"Sister!"

My co-workers, going out of their way to make me feel welcome (and obviously sensing my initial bewilderment upon arrival), have stepped in to ease my transition to Accra and have shown me pieces of their city:

My co-worker, Kondwani, and his wife, Henrietta, (themselves transplants from Malawi and Zimbabwe respectively) invited me to a house party on my first Saturday night in Accra. I took the opportunity to ask everyone I met what I should do/see/experience while in Ghana and got a huge variety of answers…which really only confused me more. The highlight of the night was trying the local beer, Star, and not having to spend another night reading in the guest house.

The next day, I accompanied Kondwani and Henrietta to a World Cup qualifying match between the national teams of Ghana and Gabon. We had our VIP tickets (I never figured out how a VIP ticket is different from a regular ticket) in hand and got to the game just as it was starting, but as we made our way to our designated seats it was clear that our seats were already taken. In fact, it seemed as if—other than getting into the stadium—the tickets, and the assigned seats, were of no relevance. People just sat wherever they pleased. Every few minutes someone would yell loud enough at the person who was sitting in their assigned seat, waving the ticket stub wildly in the air (one person went so far as to sit ON TOP OF the person in their seat while yelling…), so that the offending party would get up and move to a spot in the aisle. We chose not to take that route, and instead just sat quietly on the concrete steps of the nearby aisle…uncomfortable, but much less confrontational. I swear that no one was watching the game for the first fifteen minutes, rather engaging in or watching the shouting matches erupting all around. Ghana ended up winning and I experienced a very rowdy, very crowded and very chaotic football match.

Today, my co-worker, Getrude—herself born and bred in Accra—took me to the Makola Market where she was planning on buying material for a dress to wear to an upcoming wedding. The market had two parts: a fresh food section with everything from vegetables to live crabs and a dry goods/clothing section selling all kinds of material, clothes, household goods, shoes, dry cereals and other non-perishables. The fresh food section was unlike anything I had ever seen before. We walked briskly for over fifteen minutes to pass through this section; the variety of food was immense. The women selling their goods were sitting on stools, many wearing head wraps, amongst huge piles of a few items: hot red peppers and green red peppers; baskets of live crabs and cuts of white fish; chicken and other assorted meats laying in a huge pile; mounds of plantains and other fruits etc. etc. etc. The dry goods/clothing part of the market reminded me somewhat of Canal St…but on a much bigger scale with stands as well as open stores. The market is very loud and repeated calls of “Sister!” or “Auntie!” can be heard everywhere amongst the haggling and settling, buying and selling.

I don’t get the impression that many tourists or foreigners frequent this market and, in fact, I did not see another white person while I was there. People were obviously staring at me throughout the day and sometimes Getrude would fill me in as she heard people talking about me. For example, she recounted that after many minutes of discussion, two of the market women thought that, because of my pale skin, I must be from either Russia or Japan...go figure! I also caught several women walking behind me touching the back of my arm…I imagine just out of curiosity. I think this might have something to do with my freckles rather than my white skin; I’ve found (mainly through such fun conversation starters as: Why do you have spots? Are you sick? What are those?) throughout my travels that freckles are totally incomprehensible and strange-looking to people who are unfamiliar.

After we were done at the market, we jumped into a Tro-tro toward Osu, where Getrude lives. A Tro-tro is beat-up van used for cheap and fast transit throughout the city. This type of van would normally seat 12 (if that) in the US, but there were no less than 20 of us crammed into the Tro-tro barreling down the Accra streets in the fierce humidity of the afternoon. It costs about 40 cents for a ride...and is seriously not worth a penny more. This was my first time taking a Tro-tro because I still haven’t figured out how to tell where they are headed and am reluctant to jump into a random van by myself. I guess you’re supposed to be able to tell where they are going by whatever is shouted (usually a slang term or abbreviation for some part of the city) at you as the Tro-tro passes or by some incomprehensible hand signal that the driver makes (or is this the shared taxi rule?). So…yeah…mastering the Tro-tro system has not been checked off my list.

All of these things I would not have experienced without the generosity of my co-workers…but I’ve made a pact to be more adventurous on my own. Updates to follow…