The Bather: September 7, 2009

Accra, Ghana

I went to Jamestown, one of Accra’s poorest yet liveliest areas, to visit a former student. When I found Gifty, she was helping a neighbor prepare lunch. She screamed with excitement upon seeing me and flung her arms around me. As we embraced, it occurred to me that she had not grown at all since I last saw her two years ago. She was now 17 and would probably remain this tiny, thin woman for the rest of her life.
Gifty wanted me to meet her mother, who was hanging around somewhere in Jamestown. “Follow me! We will find her!” she said.
We squeezed between houses and jumped over gutters, as Gifty navigated us around small, ply-board structures and crumbling colonial edifices. We turned corner after corner into people’s outdoor kitchens and homes. As long as we greeted everyone properly, no one seemed to mind the white lady passing through. With my knowledgeable guide at the helm, I did not think twice about where I was going.
Gifty led us around another building, and as we rounded the corner, we were suddenly greeted by the backside of a bathing man. He looked over his shoulder at us, his eyes wide and his mouth agape. He shouted at Gifty in Ga, Accra’s local language. Shocked and unsure of what to do, I first turned and faced the wall. I stood there for a moment like a naughty child, until my head told me to leave, and my body, slow to catch on, followed suit. Laughing, Gifty took me down another walkway, and we soon found her mother.
My contact with Gifty’s mom was brief since she spoke no English and I did not speak enough Ga to hold any type of conversation-- all I could tell her was to sit, come, and go home, so I thought it best to save my Ga for another time. We sat together, smiling at each other, for about ten minutes. Gifty would occasionally translate something in her broken English, I would reply, and we’d all smile again. Soon, Gifty said, “Madam, let’s go,” so we did.
We made our way out to a street. Suddenly, I heard some shouting behind me. I turned around and saw the bathing man coming towards me, thankfully with clothes on. Behind him were a fat lady and a group of children. He approached me, shouting in Ga.
“Gifty, what is he saying?”
“He is mad that you saw him.”
I apologized quickly, explaining that I did not know he was bathing there.
“Why did she come that way?” the man asked angrily. “She knew I was there!”
“Gifty!!” I cried.
“No, Madam! It’s not true!”she exclaimed, laughing.
“You saw my but-tum! You take a picture!” the bather accused.
“What?!”
I started to lose track of what was happening. The man was still angry, the fat woman was laughing, and the children were staring in fascination at the confused and embarrassed blafunyo standing before them. Oh, and I was apparently some creepy voyeur who takes photos of grown men in outdoor showers.
“I did not take a picture,” I assured him.
“Give me your camera!” he demanded.
Careful not to make things worse, I calmly refused. “No. I did not take a picture. I am very sorry I saw you. I can assure you I am more embarrassed than you are!”
I don’t know how much this meant to him, but he seemed to cool down a bit. Since I declined to give him my camera, he asked me for money. I said no to that, as well.
“Eh! You saw my but-tum!”
“Yes, I did! I’m sorry! You have nothing to be embarrassed about! It was very muscular!” I almost shouted.
I quickly scolded myself for adding that last part. I was merely attempting to defuse the situation, but I was clearly too awkward to do it effectively. The man shook his head at me. Again, I told him I was more embarrassed than he was. He still wasn’t happy, but his anger had subsided. As he muttered something else about his but-tum, Gifty motioned for us to leave. When I turned to follow her, I noticed that much of the neighborhood had gathered to see who was causing such a ruckus. Feeling that I had overstayed my welcome, I apologized once more and walked off, leaving my clean, muscular acquaintance behind me.

The Long Arrival: September 4, 2009

Lome, Togo

After the cancellation of my connecting flight to Accra, I had joined a flight from Casablanca to Lome, Togo, which, I was told by airline staff, would stop in my destined city. The plane never did stop, though, and at 2am I was on the ground in Lome. A flight attendant informed us that a bus would take all Accra-bound passengers to Ghana, Togo’s neighbor to the left. Obediently, I exited the plane, leaving behind a dozen a livid Ghanaians who refused to travel in anything but the plane they were already on. I too was upset, but I knew from experience that African customer service standards sometimes differ, and complaining would very likely get me nowhere. However, in this instance, I should have stuck with the Africans.
Only the North Africans and Europeans left the plane, and instead of going to Accra, our bus took us to the customs hall, where unfriendly Togolese officials informed us we had to purchase visas. After about 40 minutes of arguing in several languages (not on my part, though; I just nodded my head aggressively every time the Moroccan women shouted something), an airline representative appeared and said the plane would be taking us to Accra. Eventually, customs agreed to let us through without visas, but in an effort to preserve bureaucracy, we were forced to exit the building through the arrivals hall, re-enter through the departures hall, clear security, and wait for a bus to take us back to the plane.
After a minute-long bus journey, we boarded for the second time that night. As we ascended the stairs, the faces of satisfied Ghanaians stared out at us from the airplane’s windows. A Moroccan woman next to me said something in Arabic and laughed. I asked her what she had said. She smiled at me and replied, “The blacks, they were right!”