Fish Out of Water

07/01/13

            Our trotro comes to a   We stick out like sore, pasty thumbs. This was not the nice, quaint tourist destination we had in mind when we planned the excursion. So we collect ourselves, and awkwardly make our way over to the only thing that resembles some sort of hope: the worn down lighthouse that peaks above the rooftops. When we get there, it’s not a very impressive structure, and again, we ask ourselves what we are going to spend the day here doing?

Local school children (they're all obsessed with getting their pictures taken)

halt. We’re at Jamestown! We all get out.. look around.. then at each other and our faces all say the same thing. What have we gotten ourselves into? A group of 10 obrunis smack dab in the middle of a simple town unlike any neighborhood we had seen before. Shoddy homes line the streets; the smells of fish, fresh and otherwise, fill our noses.

Our questions our answered when a man walks up to us, introduces himself as The Nice One, tells us his friends told him we were coming, and begins explaining to us that he can give us tours of the lighthouse and fort. First though, we needed to find a place to get lunch, and three star restaurants weren’t exactly pooping out of the woodwork. He directs us down the street to a couple restaurants that are more manageable, and we begin to have some hope in salvaging our excursion. We run into some kid along the way with a beat up Minnesota Wild jersey, although he probably has no idea what ice hockey is, and take a picture with him.  After some wandering and asking of directions, we manage to find a cliff with a stunning ocean view and a restaurant jutting out below us. We stop to take in the scenery and snap a few pictures.

Out of nowhere this old, kind-looking white woman, about the only one we had seen that day, comes up behind us and asks us if we want to watch some kids perform some African drumming and dancing since their class is almost over. The kids scuttle away to make room for us and bring some chairs out. The class is lead by a commanding man in the get-up of a Rastafarian, wearing a funky hat that was about 2 feet tall and colored in the typical Rasta way: black, red, yellow, and green. Their new audience unnerves the kids, and it takes a few attempts to get the dance rolling, but with some coaching, they make it through the entire performance. It was a story about a lion killing the members of a village followed by a jujuman resurrecting the people. Afterward, the man invites us into his office and tells us the school is an NGO that provides education, school uniforms, and some food to kids that cannot afford it.

Our chat does not end there; he escorts us down the steps to the restaurant jutting out from the shore, makes sure we are properly accommodated, and sits down with us. The waitress takes our order… then comes back about 10 minutes later to tell us that they’re out of half the stuff on the menu, so most of us end up ordering lobster… then she comes back once again to ask how we want our lobster cooked. Meanwhile Rasta man is talking our ears off about how he’s a universal man and a universal musician. He tells us about how a large stone near the restaurant was seen as a spiritual relic by some groups. He is very kind to us and makes sure he bothers the employees about our food that took 2 hours to get, not to mention the food that doesn’t come for Zoey, which the waitress claimed she was told they didn’t have (she wasn’t). She ordered lobster with avocado; just about everyone else ordered lobster and the waitress never told us they were out of avocado. As if this is not enough, the waitress gives us the wrong bill, which is more expensive than our actual bill and charges us for something more expensive than we actually got. Needless to say, she did not get a tip. But that is normal in Ghana anyways.

     Now our bellies have finally achieved satisfaction but it’s almost dark already. Thankfully our tour guide, Universal Rasta Man is there for the rescue. He whisks us through the fishing village and takes us through a side of town we never would have seen otherwise… the poor side. By this time darkness has already settled, but the city still bustles with activity. Little kids ecstatically and repeatedly ask us “how are you?” We wind our way through countless dark alleys and manage to avoid getting mugged; luckily Universal Man also knows kung fu. You always hear about how terrible life is in poor regions, but I see more life and joy than suffering. Why is poverty taken to be synonymous with misery anyways…?

The fishing village