Great Northern Adventure, Part One: Kumasi

We’d been dreaming about the Great Northern Adventure since before the landing gear of our plane even skidded onto the hard pavement in Accra. The suspense was something similar to a child on Christmas Eve, his eyes wide awake until he’s sure he heard Santa’s sleigh bells on the rooftop. For the 13 obronis of Okbungalow, there were no sleigh bells on Thursday morning—instead, our alarms jolted us from our deep slumber before the sun had even risen. We shoveled oatmeal and eggs into our eager mouths and jumped aboard the big blue caterpillar bus. Leslie, our director, and Isaac, our driver, greeted us enthusiastically. Sonny, an employee of the Aya Center, was coming along, too, much to the delight of many girls who swoon over his good looks and charm. I made my nest in the seat behind Sonny, across from Katie, in the very front of the bus. With the combination of pollution, windy, narrow roads and no Dramamine, I figured it was probably the safest spot. I looked around me and realized that everything I had brought along had some special meaning: my backpack borrowed from Ellie, a bracelet from Megan, a purse from Eryn, a pillow made by Mom, a carved elephant from Will, a necklace from my sis and earrings from my dad—I really felt like you all were right there with me!

We zoomed through the University of Ghana campus and by the time we hit the open road, everyone on the bus was asleep. I took the down time to listen to music and snap a few photos of signs on the way out of town: “God Time Beauty Shop”, “Glory Be Cold Shop”. The traffic was terrible, with either construction or car accidents obstructing our journey almost constantly. While waiting in traffic lines, hawkers strolled by the bus casually, taking a little extra time than normal on our bus full of sleepy obronis. “Ettesein,” they’d shout, and then laugh hysterically when I replied with a shaky version of Twi. The women balanced huge loads of FanChoco and FanIce (ice cream in little packets that sell for about 30 cents) on their heads, all while hauling their sleeping babies on their backs. We stopped briefly at Linda Dor Rest Stop, shaking my peers from their restless slumber on the bumpy bus. The rest stop was nothing to speak of, though they did sell corn on the cob (which I have become quite fond of since that woman on the trotro practically shoved it down my throat). We clamored back on the bus for another three hours of iPods, Soduko and sleep.

We rolled into Kumasi approximately five hours after leaving Accra, which didn’t seem so bad once we saw the hotel pool. Kumasi is the “kingdom of gold,” the birthplace of Adinkra and Kente cloth and the second largest city in Ghana. I roomed with Jessica and Katie, the two girls with whom I’ve started a sort of impromptu “book club”—there’s a lot of time for reading here. Instead of lounging by the pool, we all piled back on the bus once again after checking into our modest rooms and headed into town. We stopped at Manyhia Place, a decadent yellow and red building with fancy blue and green peacocks strutting across the courtyard. The called to each other in screams that sounded like drowning cats—other than that, the place was nice. We had an interesting tour guide who showed us around the Asante King’s former palace—Kumasi is the center of the Asante region, and therefore the Asante King lives here. His primary duties are to deal with issues of the state, and he often confers with the President to make decisions about Ghana’s wellbeing. We peeked over the fence to see the King’s current palace, which was even more decadent than the first. Inside the palace are wax replicas of the Asante Kings and important women, including the Queen Mothers of the kingdom. The Asante are a matrilineal society, so the Queen mother is extremely powerful. In fact, the children of the king technically have nothing to do with the royal family. This might seem confusing, but it’s probably for the best considering that the king has eight wives. The Queen Mother is usually the sister, aunt, mother or other female relative of the king. We saw the former king’s swords (now used for ceremonial purposes), robes and even his collection of crystal shot glasses.

After our tour, we fended off some eager hawkers and climbed back aboard the big Chinese bus. Exhausted, we collapsed into a pile at the swimming pool, making a few lazy plops into the chilled water to wash the dust and sweat off our bodies. Dinner was, again, a buffet of traditional food: rice, chicken, fish, steamed vegetables, plantains and various delicious sauces. We were especially spoiled with desert—ice cream with fresh fruit salad. There’s no pineapple like Ghanaian pineapple, let me tell you.

After dinner, I took a warm shower. I can’t tell you what a life changing experience that was. After nearly a month with cold water that comes out in drips, a high-pressure, warm shower truly felt like a little slice of heaven right there at the Royal Basin Hotel. I must have stayed in there for awhile, because by the time I finally emerged it was pitch black outside and the mosquitoes made annoying sounds as they whipped around the light outside our window. I curled up on the rock that passed as a bed with You Shall Know Our Velocity!, a fantastic read if you’re looking. After about ten pages, I was snoring louder than all the buzzing mosquitoes in all of Kumasi put together.

We woke up early again to a feast of omelets, toast, orange juice and fruit before heading out on our big shopping adventure. I brought a lot of money, too much probably, and had every intention of spending it on fabric, beads and wood carvings. First, Isaac pulled the bus to a squeaky halt in the little village of Bonwire. Immediately, our outlandish blue bus was flanked by children with outstretched hands—it felt like an ambush. Where did they all come from? We snaked through the sea of children and toppled into a wooden building where a man wearing an Obama shirt taught us about Kente cloth. Asante warriors from years ago happened upon a spider and, after seeing its web, were amazed that such a tiny animal could produce such amazing things. They began to weave, like the spider, and soon perfected their art with brightly colored thread and intricate single, double and triple weave patterns. Only men weave, though, because women are traditionally meant to stay at home with the children. It’s thought that if a woman begins weaving, she will become infertile.

Our eyes were overwhelmed by vibrant colors bouncing across the room from strips of Kente hanging from the walls. I must have bought one in every color, including a large one for myself in brilliant green, red, yellow and black. They had silk kente, too, and it felt so good to run my fingers over the smooth, cold fabric. They tried to explain the symbolic meanings of each pattern, but for them it means something so different—it means something so much deeper than any of us who shell out a measly $5 for a strip of fabric that takes three days to create could ever understand. I left the Bonwire (pronounced bon-wah-ree) feeling humbled by the talent, perseverance and dedication of the men who toil and sweat to create such beautiful items, but was whipped back into the real world by children tugging my arms and begging for something to eat, pens, money, water, biscuits, anything. I climbed back on the bus and we chugged down the road to our next stop of the day.

Ntonso is a tiny little town on a dry dirt road. A few shady trees watch over children as they play, their wise old branches protecting their gleaming faces from the harsh, bright sun. We met up with “Adinkra Dave,” a friend of Leslie’s who gave us a tutorial on Adinkra stamping. The ink for stamping comes from a smelly process that involves stripping the bark from hard trees, soaking it, bleeding its juices, cooking those juices over open wood fires in huge barrels propped up by old, crusty engine blocks covered in ash the color of an elephant. Once the process is complete, Adinkra Dave leads us to a long red cloth where we each pick out a symbol—an Adinkra symbol—to stamp neatly onto the fabric. I chose the symbol for learning from your mistakes, a squiggly upside down heart shape with edges that curl around themselves like springs. Adinkra Dave dipped the carved cassava stamp into the boiling liquid, clicking it against the side of the pot to conserve any excess ink. I stamped down hard on the pretty red fabric and pulled directly up, just as Dave had instructed. Perfect.

We continued stamping and dipping, dipping and stamping until our cloth was all used up. While we waited for it to dry, we played with some of the school children who held our hands as we tried to ask their names. The hammed it up for pictures with us, their wide smiles filling their coal black faces like little light bulbs against a warm summer night. Once the cloth had dried, we once again climbed aboard the blue bus, now smelling slightly like a 7th grade boys’ locker room, and waved goodbye to the children as they danced and made faces at us from the red dirt path.

After Ntonso, the blue bus wound its way through Kumasi to Ahwiaa, a word carver’s market. Both sides of the road were dotted with intricately carved stools, masks, drums and enough knick-knacks to fill an entire airplane. Two of my friends bough enormous drums, their sides stained and carved with a true artist’s touch. I played with the carvings, turning them over in my hand, until the owners started hustling me to buy from them. I turned on my heels and move onto the next shop where the owner shouted, “Free looking for you, beautiful seestah!” as if I were the only one for whom looking was free. The carvings here are so amazing and delicate, each eye, nose and ear of the animal or person carefully thought out and beautifully executed. Ghanaians have a things for stools, stemming from the legend of the golden stool which exists somewhere secretive in a secret room where only people who are extra secretive can touch it, and even then only in the dark. The stool craze swept all aspects of Ghanaian life, and now beautifully carved wooden stools with etched animals, adinkra symbols and scenes interrupting polished wood lie in every respectable wood carver’s shop. My favorite is the unity stool, a tangle of three, five or seven little people whose arms and legs are all interwoven and carved from the same piece of wood. Their heads rest upright in a circle, designed to hold a piece of cut glass for a coffee table or a small bowl, depending on the size of the stool.
After a quick lunch, we again boarded the Chinese blue bus and chugged off to Kumasi Central Market. The market is run by women—all women—and is known for selling beautiful wax print fabrics with bright colors and vibrant patterns. Isaac dropped us off in front of a huge building painted green with little cans of dried tomatoes painted on the side and told us he’d be back in an hour. So we walked, dodged minor traffic accidents and darted between women with giant bowls on their heads carrying live chickens for sale. Their beaks wobbled back and forth with the stride of the gorgeous, curvaceous women carrying them to their deaths.

The market itself in one word was hectic. Dozens of people pushed and elbowed their way through tiny, crowded walkways big enough for one average sized person to walk down. Women balancing bowls on their heads and babies on their backs scowled at my as I tried to jump out of their way. Old women grabbed my arm and without saying a word pointed at their fabrics with tired old eyes that begged for business. Most of the women would only sell fabric in six-yard quantities. If you were lucky enough, some women might cut it down to three or four yards, but that meant you also had to be patient enough to wait while she slowly measured, cut and folded, all while trying to avoid being run over by passing foot traffic. Needless to say, I am patient when it comes to shopping and so wound up purchasing myself more fabric than I could ever use, especially since I don’t know how to sew—no time like the present, right Mom?

After breaking free from the chaos (sort of) and swearing we’d bought our last yard, Jessica, Katie and I stumbled upon a stand full of inexpensive, beautiful fabric. While Jessica and Katie bargained with the authoritative woman behind the table, I struck up conversation with a young girl, watching her fingers as she carefully folded and refolded the fabric. “Buy from me,” she said with shy eyes, and I explained in slow English that I didn’t have much money left. Instead of hassling me, she left me alone—a welcome change from the usual chaos of shopping in Ghana. Instead, she told me that this was her mother’s booth and she was learning how to buy and sell fabric at the market. She wanted to learn how to sew, like her mom, so she could be successful and attend a university someday. Just as Katie and Jessica were wrapping up their latest purchases (“Last one, I swear!”), I caved. I smiled at the young girl and asked her which was her favorite. She pointed a dainty finger toward an ivory piece with dashes of purple and gold strung throughout. I asked her for three yards. Her eyes lit up as the cut the fabric, ripping it carefully just like her mother. She folded it and placed it neatly inside a bag. With a smile that could light a city, she handed the back over and took my 3 cedis. I said, “Medahse” and turned to walk away, but not before I caught a glimpse of her flashing the 3 cedis to her mother proudly.

Again, we dodged traffic and narrowly escaped death crossing the road to the big green building. We weren’t exactly sure where to meet the bus, and it appeared that we were the first to arrive. We stood next to two pudgy women, their aprons stained with unrecognizable juices. One leaned over her makeshift bench to stir a bubbling pot of groundnut soup while the other counted the day’s earnings. They both laughed loudly, with cackles to match the hyenea. They introduced themselves, as did we, and began the typical line of questioning—how are you, who are you, where are you from, why are you here—as we fired back answers. They were kindly women, the type you’ve always wanted as an aunt or grandmother. One of their daughters, Matilda, walked up behind us and started chatting away as if we’d been best friends since the beginning of time. She was 17 and waiting for the results of her school tests—“Soooo nervous!”
She had piercing eyes like coal and clear skin. She was sweet, and asked for my number, proclaiming that she’d “take me as a friend” because I was nice. We chatted with the women awhile longer while waiting for Issac to roll around the bend with the big blue bus, fighting traffic and threatening pedestrians the whole way down the hill. Sheena, one of the obronis, got violently ill while shopping so we fed her water and Pepto-Bismol as the hot sun flashed in bright rays across the sprawling canvasses of the market. Finally, Isaac pulled up in the caterpillar bus and we headed back to the Royal Basin Hotel for an evening of Chinese food (delicious), pool lounging (fantastic) and a night of relaxation before our epic trek to Mole at 6am Saturday morning.

…TO BE CONTINUED….