A Culinary Adventure

Americans are known for eating too much. The USA is the birthplace of McDonalds, the world’s most mysterious cheeseburger. Our plates have expanded to twice the size they should be as our obesity rate flies off the charts. So I was quite surprised when I came to Ghana and found that I, of strong American stomach, was no match for the culinary culture of the country.

Maybe it is the spice—Ghanaian dishes give new meaning to the word. Perhaps it is the fact that, as a vegetarian, I am not used to eating meat- or fish-based foods every day. But what most likely causes this reaction of foreigners to Ghanaian food is the very composition of the cuisine here.

Fufu, banku, and kenkey are all variations of the same popular dish:  starches such as potatoes, cassava, plantains, and maize are ground into a fine powder, which is then fermented and made into a thick, dough-like ball. It is served with a variety of soups: fisherman’s stew, palmnut soup, groundnut soup, and okra soup being the most popular. These are all prepared with heavy doses of oils and fats, which drift to the surface of the bowl in little bubbles. All in all, it is quite a digestive adventure for a foreigner.

Fufu in Light Soup

Ghanaians love these dishes. Eating them from an early age, they crave the decidedly full feeling that one gets after consuming a bowl. Unfortunately it is quite hard to develop a taste for this, a juxtaposition to the unsatisfied feeling that Ghanaians get after eating a plate of American or European food. Two hours later you are hungry, they say.

Jollof rice, redred, and waakye are more foreigner-friendly dishes. Made with local peppers, tomatoes, and palmnut oil, heaping plates of the deliciously steaming foods are served to Ghanaians and Obrunis alike. Like American Thanksgiving dishes, each family makes these foods differently, and it is a point of pride to our Ghanaian RA that her mother makes the best jollof in Kumasi.

In a Ghanaian home or restaurant, it is constantly embarrassing to leave food on the plate. I am reminded of fast-food Italian restaurants in America—after overfilling your belly it looks as though you haven’t made a dent!

The waiter comes to collect the still-full bowl and says nothing, but dons a disappointed expression that speaks volumes. I try to compliment the food but am too stuffed to speak. At the table next to me, two Ghanaian women are slurping fufu soaked with soup out of their fingers, effortlessly eating the whole bowl. What an Obruni I am! 

God and Obama

In the past six weeks here in Ghana, I have learned much about the culture and people of Accra. There appears to be a slight divide in the population: one group, traditional. Usually more rural and older, simply because, they tell me, traditions have died out with the onslaught of Western influence in the city. This group wears traditional prints, cooks fufu and groundnut soup (YUM), and speaks local languages. The second is younger, and city-bound either by address or occupation. This group dresses in Western clothing, listens to Western music, and speaks mostly English. There are many cultural differences and arguments between the two, but one thing they make quite clear: they both love God and Obama.

God and Obama have given Africans love, hope, and most importantly, salvation. For God and Obama, they unite. Ghana celebrates the two with deep passion and fervor, and its citizens are undivided in their belief.

What is your name? Are you a Christian? This is how some Ghanaians greet me. I had always considered Americans fairly fanatically religious until now. While Americans are devoted to God, they mostly keep it private. Certainly, we don’t bring it up with the eagerness of asking a child’s age. Ghanaians flaunt religion as we flaunt Coca-Cola advertisements. No, seriously. Religion is plastered to billboards, shops, and fliers. Every taxi in Accra is adorned with a picture of Jesus, a Rosary, or a bumper sticker shouting, “God is Great!” Oftentimes, all three.

Obama is an equally popular public figure. His smiling face and his name are seen as often as the cross. Ghanaians shout it as we pass them on the street: “Aay, Obama!,” grinning and waving. “Obama came here. He stayed in that hotel,” my cab driver declares proudly as we speed by the Holiday Inn. An old man greets me and asks where I am from. “America. Obama,” he says, awestruck, when I respond.

Ghanaians love Obama. He empowered Africa and its diaspora; as part of it, he became the President of the United States of America. African children now have a black figure to respect, admire, and emulate; one that is more popular and powerful than any rapper or movie character. “Obama is your father,” a Togolese border patrol officer says as he stamps my passport.

“God is your father,” a young Ghanaian man tells me. “You have an earthly father, and a mother. But they are not your real parents. Your real parents are in heaven. Your father and mother on earth are just for now. In heaven, God is the father to all of us.”

“Oh, wow,” I say.

He leans in and stares intently into my eyes. “Do you understand what I am saying?”

“Yes,” I nod my head, “I understand.”

“So who is your father?”

I hesitate. He smiles. “God,” I say. He nods.

Earlier that day, I had been talking to a friend of his who had greeted me in the manner that I described above: “What is your name? Are you a Christian?”

This was the first time I had been directly asked the question. I usually skirted around the issue, not wanting to lie. I was counseled to claim a religion, no matter which; Ghanaians wouldn’t understand the concept of atheism, a Ghanaian NYU staff member told me. I was raised a Christian—but could I convince someone so devout? What if she asked me to recite a Bible passage?

“I’m Jewish.” She wouldn’t know the Torah.

She leans back, a quizzical expression on her face. “You are Jewish?” I nod. “Oh.” There is an awkward silence and I wonder if it would have offended her less had I claimed to belong to her own religion.

“So… what do you do in, um, Judaism?” she asks. I inform her that Judaism follows the Old Testament of the Bible and that it has lots of traditions and holidays.

“Do you believe in God?”

“Yes,” I say.

She nods in approval and smiles. I have won back her affection. She sits up and says, “Do you support Obama?”

What?

“What?”

“Ziggy-Ziggy. Do you like it?” The stout Ghanaian man grabbed my arm and led me along.

“What’s that?” I tried not to trip in the uneven dirt road.

“Ziggy-Ziggy.” The man made a thrusting gesture with his fist.

“Fighting?” I could not imagine what he meant.

“You are a grown woman, you do not know what ziggy-ziggy is?”

“I don’t think that’s a word, sir.”

“With the girls. You give them ziggy-ziggy.” Oh! Ziggy-Ziggy is sex. This old man was hitting on me. Damn it.

“Okay, bye!” I pulled myself away from his grasp and walked towards my friends, who were at the nearby stand where the elderly pervert was leading me.

Sadly, this is a common occurrence here in Accra. I have a desire to think the best in people and to get to know the locals. This causes problems because it is hard to tell when you shouldn’t. Quite often, men whom I talk to for a few minutes do not let me leave the conversation, asking for my phone number or address, complimenting me on my unseen beauty (which he again sees in my friend ten minutes later), proposing marriage to me, or begging me to take him back to America with me. Being a friendly and generally nice person, it results in constant guilt and awkwardness. Further, it means that I have an aversion to indulge any man in a conversation or a dance, for fear of being accosted later.

A Ghanaian man demonstrating how to pound fufu,
a local dish made from cassava and yam. 

Last weekend, when my host brother picked me up at the AFS Home-stay office, I had the expectation that we would be spending the weekend pounding fufu, going to Ghanaian events, and doing typical chores around the house. He had other plans: a weekend-long date with his token Obruni woman. How do you politely communicate to your host that you are not actually interested in watching movies with him in his bed? I’ll tell you this from experience: it’s a lot harder to do in Twi.

Our local fruit stand, where you can buy divine mangoes
and pineapples for one cedi. The owner, Mary, speaks
perfect English and teaches Twi to the NYU students.

The vast majority of the people I have met here in Accra speak English. Except for a few instances, communication has been doable. Challenging, and oftentimes leaving me feeling uncertain about the actual subject of a conversation I have just had, but leaving me generally able to perform the necessary daily activities.

A local grocery stand in Elmina, where
communicating is always an adventure.

“What is this dish?” I pointed out one of the few items in the vegetarian section of the menu.

“Is vegetable with sauce.”

“And this one?”

“Is vegetable with sauce.” The waiter repeated his answer.

“So… what’s the difference between these two?”

He pointed to the first one. “This sauce,” he moved his hand down the menu to the next item I had inquired about, “this balls.”

“Balls?”

“The vegetable balls.”

“What are they?” I asked, curious about what they were made with.

“Is a ball with vegetable.” He mimed holding a ball with his hands.

 “Is it fresh vegetables shaped into a ball? Or is it a ball made from vegetables?”

“Yes.” The waiter nodded vigorously.

“Which?”

“What?”

“I’ll just have that.” I smiled.

Ahh, the language barrier. It always makes for an unexpected experience.

"NEVER AGAIN"

Last weekend, NYU took our class to Cape Coast and Elmina for our first excursion. We had been warned countless times about the emotions that would arise during the main event of the trip: the visit to the Elmina slave castle. This is the largest castle in Western Africa. It was the first trading post in the region and is the oldest European building below the Sahara. It stands like a giant, casting a shadow on the huts and slums below its stone walls. It is quite an impressive building, to be sure; at least, it made a deep impression on me.

The neighborhood in Elmina; on the hill, the slave castle.

Elmina Castle

We walked into the center courtyard after four restless hours on the bus. Our guide was introduced to us; he has been giving these tours to NYU since the birth of the program in Accra. We were led up a flight of steep stone steps and under a doorway, a sign over which read, “FEMALE SLAVE DUNGEON.” The giddiness I had felt on the bus with my friends vanished. I felt nothing.

Through the door was another smaller courtyard. On all sides, dungeons. Our guide explained to us what had happened in this place 400 years ago. Women were taken from their homes, their families seized and separated from each other. They were taken here and thrown behind bars. In that courtyard was the largest dungeon in the castle; not twice as large as my bedroom, upwards of 100 slaves were kept there. Here, where we were standing. They were pressed against these walls, laid on this floor.

Given just enough water and food to survive, their strength was subdued. They were not allowed access to toilets or baths. That day, the room smelled. I wrinkled my nose upon entering the chamber, but I had no comprehension of its true stench. Its occupants had sat, crammed together like sardines in a can, in their own feces and vomit, in their own menses. Dehumanized.

Until the governor of the castle desired a woman. A few were led out into the center of the courtyard where I stood. I looked up; the governor would look down and choose his favorite. She was forcibly washed in the courtyard, her humiliation on display for all to see. Soldiers gave her food, enough to make her strong for what she was about to endure. Then she was led through a corridor. I walked her route. Up a winding flight of stairs, into the bedroom of the monster who subjected her sisters to such a fate.

Downstairs to the “MALE SLAVE DUNGEON.” Inside the door is the largest cell for male slaves in the castle. On the other side of the room is the beginning of the slaves’ passage to the sea. From this room, none returned. Males and females met for the first time since arriving to the castle, stepping together into the dark abyss.

Through the cramped passageway, squeezing into small doorways. The design was purposeful, the guide noted. You can’t flee through a door that small.

"The Door of No Return"

The end. The infamous “Door of No Return.” This was the last chamber. The last thing they would feel in Africa: chained. The room smelled musty; the walls were cold and hard. From here, slaves were packed onto ships. They were sold as property. They would never see their homeland again. As each of us stepped in the doorway, the room darkened. Another gone.

Back in the main courtyard. On the opposite side, two dungeons. We stepped into one. There was a window, and bars as the door. This was used for soldiers who had been too inebriated to be allowed to run free. We walked into the second dungeon, its door next to the first. This one was different; the skull and crossbones over the doorway clearly marked it as such. The guide shut the door; it closed with a ringing thud. This door had no bars. This room had no windows. This was where rebels were put. Locked in this lone cell until they died. For days or weeks, their bodies would rot. Another occupant would come, sitting with his brother's corpse until his own inevitable death. On this floor, he starved. Onto this wall, he clutched. In this prison, he screamed. I shook.

Outside, our guide spoke solemnly. This castle stands as an answer to some, whose questions on heritage brought them to this courtyard. It stands as a tribute to those who endured all of the horrors that its walls offered. And it stands as a promise for the future: “NEVER AGAIN.”

Never Again.

A Mad Dash

When thinking about transportation in Ghana, my visit to the Shai Hills Nature Reserve comes to mind as a quintessential tale in this countrywide game of chicken. We walked out to the main road in North Labone and were immediately accosted by taxi drivers wanting to know if we needed a ride. We told two drivers our destination, referencing the map in our guidebook. They wanted 30 cedis each; after a few minutes of bargaining we agreed on 20.

We were seated four each in two cabs. My driver seemed to know where he was going and led the other taxi. An hour later, we were sitting in bumper-to-bumper traffic, the driver grumbling about the time he was wasting. He turned to me in the seat next to him and told me it was a longer drive than he had thought. Uh-oh, I thought. Here it comes.

“You give me dash,” he told me.

“What?”

“You give me dash.”

“Um, we agreed on twenty cedis,” I hesitantly resisted.

“Yes, twenty cedi! But you give me a dash. It is a long way. You give me dash.” He gestured wildly with his hands, emphasizing the great distance he would venture for us.

“You knew how long it was,” I reminded him. “Twenty cedis is a fair price.”

He grumbled and continued driving. When we got out of Accra, it became clear that our driver had no idea where he was going. The other cab had left, gone a more direct route to the reserve. We were stuck on a dirt road, our cab driver stopping every few minutes to ask locals directions.

Hours later, when we arrived at our destination, I handed the driver twenty cedis and he yelled at me, a disgusted look on his face, “Not enough! Not enough! You give me dash!” One of my friends threw him another ten cedis and he drove away, begrudgingly placated.

A taxi in central Accra

That evening, we were exhausted, dehydrated, sweaty, and dirty from our day of hiking in the hot African sun. Sipping water and sodas, we stood by the road and looked for a taxi; there were none to be found. Eager to get home, we allowed ourselves to be ushered into a trotro—a bus or van crammed with Ghanaians, traveling into the center of Accra. We sat on each other’s laps and doubled up in seats.

They charged us 2 cedi, 50 pesuas per person for the hour-long ride. We thought that it should have been only 2 cedi, but our group had overloaded the trotro so we were okay with giving a little extra. The van bounded forward, breaking 100 mph on the highway, weaving in and out of taxis and buses. At a police checkpoint, a few people got out so there was the proper amount of passengers in the car; the trotro stopped a few yards past the station and they got back on board.

A trotro that is overfilling with passengers

Having successfully evaded the police, the trotro manager asked us where we were going. We told him our neighborhood, and he offered to take us to our door for 10 extra cedis. No thank you, we told him. From the center of Accra to our home is only a 3 cedi cab ride.

Nevertheless, we were let out in our neighborhood, North Labone. Appreciative that we would be able to walk home, yet skeptical as to why we were dropped off there, my group climbed out of the van. The manager followed us out: “10 cedis,” he demanded.

“We told you we didn’t want to pay extra,” we reminded him. “We said any stop was fine.”

He laughed. “Okay, 8 cedi. One for each of you. This not a stop. We stop here for you. You pay us 8 cedis.”

“We already overpayed you. We each paid 2.50 cedi when it should have been 2.” We were not going to be fooled.

“2.50 cedi for the ride. 1 more cedi because we stop for you,” he insisted.

“The other passengers paid 2 cedi. We already paid you enough. We told you we weren’t paying extra.”

“This not a stop, we stop here for you!”

We continued arguing with him for a while, until—“here.” The same friend who had paid extra to the cab driver that morning, was now appeasing another man with money. “It’s not that much. Just give it to him.”

This is the tourist mentality that drives Ghanaians to rip off Obrunis like us. As a result of actions such as these, cabs harass us on the street, drivers are convinced they can guilt us into paying extra, and people blatantly lie to us about the price of things. This is the very nature of the Ghanaian transportation system: know exactly what you’re getting into, because if you don’t, they’ll eat you alive.

A Post in Protest

Yesterday morning I arrived at work at the Human Rights Advocacy Center, expecting to spend the day researching cases and meeting with clients. However, upon my arrival, I was handed a neon-orange shirt sporting the slogan, “Pass the Right to Information Bill Now” and informed that the office was to attend a demonstration at the Ghanaian Parliament.

The Right to Information Bill was proposed in Parliament one year ago, yet remains a bill instead of a law. It mandates that government records be open to their citizens (who elected the government, after all). This bill would make great strides in eliminating much of the corruption that is currently rampant in Ghana, as in many African countries. I was very proud to be part of a crowd demonstrating in favor of such a critical issue, while pointing out the corruption that has led to the inactivity of this bill.

We took a trotro to a park near our destination and joined the growing numbers of orange-shirt-wearers. I picked up a sign that said “No FTI = More Corruption!” and marched down the street to Parliament. When we got outside of the Parliament building, however, the armed guards would not let us in. While some members of the group reasoned with the police, the rest of us stood on the sidewalk outside for around an hour, watching cars, trotros, and large groups of people on foot being admitted onto the grounds. Finally, the executive director of the HRAC, Nana, arrived. Nana is a powerful woman and a well-known activist. Her very presence leaves me with a feeling of empowerment and determination.

So when Nana drove up, we knew that things would get going. She wondered what was wrong—why were we not in the grounds? When someone informed her of the situation, she shook her head and beckoned for us to follow her. Nana confidently strolled over to the gate, and she too was blocked by the police.

Upon Nana’s instruction, we formed a line in front of the line of the police officers. Our demonstrators stood strong and silent, nose-to-nose with the AK-47-toting Ghanaian police. We held our picket signs and looked at the guards. Suddenly, with no warning and all at once, the police forcibly pushed the crowd back, sending demonstrators flying, falling over each other and yelling. I was shoved backwards until I tripped over a wheelchair whose passenger had been thrown from it. Wooden signs were flung everywhere as bodies were thrown onto the ground.

When the chaos subsided, I was able to pick myself up and saw that the guards had shut the iron gates, locking us out of the compound. They maintained a line behind the door, laughing at us and miming shooting at us with their AK-47s. The demonstrators held our signs against the gate and chanted in protest. Media vans started arriving, snapping pictures and video and interviewing Nana and the demonstrators.

A couple of hours later, reinforcements came in the form of energetic Ghanaian men with drums. They stepped out of their trotro and the music grew. They began singing along to their rhythms and the crowd joined in, dancing and chanting for the guards to see. I found myself remembering the American hippies who gave flowers to policemen, yet were still beaten down and remained unheard.

We remained outside for another few hours before finally dispersing. As horrifying as the events of the day were, even more disturbing is the fact that this event will go unpunished and unrecognized by the majority of the world. We will go back again next week, and the week after, and for weeks after that one, if that is what it takes for justice to be achieved.

Harmattan

It has been almost one month since I arrived here in Accra, Ghana. Today, however, I found myself reflecting on my days of travel. I left the Newark airport on a freezing Sunday afternoon. As I said goodbye to my parents, I handed them my winter coat, knowing I wouldn’t need it for the next five months.

Sure enough, after being indoors for the next twenty-four hours, I stepped out of the plane onto African soil and felt as though I had stumbled into a furnace. I found out later that week that this was the cold season, or “harmattan.” From January until about April, the dry season in the north of Africa causes dust from the Sahara to blow south and cover the continent in a cloud of dust. The sky is a haze of brown and the sun peeks through only due to its sheer brightness. Fluffy white clouds, blue sky, and stars all vanish during this season, and any moisture in the air is sucked up by the dehydrated earth.

As I was escorted home by our Ghanaian RA, I was struck by the traffic pattern on the streets. I suddenly understood what my travel guide meant when it said that Ghanaian driving could be roughly equated to a country-wide game of chicken. Taxis were zooming in and out of the unmarked lanes, very much uninhibited by the lack of road signs. Buses crammed with locals flew past our car; I later found out that they were “tro-tros,” the primary method of cheap transportation utilized by Ghanaians. I saw women carrying large baskets of goods on their heads, which fascinated me at first but I have now come to see as part of the beauty that is Africa.

The next day, I was introduced to “Auntie Marian,” the academic director of the NYU in Accra campus. It is customary in Ghana to address your elders or superiors as “auntie” or “uncle,” while classmates and friends are your “sisters” and “brothers.” While I was hesitant to use these titles at first, feeling unnatural calling people who I had just met my uncles and aunts, I have in fact come to love the unity that this custom promotes. In a weird way, this is a microcosm of my experience in Ghana thus far: although the traditions and ways of life here are entirely foreign to me, they are all part of what makes this place beautiful; a center of love and togetherness, full of the most generous and caring people I have ever met.

I took the following photos at the Shai Hills Reserve. I went hiking with a few friends in the midday African sun. We were not expecting to be hiking this day, only to visit the baboons that the reserve is famous for.

Regardless of the fact that some of us (including me) were wearing sandals and had not brought more than a splash of water, we decided to hike the most challenging trail, to the tallest mountain in the reserve. After a few miles we were all dehydrated; by the time we got to the end I felt like I was going to die.

Our tour guide brought us to the staff housing and gave us Fantas and Sprites to ease our pain. The women were entirely welcoming of a group of “obrunis” traipsing into their home, and their children delighted in having their pictures taken.

Reflections and Postulations on the Human Rights Advocacy Center

Written January 31, 2011

I have been working at the Human Rights Advocacy Center for about a week now, yet I feel as though I have just arrived. There are a few other NYU students working at the center with me, and we have been swept up in a whirlwind of cases and policies and clients and laws.

Now, please keep this in mind: I am a second-year undergraduate student. The closest I have come to having a legal background is appealing a traffic ticket last year in court. So to come into a city as foreign to me as Accra, with a legal system so different from that of America, and to be asked to research and take charge of cases is to approach a very daunting task. Many clients here at the center do not know English, but rather speak Twi or Ga. Their conflicts involve concepts as foreign to me as tribal rituals, intricate relationships between police and locals, and a legal system in which no citizens place their trust.

I have been assigned a few cases, whose details I am permitted from divulging. I want to give you a general idea of the work that I am doing, however. One case involves a clan in Ghana who is having a chieftaincy dispute which has resulted in police harassment of one family of the tribe. My second case is a prisoner who has been detained in jail without a trial for many years. This is a very common occurrence in Ghana and the HRAC has absorbed many of these cases in the interest of stopping these illegal oversights.

In addition, I am tasked with researching an organization which the Ghanaian constitution mandates will educate citizens on their rights, but which has been inactive for several years. The HRAC wishes to get the organization up and running in order to achieve freedom of information in Ghana. Finally, the other interns and I have each been asked to write articles for the first HRAC newsletter on various human rights issues in Ghana. I will be researching the situation of widows in Ghana, since they are often forced into inhumane and degrading practices. For example, in the North of Ghana, a widow is often made to sit naked on a reed mat for days or weeks after the death of her husband, and is subjected to sexual violence and rape by a man who will then claim the woman as his new wife.

As overwhelming as these cases seem, I am eager to dive in and make a difference in someone’s life. There is much for me to learn here, both about Ghanaian law and from Ghanaians. About five times a day, however, I have to stop myself from calling my third-year-law-student sister and appealing to her for advice!

Hello Accra!

Written January 27, 2011

Hello Accra!

I am Anna Shaw, a sophomore at NYU and a student at NYU in Accra for the Spring 2011 semester. I am in Gallatin studying Environmental and Social Ethics and Policy, and hope to pursue a minor in Social Work and a partnership in Environmental Studies. I grew up in Lebanon, New Jersey and have been living in New York City for the past two years.

Since I came to NYU, I have known that I wanted to study abroad in Accra. I feel so fortunate to attend a university with such an amazing campus abroad. Ghana presents me with wonderful opportunities to learn about African culture and society, as well as to gain a further understanding of my chosen fields of study. The environmental issues of the country are very different from those in America, yet are influenced by the environmental catastrophes that we have created. In addition, the volunteer work that I will have the opportunity to complete here will aid me in understanding systems of social policy and human rights in Africa. Hopefully, with these new perspectives, I will be able to return to the United States and influence public policy in a way that favors not only Africa, but also developing nations with similar challenges.

Our orientation week was intense—43 “Obrunis” (foreigners) walking in a large group around this city, attracting all sorts of stares and solicitations. We were taken to the Nkrumah Memorial, the final resting place of Ghana’s first president. He is described as a great African, but a questionable Ghanaian—many Ghanaians don’t like his memory very much. Regardless, his regime was overthrown when the American CIA aided in a coup; America disliked Nkrumah’s ideas about African independence from foreign mining and exploitation of resources on the continent. Nkrumah saw Accra as the capitol city of the future United States of Africa. The man was certainly an innovative thinker; unfortunately, he died relatively young, being afflicted by prostate cancer.

This photo was taken at the memorial. This statue is a recreation of the original (below), which was destroyed during the coup d'etat in 1966. As recently as this year, the head of the statue was returned to the memorial, and will be mounted beside its original home.

I arrived in Accra over two weeks ago, and have since fallen in love with the rich culture and beautiful scenery of Ghana. What excites me more is that I have four more months, and a plethora of new experiences to have! I am still not fully used to the idea that I am in Africa; even less to the fact that I will be here for four more months. It seems unreal; a concept totally foreign to me—but then, isn’t that what study abroad is all about?