Jamestown

 My first weekend in Accra and an opportunity to get out and about and see a bit of the city. But before that, I had to stock up on some essentials and so headed, with my host, Odette, to buy some fruit at the market. This was, hands down, the best looking fruit stall I have ever seen, and I came away with as many mangos and avocados as I could manage – as well as this hitherto unknown delight. Is it a prickly pear? I’m not sure.

Ben had kindly agreed to being my Jamestown tour guide for the day and we were planning on setting off on my first day of sightseeing at 1 o’clock. Unfortunately, the day was delayed somewhat when the car failed to start, resulting in Ben peering into the bonnet and playing around with some very unsafe looking copper wires (I couldn’t watch). My concerns, however, seemed misplaced as Ben eventually got the car going without injury and we headed into town, with the aid of some friendly passersby who gave the car a push to help us on our way.

Our first stop was Nkrumah Circle (known locally as plain old “Circle”), a bustling transport hub and a major junction where the Ring Road meets the main North-South road heading through the Old Town. As well as being a major landmark, taxi rank and bus station, Circle is the place to get fixed whatever you might need fixing, and we made our way through a labyrinth of electronics shops to a shady looking shack where I hoped to get my phone unlocked so that I could get a Ghanaian SIM card. This didn’t seem to be a problem and I handed my phone over with instructions to pick it up later.

We headed next to the Jamestown Lighthouse, stopping on route at another electronics store in a Jamestown alleyway so that Ben could drop of his TV for repairs. As Ben saw to his errands, I waited outside and was quickly surrounded by a small crowd of young children who were clearly fascinated by the obruni (white person) standing outside their house. After lots of pointing and staring from afar, one of the older kids finally plucked up the courage to come closer to me and ask me my name. Assured then that I was friendly, I was quickly engaged in conversation with Kofi, Gladys, Yasmine and several others who, although were told several times that I was from Britain, were absolutely convinced that I was from India on account of my diamonte nose stud.

My first impression of Jamestown, one of the oldest parts of Accra, was that it was a world away from the quiet, immaculate avenues of Abelemkpe (see earlier post on “First Impressions”). Jamestown’s small alleyways are teeming with people, shops and cars. It is quite a full on experience for the uninitiated and, had I not been with Ben, I certainly would have struggled to find my way around. A high proportion of poverty is evident from the slums, but amongst the shacks rise some rather beautiful Victorian buildings, even if most are in a state of disrepair. It is certainly a characterful neighbourhood.

We headed down to the red and white lighthouse on the sea front. The, still working, lighthouse was built in the 1930s, but a lighthouse has stood on that spot since the nineteenth century. On account of my broken ankle, as well as a general dislike of spiral staircases, I declined Ben’s suggestion to climb the 90ish steps to the top (even though there is apparently a great view from up there). Instead we headed downhill to the fishing community at the base of the lighthouse, in the shadow of James Fort, a colonial era prison that is currently closed to the public (though is apparently opening as a museum very soon).

The fishing community, though plainly impoverished, is worth taking a stroll around for two reasons. First, because of the warmth of the community members and second to get a view of the colourful canoes, tangled up in fishing nets, that blanket the shore. Ben and I walked through the slums, past women selling delicious looking red snapper, out towards the ocean to watch the fishermen coming in. They work from very long, narrow canoe boats that are delightfully painted and, as with everything else in Ghana, endorsed with a passage from the Bible, a psalm or a simple religious message. I also saw men at work carving the canoes. They are made from enormous single pieces of wood. Each one is carved by four or five men, and takes around two weeks.

From the lighthouse we drove through the busy streets of Jamestown, past the heaving Makola Market to the Centre for National Culture, which rather than being a cultural centre as I would understand it, is really a craft market selling items like wood carvings, djembe drums, tribal masks, woven fabrics, and some lower-end souvenirs like bangles  and Black Star football shirts. Unfortunately, owing to our car difficulties (which lingered on throughout the day – every time we restarted the vehicle we had to enlist the help of obliging others in giving us a push) we got to the Centre rather late in the day when most stalls were closing up. Despite this, there was still a degree of hassle to buy, albeit mostly non-aggressive and friendly.

Before jumping back in the car, Ben and I stopped to pick up snack of corn-on-the-cob, freshly roasted by the side of the road. Corn-on-the-cob in Ghana tastes rather different to corn-on-the-cob at home. The corn is smaller and much sweeter and is delicious eaten with a small piece of coconut. I told Ben that at home corn-on-the-cob is often eaten with butter. This was not only met with disbelief but with Ben nearly lying crippled on the floor rolling with laughter. Such is the absurdity of barbequed corn with butter, apparently.

On our drive through town I had noticed several funeral gatherings taking place. I was already aware that funerals are a very big deal in Ghana and that after a person’s death several “celebrations” take place, including a “celebration of life” one week after the death and a funeral service later on. The funeral gatherings were easy to spot: crowds of immaculately dressed people decked from top to toe in red and black. Apparently before attending a funeral it is customary for mourners to buy brand new red and black special funeral fabric and have it made into a new outfit. However, at one point we passed a huge gathering of people all dressed in matching white and blue outfits. I asked Ben if that was a wedding.

          “No”, he explained. “This is a funeral too. But the person who died was over 90 years old. To live so long makes a person very blessed. So we don’t wear black, we wear red to celebrate the person’s good fortune.”

          That to me sounds like a very nice idea.