days, that's all it took. From the second we stepped off the bus to use
the restroom to the moment I stopped back on the MV four days later I
could feel myself changing.
I'll try to do my best to describe this, but I don't know how much words
ever could.
At our preport the night before we docked in Ghana, we were told we
would be arriving an hour early around 7am into Tema. So, at 6:20 the
next morning, I was on deck 8 staring at land and watching as we pulled
up. Apparently, only 6 cruise ships a year dock in Tema, so we were sort
of a big deal (actually, I was surprised it was even 6...and I'm curious
to know where the other ships come from) and were greeted with a
drumming performance on the dock! Around 7 we docked and Ghanaian
officials boarded the ship to check everyone's visas and passports, as
well as issue them to the students who STILL didn't have them (thanks
again, Pinnacle. In fact, over 60 students lacked Ghanaian and Indian
visas upon arrival into Ghana, and although Ghana wasn't much of an
issue to receive landing-passes when we docked, the whole group,
including a few people who were supposed to be on my trip, had to give
up their first day in Ghana to go to the Indian embassy and hope they
could get visas in person). Meanwhile, we had breakfast and then went
into the union to have one last performance from Sharif Ghali. At 10:45
the Senase Village trip met in the Garden Lounge and headed out to start
our adventure.
We stepped out into the Ghana air and were immediately "greeted" by
vendors who were stationed at our port. They were all trying to pull us
over to their stands or trying to sell us stuff they had in their hands.
Some of them were even putting bracelets around people's hands while
they were saying no. A little crazy, but it's easy to understand why
people have to do this - they are trying to outsell the person next to
them to feed their families, and it's very rare they get "rich"
Americans (while this may not be true, in Ghanians eyes any American is
rich, and, to be honest, anyone that can afford Semester at Sea, or even
a college education in America, has more money than these Ghanaians) to
make money off of. After a few minutes of standing there looking for our
guide, Fred, we decided to try the shuttle to the main port and see if
he was there. The problem with that was a) that the shuttles only ran
every half an hour and b) that the shuttles were quite small and there
was no way all of us, plus our overnight bags, were fitting into just
one. We had just missed a shuttle so we waited around for a while for
the next one. Some people went to the vendors while others just stayed
near the ship. When the first shuttle came, I was one of the ones to get
on, and after about a ten minute drive, we pulled into a gas station
that was apparently our drop off point. Although Fred wasn't there, some
of his friends were to pick us up, so we had found the right place.
While we waited for the rest of our group, more vendors started trying
to sell to us, and I must admit it's been very difficult to deal with
these types of situations in ports. It's just something I am not used to
and it's really hard to just shove people off and say no over and over.
Half an hour later, another shuttle pulls up with what we think is the
rest of our group. Turns out, however, that the same group of 5 or 6 who
decided to throw their bags down to go shopping while we waited at the
boat had decided to go and get peanut butter sandwiches and missed the
shuttle. So we had to wait yet another half an hour for them to get
there, and then, finally, 5ish hours after our initial planning time (we
were planning on 9, but we didn't clear customs and weren't allowed off
the ship until later than that), we were ready to go. We walked about
half a mile to our bus and got ready to head to Cape Coast.
About two hours in we stopped to 'use the restroom' at a gas station.
This was my first experience with Ghanaian, or poor country, pluming,
and it turned out that the restrooms were series of walls in which you
peed on. A lot of the girls decided not to do it, in hopes that the
facilities at cape coast in 2 hours would be better, but I pulled out my
charmin-to-go and purell and went for it. This was my first eye opening
experience. I couldn't believe that this is the way people are forced to
live, and they don't have the commodity of travel toilet paper or hand
sanitizer, and it made me re-think my complaining about gross gas
station bathrooms in the U.S. I'll never forget the experience (or the
smell), but I won't go into too more detail on it and instead just say
that afterwards we all got back on the bus to head to Cape Coast. We
were supposed to stop to grab lunch, but we unfortunately so far behind
that we had to continue onwards so we made it to the slave dungeons
before they closed. We made it to Cape Coast around 4pm and took a five
minute walk to the castle and slave dungeons. Within the 5 minutes, we
were again bombarded by people trying to sell us things.
Sidenote: You can literally buy ANYTHING on the streets in Ghana, and
most people sell stuff from buckets on top of their heads! I kind of
only thought that was in movies, but so many women walk around with a
giant bowl filled with one thing or another on their head, while
carrying a baby on their back while holding something in their hands -
geez, Ghanaian got talent. Some of the stuff being sold was anything
from water to fruit to paintings to jewelry to toiletries to flags to
ice cream to even microwaves! And probably everything else in between.
And, not only can you buy this stuff while walking around the street,
you can even do it in the car! People walk up and down trafficy roads
(if you think New York City traffic is bad, you haven't seen nothing)
and you can just open your window and buy! The first day we were all a
little freaked by this, but as you'll later read we became pretty open
to it in our 4 days.
When we arrived at the castle we all had to pay a $1 (US money) fee to
use our cameras (our entrance fees were covered by the tour, so I'm not
sure of the price) and went inside. At first glance, it looks more of
less just like an old war fort. Cannons everywhere, rocky waves of the
ocean, steep and dark paths that you have no idea where they lead to,
sealed doors and offices overlooking the courtyard. I'm not sure it even
hit me where we were at the point, because it didn't seem much different
than stepping through Gettysburg or Fort Sumter. We were instructed to
go through the museum first as it closed at 4:30, so we all made our way
there and started to walk around. It was really fascinating and all at
the beginning, but I still didn't start to realize where I was until I
walked into the mock slave ship. I've seen these in American museums,
but there's something entirely different and entirely overwhelming about
stepping into it in Ghana. Unfortunately, midway through my journey
time was up and I had to leave, and I'm still a bit tweaked I didn't get
to see the rest of the exhibits because it really did look awesome. But,
I abided and went with the rest of the group to meet our tour guide.
The point where I mention that we met our tour guide is really the end
of how much my narration can do this trip justice, but for my own sake
to look back upon (I'm HORRIBLE at writing in my journal here - so much
so that I actually gave the blank notebooks I had brought for journals
and hadn't written in to the schools in Ghana as paper, which you'll
read about later) and hopefully to shed even the slightest bit of light
on this extraordinary week I will do my best.
The first place our tour guide took us was to the dungeon. The dungeon
is a small and crammed room off to the left corner that is literally
nothing but stone walls and a mud floor. Today, there exists one single
little light at the top to illuminate the room to visitors, but at the
time of slave-trade operations it was completely black. You had to take
a few stairs (maybe like 7) to get up there, and that was simply to put
a space between the white guards and the black prisoners. Once we were
all inside the tour guide shut off the light. Half of us jumped at this,
but looking back I am so glad he did this. You see, his story of the
room was presented in the dark, the way it would have looked to an
African. The dungeon was the place where rebellious prisoners were kept.
Anyone who tried to escape or runaway would be put in here to die. Two
to six people would be thrown in the dungeon at one time and they
wouldn't be returned to for a week or more. In this small little room
the prisoners slept, sat, stood, disposed of bodily fluids and anything
else that would occurred. If you noticed, I didn't include the words eat
or drink in what they would do in this room. That's because they didn't
eat or drink - the prisoners were put there to die. They were to die of
either starvation or disease, and the next time they came outside once
being put in was to take out their body. Hearing this story in the
darkness the Africans would have experienced was completely horrifying
but also completely necessary. I started to feel the surge of guilt that
continues to plague me. The big sense of guilt that continues to bother
me didn't doesn't relate to the fact that the place where I call home
were supporters of this cause, but rather that if I had lived 200 years
ago it is quite likely that I would have seen absolutely nothing wrong
with this system. Even if I didn't own slaves myself, I, like most
Americans at the time, would have thought the black race inferior and
not worthy of a real life. I would have supported people being thrown
into these sells or hoarded off as cattle. I guess growing up we had
always learned about slavery and knew it was wrong, but this was a new
sensation for me. I expected to feel guilty about being white - I didn't
expect to realize this completely traumatic thought. To anyone at home
reading this - please continue to think about it while I go on about the
slave dungeons. You may say to yourself "slavery is wrong, I never would
have approved of it" but the truth is, most of us would have. It's
completely horrible to think about and I can never, ever fathom that
being okay, but putting myself in the mindset of someone 200 years ago I
know I, and most others, would not have this thought.
When the guide turned back on the light, I realized I wasn't the only
one shaking. If this was the first stop, I couldn't imagine what would
come next.
Our next stop was the outside of the male dungeons. We stopped and heard
our guide speak outside the door for about 5-7 minutes. He told us that
once we ascended the path to the dungeons we would see 5 rooms. Each one
of these rooms would have held 100 people. These people were just in
holding - waiting for boats to be shipped off to the Americas. Disease
ran rampid and bathrooms weren't existent and were just the corner of
the room. These rooms were also dark and far too crowded, but these
people weren't there to die and were given minimal amounts of water and
food (not that the situation is any better because of that). Outside of
the gate is a plague dedicated to and by Barack and Michelle Obama.
Apparently, Ghana was the first African country Obama visited as
president, doing so in 2009. They came specifically to Cape Coast Castle
because Michelle can actually trace her ancestors back to slaves that
were held and shipped from this port.
We ascended the long and dark pathway into the male cells and saw pretty
much larger versions of the things we had seen in the dungeon. Longer
and bigger rooms, that also held a whole lot more people. In the back
room, however, we saw something a bit different. This room was more well
lit than the others, and showcased dedications from people who left
flowers, cards, notes and more to their ancestors or simply for the
cause. There was also a man there who performed a ceremonial ritual to
the ancestors to pray for the well being of the spirits of slaves and
the future of African peoples. The speech itself was in the native
language, but I still felt rather empowered by him kneeling down, to
standing up to drinking a sacred drink. For any of you who have seen my
bedroom at home, each cell was probably about twice the size. But
instead of holding one person, it would hold 100. To anyone who hasn't
seen my bedroom at home, the best example I can come up with to explain
the size is probably around the size of a larger 7-11 or other
convenience store. Imagine, 100 people with no light squeezed into this
one room for weeks or even months at a time, swimming in your own and
everyone else's feces and germs. It's no wonder so many people didn't
live to even get on the boats.
After the male cells we went outside to look over the canons and into
the oceans. Like I said, seeing the coast and shore below before
actually looked rather beautiful, like an old military scene preserved
in history. But now, as our guide talks about the boats being loaded up
right there, it no longer looked so pretty. I looked out onto the shore
and could picture human beings being tied together and thrown in massive
pacts onto these boats. Already worn down from lack of food and
sunlight, they used whatever energy they had left in one last fight.
Suddenly, the canoes parked below me looked revolting, as I could only
see them as smaller versions of the slave trade ships. And the surge of
guilt continued. Any one of those people could have been destined to be
bought by someone I am related to. I don't know my family heritage that
far back, but just because I don't know if my family had slaves or not
doesn't mean I'm immune to seeing it unfold in front of my eyes. It was
literally a scene from a movie where a character starts to picture
something happening in his head and it happens on the screen. I could
literally see the slaves being ravaged across the rocks, getting blacks
and blues and being blinded by the sunlight they had been hidden from
for so long. I could see them being chained up and hoarded like
something worse than pigs for slaughter. In one respect, I almost
couldn't go on. In another, I knew I had to.
After the canons and the dock, we went into the female holding cells.
These were even smaller than the male cells, but virtually very similar
in having a dirt floor, stone walls, and nothing else. The female cell,
however, did have one small window at the top of one of the walls. I
imagine that had something to do with white males peering in on the
naked females, but that's just a guess. Regardless, having a small
window really didn't make the situation at all any better. The female
cells were located right before the door of no return. The door of no
return literally has that inscribed across it. It is a large door that
the slaves would be forced through to be loaded onto the ships. It was
called the door of no return because that's exactly what it was. For
slaves, it was the last view they would ever have of Africa. After being
rounded up and shoved into holding cells for weeks, whoever had made it
through the disease of the cells and was still alive would be walked
across the courtyard (about a 3 minute walk for the men, 20 seconds for
women, I'm guessing) to enter this door and be forced onto a small, also
dark and crowded ship. I'm trying as hard as I can, but I don't think I
will ever be able to comprehend what it must have felt like to walk into
a situation where you didn't know what your future held, but you knew it
wasn't good, and see a locked door that says "the door of no return?"
We walked through the door and I cannot explain how that felt. Africans
didn't know what to expect when they were rounded up. There was no
system of news for people in Africa to know what was happening after
their relatives and friends were taken, but they knew it wasn't good.
They had been thrown in cells for extended periods of time and taken
beyond a door that promised no return. They had been separated from
their families, watched their friends die in the holding cells and been
starved to the point of bare-bone survival. Did walking through the door
of no return in shambles and chains bringing a feeling of hope for a
brighter future in the new world and hope of good "ownership?" Did they
even know they were being sold as lifetime laborers? That their future
kids were being sold as lifetime laborers? Or did they harden a fear
that this was the good part and the worst was yet to come?
Once we walked through the door of no return we were on the dock.
Surprisingly, a market was allowed to be built here. I guess it's a
tourist place to make money, but the hustle and bustle of people really
did take away from the experience. At one point, I even found myself
hitting Dain to show him the Ghanaian wearing a Tom Brady jersey. Sure,
that was cool, but when I tried to take a picture of him I kind of
realized I had been severely pushed out of the moment and was happy to
cross back into the dungeons (well, not exactly happy, of course, but
more-so just drawn to being completely involved in my surroundings). On
the other side of the door, to cross back into the dungeons, reads "door
of return." Though it was very clear this was added later, after the
slave trade, I still quite dislike it. Africans would never see the
return side. And I'm sure we could all figure out that was the way back
in without the sign. To me, it seemed like a sick joke.
Our tour was concluded by an amazing speech by our guide that I wish I
had recorded. He told us that the past is the past and that we are a new
generation that could treat each other the way we deserve to be treated.
He gave thanks to America and President Obama (he is quite big in Ghana)
and thanked the lord for giving him the chance to share this. It's
important to know history, but it's also important not to hold grudges
from it. He told us that he holds no grudges against our ancestors for
what they did, that this generation is free to make their own marks on
history. So let's all unite, and make our mark a good one.
We were only in the slave dungeons for 45 minutes. But it had seemed
like hours. I felt awakened anew. I felt invigorated. I felt guilty. I
felt thirsty for more but afraid of what I was to find.
Quickly, we were transported back to reality as we were bombarded with
sales people. In groups, we were taken to ATMs to withdraw Cedi,
Ghanaian currency (fun fact: Cedi isn't availible outside of Ghana at
all, in attempts to increase its international value) and while each
group went the rest of us were pushed by sales people. Even at the ATMs
young children were trying to force their product upon us - telling us
they just saw us take out money and they can't afford any food and are
hungry. This is completely heartbreaking, but something we all have to
learn to overcome. We learned quite quickly that if you gave into one
child, 50 more would come running, and it just isn't possible to help
them all. I wanted to cry (and did) more than once on this trip, and
saying no to these children was the first time I felt completely rude,
hopeless, useless and selfish. As hard as it is though, we had to say
no. We had been told this time and time again, by various people on the
ship and by our guides. And we had to be strong.
After getting back on the bus our next stop was to Hans Cottage, a hotel
about 45 minutes away that we were staying at for the night as our
village, Senase, was too far of a drive to finish that evening. We were
divided into groups at Hans Cottage, 17 people were in one giant hostel
while the rest of us were in groups of 2 or 3. I was in a group of 2 and
shared a room with Rosemary. The room was simply 2 beds, pushed
together, and one nightstand. There was no air conditioning and only one
light. The beds were dirty and the window had a hole in it. There were
also no bathrooms within the room. We had to walk down the path, maybe 6
rooms down, to find 2 toilets (actual toilets that flushed! Even though
they were dirtier than any American gas station I've seen, the luxury of
flushing toilets was already something I had come to appreciate) and one
shower (which was filthy and only ran with cold water, but A SHOWER
ah!). What amazed me most is that this was not cheap Ghanaian hotel -
this was something of a luxury. Flushing toilets and a shower, this was
an expensive hotel. In America, it was of an inferior quality to a motel
6 - but in Ghana it could be paradise. The difference is quite
astounding and totally awakening. I had been shocked by the what I
perceived as lower quality of our hotel in Rio, but this Ghanian hotel
was quite worse. The feeling of being blessed beyond belief quickly came
into my mind. At nice hotels in America, you don't have to worry about
being eaten by virus-infected mosquitoes while you sleep. You don't have
to squat over a toilet to pee. You even get to pee in your own room! And
there's electrical outlets to plug your dependents into! What luxurious
lives we live that I never seemed to fully appreciate.
After putting our things down we went to the restaurant to eat. This was
the first taste of "African time" that I got. It took about 45 minutes
for our waiter to take our orders, and another hour for it to be
brought. I ordered nothing but white rice, which would turn out to be my
only real meal of the entire trip. And the food isn't brought out all at
once, but rather a few dishes at a time with some more coming 10ish
minutes later and more after that. Tables were getting mixed up too, so
that Dain was the very last one to get his food even though the table
around him that ordered later had already finished eating. And instead
of checks another employee just came over to each person and told you
what you owe. Quite strange. And drinks are paid for separately. You pay
at the bar for drinks, including soda, and just pay for your food at the
table. It was about 10:30 by time we were done eating and some people
went to the pool while others went to our rooms to go to sleep. I went
to my room to sleep, simply because I felt the pool probably wasn't so
healthy to be swimming in.
And so concludes my first day in Ghana. Already eventful, I had trouble
falling asleep while processing my day and my trip thus far. It had
already been eyeopening, and we hadn't even made it to the village...
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