bedheadchicken

Obruni Tales Part II-Obruni Travels



I was walking with my brother
And he wondered what's on my mind
I said "What I believe in my soul
Ain't what I see with my eyes
And we can't turn our backs this time
I am a patriot and I love my country
Because my country is all I know
I wanna be with my family
With people who understand me
Yeah I got nowhere else to go
I am a patriot"
And the river opens to the righteous
And the river opens to the righteous
And the river opens to the righteous
Someday..
-Little Steven


So like I said before: there we were-the six of us in that shitty Toyota where nothing worked. (I'm determined to start all my Africa stories in this shitty car, damnit!) We had left Kenyasi earlier that day and just said goodbye to the whole village. We went back to the capital where Foster (aw Foster) had arranged for us to rent a car so that we could explore Ghana a bit. This may have not been our best idea. First of all we didn't rent from Hertz or Avis or anything. Foster simply "knew a guy". The car was far more expensive than anything else we had paid for the trip and, like I said before, NOTHING worked on it. It drove, but just barely. On top of that we hadn't spoken to Foster in a few days and he didn't know about Ashley's malaria and he had put the car under her name on the "rental papers". So Ashley had to drive because there were frequent police checkpoints.

Foster met us at the marketplace in Accra. The market place is insane. It's like a huge version of an outdoor flea market held on the surface of the sun and run by crack addicts. It's an endless stretch of booths and stands selling jewelry, African masks and drums, paintings, clothes. You name it. Each booth is only a few feet wide and seems to be run by roughly 45 people. And they're ALL trying to get you to stop at their booth. So they're all yelling at you :"Obruni! Paintings! Look!" or "My friend! You like this! Come here!" And if you don't stop they'll follow you. The roofs of the overlapping booths keep the heat in and the swarm of people around you doesn't help any. I was dripping with sweat within 5 minutes.

The currency in Ghana is, predictably, not worth much. $100 US dollars got you about a MILLION Ghanaian Cedis. Yes, a million. So we were a bunch of white tourists carrying around stacks of money like a stripper on a good Saturday night. Never once, however, did we feel unsafe in any way. Ghana's like that.

That said, we knew we were being charged double for everything because we were white. We got really good at haggling down the prices after a bit, but at one point when I was yelling at someone that I refused to pay more for a mask I wanted when Christy just looked at me and said "These people have nothing and you're arguing over a dollar."

And she was right. And later someone begged John to buy a shirt because he needed money to get home that day. Yeah. Hello, perspective!

So after the market we all squeezed into that car and drove to Cape Coast, which is on the shoreline in the central region of Ghana. We got there just before dusk and I had literally never seen any place so beautiful. We drove right up to the shore where a blue sea touched pristine, untouched white beaches and palm trees. There was no development around to mar the view. No fat tourists. No umbrellas. No radios. No flip flops. Nothing. It was like we had paradise to ourselves. We rented a little bungalo house that was literally right on the beach and walked out to watch the sun go down and the ocean sky grow dark. Nobody said anything. Nothing. I think we were all thinking the same thing. After dark I sat next to Rachel in the sand and listened to the tide come in for a minute.

"It's weird, isn't it?" She asked.

"Yep. It doesn't seem real." I replied.

"It's like we didn't do enough to EARN this," She said. "Are we being rewarded for spending a few WEEKS in Kenyasi? Those people live there their whole lives and never get to come to a place like this. Ever. Dan will never get to see this. Kofi will never get to see this. And because I happened to be born in America I get to come here after spending a few weeks there. It's not right."

She was right. I couldn't have said it better. So I didn't. This is what I said: nothing.

I just sat in the sand.

I kept thinking about how proud all those people where of Ghana. How much they wanted us to love their country. But Rachel was right-none of them would ever get to come here. We had already seen more of their country than most of them did. But they loved Kenyasi. And to them Kenyasi was Ghana. Your home is your home.

And then I thought again about Newmont, and how there might not even be a Kenyasi in 10 years.


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The next day we went into the neighboring town of Elmina where we went to visit the slave castle. The slave castle is exactly what it sounds like- it's a castle that was once used to hold slaves until they could be shipped across the ocean to places like,,,umhere. It was run by the Portuguese, then the Dutch, then finally the British. We saw were the people were kept while waiting to be forced into boats-dank, airless dungeons that held 1000 men and 500 women at a time with almost no air and no place for excrement. The rooms still smelled of urine, all these years later. We saw the rooms that rebels and attempted runaways were put into-little black holes where they waited with no food or water until they died. We saw the courtyard where the women were paraded for the governor to decide who he wanted to rape that night. Or where the guards had their pick of the women. I don't know how I feel about ghosts, but those walls seemed to have voices screaming from them still. The dead are still hanging around there. Trust me.

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We spent our last night in Ghana in Accra at the same bar Rachel sang at almost a month before. The owners recognized her, of course, but it was a Monday night a and no karaoke, unfortunately. We got had a beer with Foster and promised to take him back to NY someday. If anyone deserves a vacation it's Foster. Trust me.

The next morning John and Rachel would go home and the rest of us would continue to Morocco.

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The Road to Morocco

Ok, so it wasn't a road. We flew. Of course. Let Bob Hope and Bing Fucking Crosby take the road.

We landed in Casablanca without a plan at all. Ashley spoke a little French, but the language there was a weird mixture of French and Arabic. And nobody seemed interested in our English. So we wandered around the airport for a bit trying to find out how we get to Marrakech, which was our only real destination. Luckily we found an American girl about my age who was living in Marrakech, and pointed us to the train we needed. She didn't do it HAPPILY, mind you, and she seemed to be sprinting away from us as she directed us, but we were directed nonetheless.

The train was about 3 hours long. With no AC. And after a month of smiling faces greeting us everywhere in Ghana it was a real change to have people glaring at us in Morocco. Not everyone, mind you. But enough to make us feel all sortsa homesick for Ghana.

We found a hotel in Marrakech right by the train station and attempted to take a taxi to the marketplace that makes up the center of the city. Marrakech was everything Ghana was not-modern, cosmopolitan, and downright rude. A few taxi drivers looked at us and yelled "No! No!" and refused to let us in their cabs.

Americans are popular!

We finally did get taxis and got to the market-the "souke" . It made the market in Accra look like a garage sale. It went on literally as far as the eye could see and was like a giant maze of spices, clothes, knives (lots of knives), rugs, baskets, ect. The place was teeming with people and they knew how to deal with tourists:

'"GIVE ME MONEY!"

That's all we heard. People would walk up to us with their hand out at every corner. A ton of them had an act-monkey trainers, snake charmers, jugglers. We saw it all. We actually sat next to a guy who had live cobras in his basket who put snakes around my neck and Christy's neck-then demanded $45. For about 30 seconds of entertainment. A guy did a cartwheel in front of us and told us we had to give him $10. Women just came up to us, poked us, and put out their hands. "Money". And if you took a picture of ANYTHING everyone around you demanded money.

Our answer to all of them was the same. "No."

Sorry.

Just when I had about enough, however, we came upon a little spice stand run by a guy named Abdul (no kidding). He showed us every spice he had and demonstrated all sorts of uses for them. He offered me "natural Viagra" and gave all the girls gifts. We naturally bought a few things from him, but when we were done he asked us if we wanted a tour. We said sure and he took us to the roof of his building, behind his stand. The view was incredible-Marrakech in the setting sun-all those rounded, pointed roofs, that Arab architecture. I felt like I was in "Raiders of the Lost Arc" or "Lawrence of Arabia". It was incredible.

After that he took us to see an older man who made rugs. He told us what each rug signified. How men would give a woman a rug that meant he wanted to marry her, or that he was jealous of another man, or that he was in love with her. The variety was incredible.

By that time it was dark and the market was being set up for food. Hundreds of stands were set up, lit by strings of overhead white lights that made it look like the market was glowing. Shish-ka-bobs, vegetables, fruits, breads-all being prepared in front of your eyes. All the stands were pretty much the same and the competition between them was ruthless. They were even more aggressive than those trying to sell us their trinkets.

"Come eat! My friend! This is best!"

"English! Come here!" (we got called "English a lot there)

The proprietors of one stand jumped out and saw Christy's camera and offered to pose with us. Christy and Danielle happily obliged as Ashley and I looked on. As we were standing there we were accosted by workers from yet another stand. We were approached by a tall, skinny guy:

Skinny guy: "You eat here! You like"

Me: "I think we're going to eat at number 12 here." (referencing the stand that was currently posing with Christy and Danielle"

Skinny guy: "Fucking Twelve? Are you kidding? You're so easy! All they did was take a picture and you go to them. Easy! Sucker!"

That killed me. We ate at his stand.

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The next day we went to the market again for more of the same, and then took a train to Casablanca. We found another hotel and decided that we were gonna eat that night at Rick's Caf-the caf from the film "Casablanca".

Ok, so it wasn't the ACTUAL caf. It was a recreation. And a tourist trap. But we wanted to go anyway. We showered, changed, and met outside the hotel. A car pulls up.

"You looking for taxi?"

The car wasn't marked as a taxi. The ONE thing I knew about Morocco was to not get in unmarked taxis.

"No thank you."

But he wasn't buying it.

"Get in"

"No, thanks again."

Another car pulls up behind it and three guys get out.

"Get in the taxi" one said. "We take you."

Now this was getting weird.

"You're ALL gonna take me? I don't think so. Thank you but no thank you."

Christy and Danielle crossed the street and flagged down an ACTUAL taxi for us. Ashley followed and I started to, but my path was blocked by one guy and the taxi driver grabbed my arm.

"Get in. We take you!"

I exploded. I hated the way we were glared at everywhere we went and it had been building up for two days. And the second this shady guy touched me I went crazy.

"GET YOUR HANDS OFF OF ME! GET AWAY FROM ME!"

I pushed by the other guy and stormed across the street, as a car screeched around me, to the girls waiting with the actual taxi. We took off.

But Danielle turned around.

"They're following us."

"What?"

"They're following us."

And they were. Both cars. Then, just like in the movies, we turned to the driver and said "Can you lose those cars behind us?"

And he did. He drove through a few little streets, made a few turns, and they were gone.

And Rick's was worth it. It was a beautiful restaurant (with a piano player playing "As Time Goes By" and other songs of the era, of course) and the architecture and atmosphere was spot on. I had a steak and wine (rare in Morocco, by the way, where alcohol is rarely sold) and was 100% satisfied with a meal for the first time in a month.

When we got back to the hotel Danielle snapped a few pictures of the hotel lobby and lounge to remember it by-and was immediately accosted by a REALLY angry man demanding her camera. "WHY!? WHY!? NO PICTURE! GIVE ME CAMERA!"

I had to race over. Danielle showed him he wasn't even IN the pictures she took. The hotel staff raced over to get between us and the guy. Danielle erased the pictures she had just taken and showed him that they had been deleted. He shook his head and stormed off.

Ashley summed it up: "Let's get out of Morocco."

So we did.

Well, it was our last night there anyway. But still