My Visit to Sefwi Wiawso: Part Two!

Sorry for the delay folks - internet's down at work for the past week and a half and gathering the Sefwi Wiawso history caused some delay.

Enjoy!

Gabrielle

The Early Bird Gets the Worm... while cawing at ear-piercing volume

It is difficult to identify the precise sound that woke me up the following morning. It could have been the roosters’ crows. And I stress roosterS as there were several of these menacing creatures competing for the championship title of loudest and longest (and indeed most obnoxious) cockledoodledoo - a game that lasted several hours despite the widely held belief that roosters only crow at the break of dawn. I have no doubt that this yelling match is a cruel and revengeful prank chickens play on their human masters. I believe it to be carefully plotted each and every night.

But it couldn’t have been the roosters as I have grown accustomed to their screeches living in Accra. Yes, chickens serve as Mother Nature’s very own alarm clock even in a busy city like Accra. There’s no snooze button but a heavy rock traveling at high speed usually does the trick. So says the vegetarian...

Back to what woke me up that morning... It could have been the crunching of dried grass gradually increasing in volume as it approached my window.

“If those kids are peering into my window at 5 in the morning, I swear I’m going to-” I peered out the window. Indeed there were kids... but not the human kind. They were literally kids - baby goats. (see what I did there?? Bah dum dum ching!)

Once I heard the sound of a sweep brushing the concrete followed by the creaking of opening doors, the acoustics of teeth brushing and the slapping of flip flops against heels, I knew I had no chance of falling back asleep. It was 5:30am and clearly it was time to start the day.

I walked outside, brushed my teeth and made a trip to the dreaded outhouse where, try as I might, I was never successful at ignoring the orchestra of buzzing flies swarming my body. Yes, I know I’m a bit of a princess.

The Outhouse: door on the left is room with linoleum floor for bucket showering, door on the right, toilet

I asked Rahel, the 9 year old twinkly-eyed girl who greeted me the night before, if I could boil some water on the fire. At this point, I hadn’t yet learned that the family will do everything in their power to prevent you from lifting a finger. This is something I deeply appreciated but deeply dreaded at the same time. I don’t deal with guest treatment very well. I prefer to be involved in the prepping and the doing and the cleaning and the cooking because it lets me feel at par with the people with whom I’m staying. I’m uncomfortable in the role of “visitor” (if you haven’t already guessed from my 900 references to being a nervous wreck everywhere I go). Were I a more aggressive person, I would force myself onto people I meet much quicker in an effort to catalyze my progression from “guest” to “friend” or, at the very least, to “equal.” But alas, like a true Canadian, I hold my reservations at being too forward or pushy. Gd forbid I come off as AMERICAN! Every Canadian’s worst nightmare! Instead, I voice the odd protest in a series of lackluster inarticulates: “but I... Oh no... Well, I... uh, ok.” 

Rahel informed me that “the lady” will be bringing me hot water with my breakfast so I should wait for her. And as if hearing her cue from the wings of a stage, Mata (the woman who provided me with dinner the night before) entered with a basket of goods. Included amongst these goods was (cue the Hayden-esque choir voices) a thermos of hot water!

I was smart enough this time around to bring my own coffee from home. I have learned not to take chances with the items you depend on the most for comfort.

Mata removed the cover of the breakfast plate and there sat a pile of fried-egg sandwiches. Not one or two... or even three. A PILE. Any loyal follower of the Atkins diet would faint at the mere sight of such a mountain of carbs! Or, they would faint from the high cholesterol levels and urinary keytosis that result from choosing to eat a buttered steak in lieu of an apple as an afternoon snack. But I digress...

I consider myself the type of person who will happily force down an extra helping or two in order to please a generous host. Some call it martyrdom but I’m not one for self-aggrandizing labels. The term “hero” would work just fine. But a pile of fried-egg sandwiches, delicious as they are, was a bit excessive. I had two and probably forced down a third before quickly passing the plate around to the kids and other members of the compound.

“You’re invited!” I yelped in a rush. I didn’t want Mata to see that I wasn’t finishing my food. Side note: “You’re invited” is an expression that Ghanaians say when they are offering you the food they’re eating. It’s like back home when we notice someone staring at us eating a delicious meal and we self-consciously snap out of our culinary utopia and with a mouth full of food ask “would you like some?” And just like us North Americans, Ghanaians say this even when they don’t mean it - leaving you wonder, “am I really invited?” End of side note.

Speaking of people around the compound, I think I’ll use this opportunity to to introduce the key players in my experience with the Sefwi Wiawso community.

A Who’s Who Guide to The Sefwi Wiawso Jewish Community as Reported by Someone With a Horrible Memory (someone with a horrible memory but I don’t remember who...)

The compound

In the compound (Joseph Armah’s compound, that is) we have:

Joseph - the father

Gladys - the mother

Anthony - eldest or second-eldest son (around 21)

Patrick - eldest or second-eldest son (around 20)

Grace - Either Joseph’s daughter or niece (about 18 or 19 years old)

Joshua - Joseph’s son (around 12)

Bright - Joseph’s son (around 10 or 11)

Rahel - daughter, the youngest of the siblings (9 years old - she told me her exact age)

Frank - technically a nephew to Joseph I believe, but he was pretty much treated as one of the children. (around 7 years old) 

Mata - Not sure how she's related to Joseph but she lives on the adjacent compound. Her husband, Joseph Nipah, is the community's kosher butcher. He is in charge of slaughtering the animals for the Passover seders.

David - Mata’s son (around 11 or 12) and Joseph’s nephew. Lives with Mata on the adjacent compound.

Joseph’s brother - I’m an idiot and forget his name. Let’s call him George for now. Lives on the compound.

A mother and her teenage daughter - Again, I’m an idiot and forget their names. They live on the compound as well. I’m not entirely sure of their relationship to Joseph.

Seven goats - kinship unknown

Eight chickens - kinship unknown but their crowing suggest that they belong to the “Annoyingberg” family. Or the “annoyingBIRD” family for that matter! Ha!

One cat - cute as a button but the unfortunate home to a family of fleas, mites and other disreputable allergens.

And a partridge in a pear tree!

Jokes aside, I actually have no idea how many goats, sheep or chickens belong to the Armahs but at any given time of the day they could be found roaming the compound getting into trouble. Not like felony trouble. I mean, they didn’t break into our rooms and pull a knife on us or anything. Nor did they try their hand at any white collar crimes like coordinating a Ponzi scheme with my life savings. No, no. They drew the line at petty crimes - loitering in the kitchen, trespassing into food baskets, snatching a piece of fish or plantain out of our hands, indecent exposure. Harmless creatures really.

The Kitchen

In addition to the folks above, a few other lovely community members deserve honourable mention:

Samuel - Joseph’s elder brother. A tall and skinny man in his 70s, Samuel constantly wears a wide smile on an otherwise narrow face. He looked to me like an African Laurel from Laurel and Hardy. And he was equally as entertaining and comical.

Kofi - A friendly and personable character who leads services at synagogue. I met him at his shop on one of the main roads in town.

Akiva - Another key person in the community who assisted in services at synagogue and

There are, of course, others who make up this Jewish community, some of whom I met only in passing at Synagogue. I am also still finding out to this day about new members who are porminent leaders in the community - so this is by no means a complete list. 

When it comes to the community as a whole, however, I can't imagine the community itself being too large. Judging by the size of the congregation in attendance during the Rosh Hashannah services, a figure I estimate to be around 30, I have a funny feeling that after several visits to Sefwi Wiawso I may be able to state with confidence that I have met every Jew in Ghana. Quite the feat!

A Trip to Town

Joseph and Patrick run a passport photo business in town. I was invited to join Patrick on his day at work which I found to be a great opportunity to get out and see this quaint place in daylight. Patrick notified me that before leaving for town, he had to take George’s passport photo as he had promised the day before (good ol’ nepotism). I went into the room to gather my bag and when I returned I fell witness to the cutest sight!

You know the old rhetorical question “how many [insert demographic group here] does it take to screw in a lightbulb”? Well a similar pithy expression could be applied to passport photography.

The scene stars George sitting on a wooden bench, posing for his passport photo. Across from George we find our star photographer, Patrick, crouched over holding a vintage quad-lens Polaroid camera. His close proximity to George suggests that the camera is without a “zoom” option. Behind George, a dancing bed sheet held by two children, arms outstretched as high as they can possibly go, struggling on their tippy toes to hold up a white backdrop. I advised the group not to move and snapped a photo. I wish my passport photo had the faint imprint of a child’s face in the white background too!

Passport photography: Armah-style

We took a taxi into town and after a brief visit to Kofi’s shop, Patrick and I walked down to a private medical clinic where he set up his passport photo station. Why a medical clinic? I suppose it’s because it’s an area of heavy foot traffic. Other vendors followed the same logic, setting up their kenkey, boiled eggs, biscuits and fish at the entrance of the clinic. 

View from one of the main roads in Sefwi Wiawso

The town centre

I sat amongst a large group of women varying in age. While business was slow, I asked Patrick to teach me some Twi which I would then test out on my female audience. I learned quite a bit, including how to say “please don’t cry” - an important tool for obronis when they come into contact with fear-struck Ghanaian babies. It’s a bit of a shot to the ego when your smile can morph a calm baby into a petrified squealing monster. If I could speak baby, I imagine I would hear them anxiously asking their mothers why the lady smiling at them is missing her outer-layer of skin?

Trying my hand at passport photography. my subject's resentful expression ended up out of focus and off-centred

So the expert took over....

During a particularly long lull in business, I asked Patrick if he could relate to me the story of the Jewish community in Sefwi Wiawso. I sat and vigorously took notes on the history of this young and fascinating community. Below is my attempt at their story. The facts are gathered primarily from Patrick’s rendition of the history but patches were filled in by Joseph and a few others. Though, I should warn you, there remain some holes in the story and for this I apologize (Ugh! Get the story yourself if you’re unhappy GEEZE). These holes are the unfortunate casualties of a language barrier and the tenuous nature of oral history. The Kulanu website I mentioned in the previous blog posting contains a historical narrative that you may find more reliable than mine. I hope during my next visit or on the phone with Joseph that I can clarify some of the gaps. But here it goes:

A Brief History of the Jews of Sefwi Wiawso as Recounted by Someone with a Hearing Problem and a Personal Rule That Restricts Them From Asking “Can You Repeat That?” More Than Three Times

For over a hundred and fifty years, a pocket of Ghana’s population located in the Western Region were following customs that differed from the majority: circumcising boys eight days after birth, holding the sabbath on Saturdays rather than Sundays, separating women and men during times of menstruation. Whether by sheer fluke or through some unrecorded cultural exchange, it happens to be that these customs are also held by Jewish people. Further reading suggests that these customs arrived in Ghana with the migration of “crypto-Jews” from Ivory Coast (Ghana’s neighbour to the west) over 200 years ago. The crypto-Jews of Ivory Coast were said to be migrants from Mali fleeing persecution around 400 years ago.

Fast forward to the 1970s, when a new chief emerges in Sui, a village in Ghana’s western region near Sefwi Wiawso and home to the Ghanaians following Jewish customs (though they were not labelled as Jewish at the time). This new chief issues a change from the traditional customs (the Jewish-y ones) to more modern Christian customs. This meant, for example, that the sabbath was no longer to be held on the Saturday but on the Sunday. People were expected to work on Saturdays and it became customary to treat the Sunday as Gd’s day of rest. 

One Ghanaian, a man by the name of Aran, found the move towards Christian customs a little bit unkosher, if you will. He decidedly stuck to the Jewish customs despite the widespread change initiated by the new Chief. His stubborn pursuit of the traditional customs invited much criticism by villagers... but this was nothing to the chastising he would face in the coming years.

One night in 1977 (isn’t that line the start of all great stories?), our protagonist Aran was sitting in his room with a friend when he was suddenly met with a vision from Gd. Both Joseph and Patrick Armah used the same simile to describe the incident so in the interest of tradition I will employ it as well: “the vision appeared to him like a videocasette was playing on the wall.” 

Much to Aran’s surprise, the friend accompanying him was unable to see the vision playing out on the wall in front of him like a veideocasette. Aran carefully watched and listened to what Gd was saying to him.

The vision told Aran that he and his Sefwi ancestors were Jews, members of a lost tribe of Israel. Aran learned that he was in the right by sticking to his traditional customs but there were many more laws he should be pursuing. The vision instructed him to follow Jewish law as it is laid out in the Old Testament. He was to keep kosher and to worship Gd and Gd alone - all other messianic figures were false. Gd instructed Aran to use the Old Testament as his guide to spread the word to surrounding communities and redirect his community to practice Judaism.

After this vision, Aran paid a visit to the Chief in Old Adiembra (the Jews of Sefwi Wiawso now live in the area known as New Adiembra) to ask if he could spread the message of what he had learned. The Chief allowed him to preach to the community where he was met with resentment and anger. Mostly because the gospel he was preaching denied the acceptance of Jesus Christ as a messiah or the savior.

All was not lost, however, as Aran’s preaching managed to touch the hearts a small group of friends. Those inspired by Aran’s words included Joseph, Kofi, Samuel and a man by the name of David (David was not mentioned in Joseph or Patrick’s story but is mentioned in the online sources). Together, these five or so men formed the beginnings of a Jewish community. 

With their newfound knowledge and religious inspiration, Aran and the others travelled to surrounding towns, preaching to communities about Judaism in an effort to uncover more members of their “lost tribe.”

As you can imagine, the group was not well received. Many of them were humiliated and beaten. There was even a plot amongst locals to have Aran killed. However, at this time (late 70s early 80s), Ghana’s Constitution protected the individual right to religious freedoms - which includes preaching. So Aran and the others had the law on their side.

I found myself a little bit uncomfortable imagining Judaism being preached to the masses. There are very few instances in Jewish history where attempts were made at mass recruiting or conversion. This is likely because traditional Jewish law believes Judaism to be something passed through bloodlines (specifically through matriarchal lineages) rather than through a conversion process.

Though I enjoy the thought of a Jewish history without the proselytizing that is seen in other religions, I tried to understand the motivation behind Aran et al.’s preaching efforts.

Both Joseph and Patrick, when describing this portion of the story, quoted the passage from the Old Testament that describes Jews as being “scattered to the four corners of the earth” (For the sake of metaphor let us refrain from commenting about the earth’s spherical shape). Their reference to this passage suggests to me that the preaching of Judaism was done to revive the suppressed traditions of a community rather than converting people into a completely alien religion. Aran and the others were seeking to resuscitate the customs that their ancestors were practicing for a few hundred years - customs that, as far as I can tell, were adopted quite naturally by Ghanaians in the region. The “conversion” element to this story comes with Aran’s vision which identified these customs as Jewish and sent him on a mission to unveil more Jews.

Slowly but surely, a small Jewish community began to sprout. Aran and the others would hold services at each other’s homes or in school classrooms until they were sizeable enough to pool their money and build a synagogue.

At this point, services did not follow the traditional format that Jews around the world would be familiar with. Not having grown up attending Synagogue or even seeing a practicing Jew, the group simply prayed in the way they knew best - in their local langauge, Sefwi. The songs and the format of their worship were heavily rooted in the charismatic stye of Christianity - the only other religion they really knew up until this point. The way Patrick and Joseph describe it (and based on my own observations in their synagogue) the congregation found ways to alter Christian worship to make it more Jewish... let us call this a “Jewification” process. One example would be removing references to Jesus Christ in their prayers and songs, replacing his name with that of Gd. 

Though much of their worship was built on a mix of Christianity and traditional African practices, over time the group was able to piece together some of the rituals, customs and laws of Judaism through study of the Old Testament and any other texts available to them (from what I understand, there weren’t many). By the early 90s, kosher practices were firmly established in the community. As with their worship, the practice of keeping kosher was altered to the unique local context. In other words, keeping kosher in this the community wasn’t as easy as planning weekly trips to the Kosher aisle at the local supermarket. Though I am not downplaying the pain that arises from this challenging experience. My heart goes out to anyone who has been subject to some kind of speech about the price of Kosher products (“how could they charge me $6 for a box of crackers? What is it? It’s flower and water with a little salt. And because some Rabbi talked to it while it was on the conveyor belt for a few minutes I have to pay double the price?” Nope. Kosher, in this community, meant pursuing as many Kosher laws as possible:

-   No mixing milk and meat

-   No shellfish

-   No pork

-   No bushmeat or any animals with split hooves... or unsplit hooves... what’s the rule again? Who decided it was important to look at animal’s feet before eating them?

-   All meat was to be slaughtered and prepared in a kosher way by a Jew in the community.

-   No consuming meat from people outside the community.  

A word of caution to those considering a career as a kosher butcher in Sefwi Wiawso:  I didn’t see anyone in the community eat one piece of meat while I was there. The community tends to live on a steady diet of fish, plantain, eggs, yam, casavah, bread and rice.

Perhaps you are wondering what I was wondering at this point of the story. How did the families of the Jews react to their conversion? In Patrick’s words, Joseph’s father and mother thought he had gone mad. Indeed, the Jewish community faced quite a lot of discouragement in the beginning, much of which came out of concern - the same concern we would display if someone close to us abandoned the norm and rigorously pursued a unknown religion. However, as time passed, the Jewish community gained legitimacy and eventually its members were received much of the same respect that Christians and Muslims offer each other in Ghana.

Clothes drying on the Armah's fence

***

Okay folks, I am working hard at continuing the story so stay tuned! It’s a bit difficult to compile all the recordings and notes I took into one linear narrative. In the next entry I will continue the history of the Jewish community and explain how they got in touch with Jews outside of Ghana.

Visit to the Jewish Community of Sefwi Wiawso: Part One

 

My experience in Sefwi Wiawso, where I stayed last week, was profoundly moving. I cannot possibly capture this life-changing experience in one blog entry. So as I digest the experience myself, I will share with my readers over the next few days, as best as I can, the time I spent with the Jewish community in Sefwi Wiawso.

This village, located in Ghana’s western region, is home to the only known Ghanaian Jewish community and I am tempted to say perhaps the only indigenously Jewish community in West Africa at large (I’ll revisit what I mean by “indigenous Jewish community” later on). Humble in size but grand in spirit and pride, the Jews of Sefwi Wiawso have an incredible story and I hope I can do it justice.

The Beginning: A Jewish Mother Gets What a Jewish Mother Wants

I discovered the existence of the Sefwi Wiawso community through my dedicated mother who, with loving empathy, lamented the fact that her daughter would be spending the Jewish high holidays alone in a predominantly Christian country across the Atlantic ocean.

Let me take a moment to state that my second biggest fear in life is giving my mother cause to worry about me. Fear of failure and fear of cockroaches crawling into my ears while I’m sleeping are tied for first.

“Mom, don’t worry. I’m sure I can find a minion of Jewish expats in Accra who are renting the conference room of a two-star hotel to hold services for the high holidays. It’s a big city with a lot of travelers.” But I knew finding such an underground gathering would be very difficult in Ghana. Back home, one could simply google the words “Rosh Hashannah services, Toronto” and in six nanoseconds be met with an endless RSS feed of event postings and community calendars (granted, Toronto is not exactly a fair comparison to Accra in terms of Jewish events). This is not the case in Ghana, where word of mouth and the radio are the predominant means of acquiring knowledge of community based events - even those that are more mainstream. 

However, if the past 15 years have taught me, Paris Hilton and Mel Gibson anything, it is not to underestimate the power of the internet... or, in the case of Hilton and Gibson, resentful ex-lovers with recording devises.

My mother, slightly heartbroken at the thought of her daughter entering the Jewish New Year sans honey-dipped apple slices and shofar call, set to task. If the proverbial “Wandering Jew” holds any validity, surely a few of them must have wandered their Jewish asses to Ghana. And surely they would suffer from the same Jewish guilt that motivates us more-secular-than-not Jews to synagogue to celebrate the new year.

Well, my mother’s efforts paid off! But much to her surprise, her daughter would not be spending the holidays with a group of expats, as expected, but with true bonafide Ghanaians.

The following day an email landed in my inbox from mom. The subject line read: “jews in ghana” (my mother doesn’t get too creative with subject headings). It read:

Take a look at this website....it's fascinating. Have no idea where this is but you may be interested in exploring it a bit.

love you mom  http://www.kulanu.org/ghana/visit_to_ghana.php

I read the article and investigated the site further. Here is a more general description of the Jews in Sefwi Wiawso: http://www.kulanu.org/ghana/index.php

I was a mere 7-hour journey away from a small community of Ghanaian Jews (in hindsight, how naive I was to think this journey would be only 7 hours... ha!).

I remained skeptical, resigning myself to the fact that the community probably isn’t made up of Ghanaians. It must be some kind of volunteer community-building project that just happened to be organized by a humanitarian Jewish organization and perhaps through some kind of cultural osmosis, Ghanaians ended up adopting the cultural and religious rites of their Jewish visitors. And I wasn’t alone in my thinking! When I shared the news with officemates, they responded with “Ghanaian Jews?? Like Black Jews? In Ghana?”

I am no stranger to the fact that African Jews do in fact exist. I was just under the impression that they were confined to Eastern Africa - mainly Uganda and Ethiopia. I’ve even heard of the odd Jewish native to Kenya. But Ghana is a country that seems so inextricably linked to Christianity. Everything from the names of shops to dress patterns to bumper stickers carry symbols of the Christian faith. And where the Christian faith is absent, Islam is present, with its beautiful mosques, its women adorned in colorful headscarves and yes, its very own aptly named shops (“Allah’s Spot Bar” comes to mind). Was it possible that a pocket of Jews were hiding somewhere in Ghana’s Western Region?

Armah is to Ghana as Steinberg is to North America

I emailed Kulanu to inquire about visiting the community for Rosh Hashannah. I got a lengthy reply from a Harriet Bograd which detailed how to arrange my visit. Most guests stay with one of the community’s leaders, a man by the name of Joseph Armah. I was told to contact him with my request to visit the community.

“Armah” I thought, “that must be the last name of some Sephardic Jewish volunteer from abroad. A Persian Jew perhaps?” Wrong.

When I phoned Joseph to arrange my visit, on the other end of the line was a masculine voice, deep in timbre, with an unmistakeable Ghanaian accent. We discussed the visit, the travel directions, my vegetarianism (specifically my desire to keep it in tact) and the length of my stay. It was set. I was to travel to Sefwi Wiawso on Tuesday Sept 7 and leave on Sept 11 to spend the weekend exploring Kumasi (the stop-over city on the journey between Accra and Sefwi Wiawso).

I never did return to visit Kumasi.

The Journey to Sefwi Wiawso: Leaving Accra

Wait wait! The last line of that section made it sound like I died... but I didn’t. What I meant to say is that I never went back to explore Kumasi. Instead, I stayed in Sefwi Wiawso. But I wanted to be dramatic about it. But it seems like drama came at the cost of clear communication.

The Journey to Sefwi Wiawso: Leaving Accra (take 2)

I was ushered to the crowded trotro lot at Circle Station where dozens of minibuses destined to locations outside Accra lined the dirt lots (well, the term “lined” is a bit of an overstatement). The young man who led me in the right direction was impeccably dressed - from his Versace sunglasses through to his fitted skinny jeans to his pristine Louis Vuitton sandals. He informed me that he was a fashion designer working in South Africa and mentioned something about being a hairstylist as well. I appreciated his kindness in walking me all the way to the right lot, but not enough to appease his request for my phone number. I did compliment his sandals though, hoping this was repayment enough.

There I was in the trotro lot.  A white woman carrying a backpack and an overnight bag, wearing dirty jeans, a t-shirt and a very confused expression. Despite my best efforts, I could not conceal the last of these items behind my sunglasses. I might as well have worn a triangle placard board with the words “I AM A DUMB TOURIST” scrawled in painterly red ink.

Predictably, I attracted swarms of shouting trotro mates faster than you can say “trotro mates.” One or two would preface their grab-you-towards-their-trotro-arm-tug with the seemingly logical question “where are you going?” Others, however, skipped this formality and without a word went straight to carry my luggage to their vehicles. To say I felt “overwhelmed” by the encroaching circle of boisterous trotro mates yelling at me in a language I don’t understanding is like saying I felt “tickled” at a near-death sky diving experience (“Oh yes, I found myself a little bothered when the parachute didn’t open at 250 metres above the ground, but you know, it’s really nothing to write home about - plummeting to your death. A mere dent in an otherwise normal weekend. More tea?)”

I put their shouting to a halt with a pathetically unaggressive rant (if you can even call it that): “Hold on! okay? Just hold on for two seconds, okay? Don’t grab my stuff. Let go of my arm. I just need to decide where I’m going and when I decide I will tell you - okay?” The trotro mates met my semi-confident breaking point with laughter.

“Obroni! where are you going?” One mate asked with a smile.

“I am going to Kumasi.”

Intermission over. The chorus of young men return to shouting and playing a fun game of Obroni tug-of-war. It was 7:30am.

The battle ends with a decision made out of pure convenience and laziness. I wormed my way into the trotro that was both the closest and the fullest (trotros do not follow a set schedule but leave only when full to capacity with passengers). I paid my nine cedi (the high price was due to the fact that this particular minibus was especially spacious and air conditioned) and sat down. 20 minutes later we were on the road to Kumasi.

The Stopover in Kumasi: Just out of curiosity, is the name “Kumasi” Twi for “geographic manifestation of a panic attack”?

About three hours into the drive to Kumasi, I noticed that we were going to arrive at our destination a few hours earlier than I had anticipated. This was great news as I was really excited to visit Kumasi and could use the extra time to explore the place a bit.

Kumasi is the capital of Ghana’s Ashanti Region and the second-largest city in the country. More on its history HERE. I was particularly anxious to visit the infamous Kejetia Market, esteemed as one of the largest open-air markets in West Africa. What better way to start off your visit to a Jewish community than bargain-hunting! It’s the A-1 conversation-starter in any Jewish home: “you see this bracelet? Guess how much I paid for it? Just guess. No, no, come on, just guess! Please, for me, guess ... eight Cedis? Try three! Three Ghana Cedis! Can you believe it?? I picked up 20 for you and your family just in case. They make great gifts. Birthday, Channukah, graduation, whatever, who doesn’t want a bracelet?”

As the trotro drove into Kumasi, the streets grew denser with people and the sparse sights and sounds of vendors progressed into inner-city psychedelic mania. By the time we reached the city centre, my eagerness to explore the city crossfaded into a feeling of sheer panic at the carnivalesque busyness surrounding me - a hustle and bustle that I assure you would dizzy even the most severe of ADHD children.

The trotro engine turned off and the driver’s “last stop!” call forced me out of the vehicle like a dog being dragged to the vet for his shots - paws stiffened against the concrete parking lot like the breaks on a Flinstones car, terror peeking out of the whites of poor Sparky’s panic-stricken eyeballs. (For examples of such anxiety-ridden dogs, please ask around for my dog “Poochie” and/or Becca’s dog “Lucca”).

I experienced a similar reaction when entering Manhattan for the first time as an insecure, gangly and hairy 16-year-old with braces. I had dreamed all my life of visiting New York. But when I arrived at this amazing epicenter, I was so overwhelmed and felt so out of place. All I wanted was one day, just one “introductory” day where I would be afforded the opportunity to explore New York as a tiny unnoticeable fly slowly buzzing about at my own pace. After that, I would happily shapeshift back into my awkward teenage body and walk the streets of New York feeling resented and alien like every other tourist.

I stepped out of the trotro and was met with the usual assembly of taxi drivers that don’t so much ask where you are going as much as they simply tell you that you need a taxi.

“You need taxi. You need taxi!”

“Um. You need a passenger?”

I followed one of the more persistent cab drivers back to his taxi and picked the only destination I remembered from my guidebook - a restaurant by the name of Vic Baboos. Once there, I forced a few bites of salad past my throat into an unwelcoming and tense stomach. I decided to stick with my plan - I had to do at least one touristy thing with the extra hours I had in Kumasi.

Where better to calm your nerves but a museum? Particularly an old military fortress turned museum when you yourself have virtually no interest military history? I asked the concierge how long a guided tour of the museum takes. He gave me a “how long do you want it to take?” face. The standard is two hours but some visitors have been known to have their fill after 10 minutes. I asked if we could re-jig my tour to take 45 minutes to which he agreed and threw me in the middle of a guided tour taking place with a family of eight from Burkina Faso.

I learned some interesting facts about Ghana’s role in both World Wars as well as the history of Ghana’s independence from British rule. I would come to forget this information as quickly as I learned it.

An Indian man living in Kumasi who owns or works at Vic Baboos. He showed me where to find Kumasi's Armed Forces Museum

Room full of pictures of various companies, regiments, captains etc.

This vest was once apart of Ghana's military uniform

Much to my discomfort, the tour guide would often glance my way every time she mentioned the colonial masters, a term which she used interchangeably with “the British” and “the white man.” I quickly realized that this was not a resentful glare - quite the opposite actually! The sightline gesture my way was an attempt to make me feel connected, to include me in the story! Her expression was encouraging and excited, as if she were trying to say: “And now I’m telling the part of the story where people like you are involved! How exciting!”

While I could have been satisfied with the tour guide’s friendly elbow nudge in my direction, I stupidly interrupted her story with a completely inappropriate comment:

“I just want to say that I’m not British. So, you know, ha ha, don’t uh, look at me when you, uh, talk about the British and the colonialism because I had nothing to do with them. No sir! Huh, wasn’t me! I’m Canadian.” Uncomfortable laugh - oh look! an old bomb shelter! Maybe I’ll go hide there for the rest of the day.

Yep. I’m from Canada. No colonialism there!

“Alright, we won’t look at you.” Replied the tour guide with a smile.

Apparently the family of eight from Burkina Faso didn’t get the “don’t look at the squirmy white person” memo as they continued to stare at me with deep confusion - and believe me, it wasn’t due to the language barrier because I actually had the gall to repeat myself in French.

On the Road Again...

After the museum I made my way to the station where I was to catch the trotro to Sefwi Wiawso. I wasn’t blessed with the same fortune I had back in Accra. I took my seat in the overcrowded knees-pressed-against-the-seat-in-front-of-you stuffy trotro at that time of day when everyone’s deodorant stops working (mine included). We waited over an hour and half for the twelve-seater to fill up. Apparently Sefwi Wiawso isn’t the most popular of destinations on a Tuesday afternoon.

I secured my window seat thinking this would provide me with some kind of headrest for the upcoming three-hour trip. Unfortunately the bumpy road leading to Sefwi Wiawso destroyed all hopes of treating the window as a pillow. My head would rhythmically smash against said pillow like a felt-covered kickstand to a bass drum. Rest assured, my beating head didn’t induce any toe-tapping enjoyment from fellow passengers.

We arrived in Sefwi Wiawso around 8:30pm where again, I was met with a chorus of “obroni” calls and eager taxi drivers. I chose to ride in a dilapidated 1980s Peugot with a Rolls Royce angel nailed to the hood. As instructed by the email I received from Kulanu, I asked the driver to bring me to the house of former-Assemblyman Joseph Armah. After a confusing game of “who?” where? what? huh?” I handed him the email print out and hoped it would provide him with the directions he needed.

We drove for 10 minutes through fairly mountainous terrain. The odd streetlamp would reflect off my white skin revealing to onlookers the presence of an obroni in their village. This of course, resulted in animated waves and bellows. Being white in small villages can make you feel like an unmerited celebrity. People wave, smile and shout things at you as though you were a famous actress in a convoy of limousines on the way to the opening of your upcoming blockbuster film. You even get that token “what is that fancy-looking person doing in our small town?” look from the town’s oldest and most disgruntled man just like the real celebrities! The only difference, of course, is that you aren’t a beautiful celebrity. You aren’t starring in a new movie. And your glamourous lifestyle is essentially anything out of the ordinary that you can do on a volunteer’s budget like eating pizza or staying in a hotel with a shower for one night.

While in Krokrobite, I had overheard a young American tourist tell a Ghanaian couple that he loves being in Ghana because he feels like a celebrity. He loves the attention that he gets simple by virtue of being white. “Everyone wants to be your friend, everyone wants to talk to you. It’s great!” It took everything in my power not to slap the kid and rip apart his naive comment. I couldn’t have disagreed more. The attention to foreigners in Ghana is both a privilege and a burden. We foreigners are lucky that Ghanaians are for the most part very welcoming, friendly, hospitable, helpful and kind. There is always someone keeping an eye on you and looking out for your best interest. Whether it’s an old woman helping you order something at the market or a fellow passenger translating the call of the trotro mate or the bank teller who patiently repeats themselves until you can understand. But at the same time, people can often take interest in your simply because you are foreign and white. It’s difficult to build friendships with people who are approaching you on this basis. It feels unnatural and can be quite alienating. It becomes exhausting to be at the end of pointed fingers and the source of heckling despite the fact that all this is done in good fun and accompanied with friendly smiles and waves. I know the intention behind the attention I receive is positive and good natured. But sometimes I just crave the feeling of going unnoticed - like a buzzing fly in New York. And my taxi ride in Sefwi Wiawso was one of those times.

We stopped abruptly in front of a dimly-lit compound in an otherwise pitch-black rural neighbourhood. Before I could even dip my hand into my backpack to pay the taxi driver, three pairs of small arms reached into the front passenger window where I was seated and took hold of my luggage. Instinctively, I yanked it back and shot a disapproving glare out the window. Okay, good-hearted heckling and stares of disbelief were one thing - but stealing my bag is another!

My cold gaze was met with the smiling faces of three adorable, innocent and laughing children.

“Let me carry your bags for you.” Said a young girl in a kind, soft voice. I finally put it together - these were tiny members of the community I was to stay with.

I smiled and apologized, trying to explain that I didn’t know what they were doing and I didn’t mean to... Before I could finish explaining myself I noticed my overnight bag bobbing up and down throughout the compound, traveling on the head of an energetic 10 year old boy.

I paid the taxi driver and once again, with my heart beating rapidly in my throat, dragged my shaky nervous body out of the car to enter the new surroundings.

I followed the little girl to my room, a large, clean bedroom with lime-green walls containing two single beds, a couch, a TV and a computer. It was clear that this room doubled as some kind of family room. My luggage was propped next to a bed, and the three children sat smiling on the couch.

“Hello” I said shyly with a smile. I received three equally shy “hello”s in return.

“Yeh freh meh Gabrielle” (my name is Gabrielle in Twi). Whenever I speak Twi it guarantees a few laughs.

The children giggled and introduced themselves but I was a little too overstimulated to pay attention. I turned away from them and looked around the room. Sitting atop of the TV were two silver Shabbat candlestick holders and a matching silver kiddush cup. I smiled and picked them up to take a closer look.

Suddenly, the door creaked open and a timid, tender woman entered the room holding a basket of tupperwear. She greeted me with a bashful smile, her gaze fixed on the ground in front of her. She unpacked the dishes from the basket onto the coffee table in front of the couch. I was starving at this point and for the first time quite grateful for the overly-generous Ghanaian-sized portions of food being offered to me.

“Medassi” (thank you) I said and smiled. Again, my Twi was met with laughter. I was at a loss of words so I just kept thanking her for such good food which was likely the driving force behind her departure from the room.

By this time, the boys had left the room as well and the only one who remained was the little girl who sat quietly observing me. There was a twinkle in her eye.

“So are you a Jew?” she asked.

“Yes.” I laughed at the unapologetic directness that is only endearing when it comes from a child. 

“And what about you?” I asked.

“Yes, I am Jewish.” She answered proudly. I smiled.

“Well, good!” I exclaimed with an unnecessary enthusiasm that often accompanies the stupid comments I make when exhausted.

We both let out a cathartic laugh.

“I will go and come” she said. This is the Ghanaian equivalent to saying “I’ll be right back.”

“Yes, go and come. Thank you so much for bringing my bags into the room.”

I slowly and cautiously ate my dinner. The room was completely silent other than the delicate sound of Gecko nails scattering across the walls and the whispering of children peeping through the screen window. I waved and smiled, trying my best to passive-aggressively communicate the message “if you can see me, I can see you! So don’t make peering into my window a daily habit please! Thank you! Medassi!”

The door creaked opened and in stepped a muscular middle-aged man in tattered shorts and a Lakers jersey. His brow was furrowed and he wore a serious expression. Deep lines travelled the width of his forehead no doubt from years of squinting in the sun. I was a bit intimidated by his presence until he sat down at eye level with me and smiled. His eyes turned gentle, his smile welcoming and humble. He reached out and shook my hand.

“Welcome.” He said.

“You must be Mr. Armah. Thank you so much for having me.” Second hand shake.

“I cannot tell you how grateful I am for your hospitality.” Hand shake continues.

“And I am very interested in learning about this community so I hope you don’t mind my visit. It’s amazing to have a place to visit for the high holidays so thank you so much for having me.” Handshake going on 45 seconds now. Gabrielle let the man’s hand go.

“And yes. So, um, thank you.” Is it any surprise I was an English Major in University?

Joseph said he was happy to have me and that I should get some rest after my long journey. I asked about the history of the community in an attempt to fill the silence and he suggested that we talk about it tomorrow to which I wholeheartedly agreed.

He left me to finish my dinner and go to bed. I fell asleep listening to Sarah Silverman’s The Bedwetter on my iPod. She spent the first few chapters describing what life was like growing up as a Jew in New Hampshire. Perfect for the occasion, if you ask me.

Weekend Visits: Cape Coast & Elmina

Cape Coast held its annual Fetu Afahye festival this weekend, attracting more Obronis than a Western-style fair trade coffee shop that serves fresh salad and whole wheat bread (I don’t care if I’m the only one who gets this joke). My Obroni self was fortunate enough to get a lift to Cape Coast with a very kind pair of Aussies and their Ghanaian coworker. I had met them once before at a dinner table full of expats at a Chinese Restaurant (the one time I got sick from food thus far in Ghana). 

The trip took about 3.5 hours and I couldn’t help but feel great nostalgia for the essential Canadian road trip item - a Tim Horton’s Coffee. My trip in the car just felt so empty without a large paper cup full of Timmy’s.

“It’s not even good quality coffee. It’s like, gas station coffee.” I explained to the car. “But it’s just so... good. So.. Tim Hortons. It’s hard to explain.” 

In my homesick state, I settled for the plantain chips and hardboiled eggs I snagged off people’s heads for a few peswas while at a stoplight.

Minka's Coffee Center

It was too late though. The damage was done. We were all craving coffee and there was most certainly no special touristy place along the road that would satisfy our craving. 

However, our caffeinated prayers were answered upon arriving in Cape Coast. Hidden amidst the streets full of festival-ready locals and crammed with taxis, hidden within the crooked shacks that lined the streets was a blue wooden sign with the title “Minka’s Coffee Center.” Accompanying the name of the restaurant were painted illustrations of coffee mugs and the logos for Milo and Nescafe. An adorable find in a charming bustling village.

I was fortunate to have a few hours to explore the city before the festivities swung into action. I took to the opportunity to explore one of Ghana’s most historic sites - the old slave castle in Cape Coast. This large village was once the heart of the trans-atlantic slave trade. My Bradt Guide states that: “This World Heritage Site is reputed to have been one of the largest slave-holding sites in the world during the colonial era, Where Ghanaians - many of them traded to the British by Ashantes in return for alcohol and guns - were stored before being cramped into returning merchant ships and deported to a life of captive labour.”

Read more about the history of Cape Coast HERE.

Cape Coast Castle

Cape Coast Castle

Given the festival, the castle was quite lively with people - Ghanaian and foreign tourists alike. The busyness of the place disrupted the eery feeling that I thought I would experience walking through old captive cells and slim corridors. However, the small museum served to provide me with a lot of historical information as well as some bone-chilling artifacts.

View of Cape Coast through wall of Castle 

Tool used to brand slaves (located in Cape Coast Castle Museum)

Sign advertising an upcoming slave auction

In my pre-departure training for Ghana, I was introduced to a Ghanaian man who was to inform us about life in Ghana and answer our questions. Once we broached the topic of tourism, he mentioned both the castle at Cape Coast and the St. George’s Castle at Elmina (a small and beautiful fishing-village near Cape Coast). He made no mention of the history of these placed but simply asked: “Please, do not cry when you get to these castles. All the foreigners cry.”

Fishing town of Elmina. Despite its sad history in the slave trade, this town is extremely charming and wonderful. 

Well, my visit to Elmina's St. George’s Castle came close to breaking my no-tears promise with the Ghanaian expat. For some reason, perhaps because I was touring the castle alone this time or perhaps because the celebratory festival buzz that surrounded the fortress walls of Cape Coast's Castle was no longer present, I found this particular visit more haunting. The increase in the number of cells and dungeons than that of Cape Coast was particularly disturbing. I walked into the mouldy caves, some with not even a peep hole for light, and tried to swallow the reality that humans were kept locked in here for days, months even. The rank smell in these cramped holes was like a mixture of mould, urine and bird droppings.  

Entrance to a dungeon at St. George's Castle

The architectural layout of St. George prohibits you from forgetting the actual function the building served at one point in time. Whereas the Cape Coast Castle felt a little bit more like a fortress used for battle, St. George’s calculated layout is hauntingly blunt. 

View from inside a captive cell in St. George's Castle

From what I understand, St. George’s differs from Cape Coast in that it was the home to actual slave auctions rather than serving only as a pre-departure holding cell for slaves. However, like Cape Coast, the castle served as one of the biggest (if not the biggest) trans-atlantic slave trading hub. 

Read more about the history of St. George’s Castle HERE.

Sandwiched between these two visits to an ugly part of Ghana’s history, was a much happier occasion: The Fetu Afahye Festival. The festival climaxed with a huge parade where Ghanaians, decked in all kinds of costumes and traditional wear, danced through the streets. Seven chiefs were carried atop the crowd on lush bejeweled beds. 

HERE is a much better telling of the Fetu Afahye Festival and its history.

Costumed performers marching along the streets

At the Festival, this woman asked if I could snap a picture of her after a group of kids were hogging the limelight.

People walking in the parade

A chief is carried along the parade in a bed.

Groups of women in the parade dance along the street at the arrival of the chief.

I hope you are enjoying the blog thus far. Unfortunately I will not be updating the blog for the rest of the week as I will be travelling to the town of Sefwi Wiawso for the Jewish New Year (Rosh Hashannah). Thanks to my mother's internet searching skills, I have discovered the existence of a Ghanaian Jewish community! These are not expats but actual West African Jews! I have no idea what to expect but I will be staying in the community for a few days and will be sure to report back with more stories!