been locked in this stuffy dark hole in the rock while having to watch their fellow inmates die in front of them and who would have eventually lost their own life, is a thought that I will never forget.

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Africa. It will break you down and build you back up again.

All the best to you, and thanks for reading.