Destination African Culture Shock

“Hooollllyyy Ssssshhhhiiiiiit!” That was me.

“We ain’t in Kansas anymore,” That was Scott. We all stared open-mouthed, through the SUV windows driving through Central Accra on our way to our temporary room at the University of Cape Coast Accra office and guest home.

“The trahffeec eez too bad so we mahs go a diffahrent way arund to th’universtee,” the driver told us. Of course he had an accent but I’m not so familiar with the cadence and pronunciation just yet so my phonetic representation of it is surely off.

We rode in a white American Embassy van. The driver and Sarpei, the cultural affairs guy from the embassy, sat in the front. Elle and I sat in the middle seat with Scott and Dakota leaning over our shoulders from the far back seat. Piled around us, our luggage (way too much luggage!) took up every spare inch of the van. We had landed in Accra at 6p.m.. We piled in a bus at the runway and rode to the one terminal. A painted mural, covered with flashing Christmas lights covered the door in. Inside red and green bows and colored, flashing lights escorted us down a corridor through red arches on a green carpet. The effort put forth to make the terminal look festive was apparent. We stood in two lines in which government employees checked our passports, visas and luggage. Thankfully, only one of our 14?, 15?, 16? (I’ve lost count) bags had to be checked and it was assumed the rest were equally unexciting family supplies, so we ended up outside the airport early. I think we were all in shock as we were funneled through the formalities. I honestly don’t recall how we ended up outside with two cartloads of luggage, surrounded by seven young opportunists eagar to help, and a sharp-dressed airport security guard who took a step to match each of mine remaining immediately by my side.

“Is there a place to smoke?” Scott asked the guard. The guard pointed. And that quickly, the kids and I stood alone, in an unfamiliar third world country, unsure where we were headed next. The guard asked me, “Whay are you goeen, mum?”

I tried to sound like I had one bit of a clue (which I didn’t), “I think we are going to the American Embassy? Someone is supposed to pick us up.”

“Who eez peekeen you up heah?”

“I’m not sure, my husband will know.” I hoped! Meanwhile Cody and I each held a cart of luggage, circled by young men awaiting the chance to help us unload. Elle wandered in and out of the circle watching a big screen monitor above us looping a bear cartoon, and the men, especially the guard, all kept eyes on her in case she wandered too far. Ironically, despite the uniformed guard, with his high shiny black boots, Elle felt like my safety insurance. Although I had no idea what to expect from our surroundings or these men crowding us, I did feel sure that no harm would come to us as long as we had this cute little girl with us.

Scott returned to the same questions I had been asked, answering, “A car from the U.S. Embassy is picking us up but we’re a little bit early so I should call them. Is there a phone I could use. Several of the young men dug in their pockets producing cell phones under Scott’s nose. He chose one and dialed Sarpei, who promised he was only a half mile away but in traffic. At this announcement the men encouraged us back inside the airport to wait. As a group they herded us, our luggage and our 3-year old back through the doors and instructed us to sit to wait. Scott pulled away and leaned into the guard, “Do ALL these guys expect money? How much money do they expect me to give them?” As we were being swept away, the only response I heard from the guard was, “Are you American?”

Before we could sit for 2 minutes, Sarpei strolled in wearing his normal huge smile and I immediately felt more at ease than the moment before. Scott had given the phone guy 10gh, or cedis (pronounced like CDs) and another 10gh to one of the cart pushers. We had just gotten money exchanged so we had no small bills. We weren’t about to give out big bills to all these guys. They would have to figure it out.

Sarpei took us to the van, where another group of young guys loaded our luggage in the van in a whirlwind, despite our insistence that we could do it ourselves. Sarpei pointed to the tallest of the guys and advised Scott to give him 10gh, then shooed the men away so we could get on the road.

This is where our shocked disbelief and swearing mentioned earlier started (ain’t is very offensive to me also). Night had fallen on the streets of Accra, but the activity around our van was definitely alive, and unbelievable. Sundry small stands, shacks, racks, shelves and piles, with tons of every item imaginable, from toilets to dresses to cell phones to fried fish to towels to handbags to tires to candy to fresh fruit. Everything. Everything you could possibly name. For miles and miles, on both sides of the road. We pressed our faces to the windows to see the men and women walking between the traffic-jammed cars. They peered in the window looking for any sign of interest in the items balanced on their heads. Yes, balanced on trays or baskets on their heads…again…everything!!! From bananas to popcorn to chips to oranges to juice to towels to cell phone chargers to sugar cane. Everything! I even saw a guy balancing at least ten hard-covered books stacked atop his head. They wove through the traffic strategically while we stared, stunned.

And the sheer number of people! I have never seen this many people gathered in one place except at a concert. Men and women covered every space around the stopped vehicles. Car horns moved people to the sides so the traffic could inch through the streets. Two things came to mind as I took in the sight. First I thought of ants. Please believe me when I say I didn’t mean it in any demeaning, racist way. But the amount of people piled in the street, maneuvering quickly around each other and the cars, reminded me of a hoard of ants crowding atop some sweet candy left in the dirt. So many beings crushed together in too small a space robbed each of their individual identity until in my mind, it was just a mass of humanity. There were too many, moving around so quickly that when I looked from one to the next then back, the last was replaced by another. I tried to snap some photos, but it was useless. Besides the darkness, I couldn’t pull the camera far enough back to capture the width of the street, and whenever I shot at a scene, some big truck would drive by or some head topped with a giant basket of goods would bounce into the camera’s viewfinder, blocking the shot. It was a bit claustrophobic crammed in the white SUV because I don’t know that there was actually room for us to get out of the vehicle even if we needed to; we were surrounded on all sides.

The second thought I had was of the Champs-Elysee in Paris. I’m not kidding here. This was basically the Marche Noel, which ran the length of the Champs-Elysee, but in Africa. In Paris, one by one, shops housed in small white structures butted up to each other while people wandered by stopping to buy assorted items from different vendors. Same idea, right? The only difference, really, was here, the stands weren’t uniform and there were way more shoppers. Plus they probably weren’t shopping for Christmas crafts or tourist trinkets. Those might be the ONLY things NOT available to purchase here.

Soon, the shops became further apart and the traffic spread enough to gain some speed until we turned left down a dirt road with walls and gates on either side. I assumed this was residential and behind the different fences were homes but I could see too far in the dark. I turned to Scott in the seat behind me, “This reminds me of that movie in Africa with the hotel.” “Hotel Rawanda?” Scott asked. “Yeah, you know the part when the main guy goes to search for his family in the houses? The road he ran down looked just like this.” “Oh yeah,” Scott agreed. Our driver maneuvered slowly over huge divots in the road as we bounced around inside until we came to a partially opened gate and the SUV stopped. He honked and a guard wearing pressed brownish-green pants and a tan shirt swung the door open.

I felt relieved to say the least, and, as the men hauled in suitcase after suitcase into the ranch house, I pulled Elle from the car. It is a ridiculous understatement for me to say I was freaked out at this point. I had no idea what to expect from our surroundings and it was dark. I didn’t know what could be crawling in the gravel beneath our feet, hanging from the tree branches above our heads or slithering in the wet, cement gutter circling the perimeter of the house. All I knew was I needed to get inside with my baby, sit down and breathe. Scott stunned me when he asked, “How do we get a taxi to go get something to eat?” He obviously wasn’t feeling the same anxiety and fear and need to escape behind closed doors that I was. The guard put up a finger and walked behind an adjacent door labeled office. He yelled something inside in his own language and waited for a woman’s affirmative response then made his way back to us. “The cewk weell make you food. Go een un she weell see you in theah.” I probably audibly heaved a sigh of relief as we walked in the house. The only thing I wanted less than getting in a taxi and heading back into the Accra crowds, was being left here alone while Scott went (because he would have if there weren’t food available here…nothing comes before Scott’s appetite).

Miriam, a young girl, probably not quite out of her teens, shuffled into the dining room. She spoke sufficient English to let us know she would make us food then turned back into the kitchen. I took Elle to our room, shut the door and sat on the bed. Breathe. Breathe. Breathe. The 12 * 20 room had one full-size bed, covered in a fitted sheet, with a light, tan blanket folded at the bottom and two cased pillows at the top. It had a wooden desk, a vanity, a small armoire-like closet, and white walls yellowed with age. The narrow walkway between the furniture and bed was now filled with luggage so I had to tip-toe, bend and suck-in to reach the bathroom. I was sweaty and felt gritty. I needed to wash my hands. I walked up to the sink and reached for one of the two spigots then stopped short, frozen. I envisioned microscopic snakes and ameobas swimming through the stream of water, silently waiting to burrow into my pores (did I mention I was freaked out?). There was a round, pink soap balanced on the edge of the sink but, paranoid, I shimmied back through the suitcases to find a bar of our own. I grabbed a bottle of hand sanitizer as well. I forced myself to drive the imagined monster-germs out of my mind and timidly pushed my hands under the water. I scrubbed with soap, rinsed, turned off the wicked water then hurriedly squeezed anti-bacterial gel into my palm, frantically rubbing it in. I looked down to Elle’s grubby little fingers but couldn’t put her tiny, innocent, perfect, trusting, healthy hands under the water so I just kneaded the antibacterial gel into her palms and fingers. The dust became muddy and dripped between her fingers. I have never been a germ freak, and have laughed at those moms who constantly worry about sterilizing their kids. Now I was one, and for the moment, I was not apologizing for it!!

Our first dinner in Africa was jollof rice with vegetable sauce and fried fish. Jollof rice is white rice that’s cooked with a delicious tomato-based red sauce with a little kick to it. Miriam served each of us a huge mound of it filling most of the plate. We are a sauce-loving family so we experimented with adding the vegetable sauce (it may even be the same sauce with which the jollof rice is cooked but small vegetable chunks were added). “Man, that sauce is good. Molly, you should learn to make that.” Scott exclaimed. Cody agreed, “Hey dude, don’t take it all; I want some more.” I have never been a big fish eater but it smelled so good I began picking the flesh from the tiny bones and was pleasantly surprised. I wouldn’t choose it first but I could enjoy it if served it again. “I don’t like all the bones,” Cody complained. “It’s good and all but there are so many bones.” He stabbed his fork into the fried fish, demonstrating the hardness. “Look at this. This whole piece is all bone.” I leaned forward, squinting to see the piece he poked repeatedly and realized the problem. “Cody, that’s the head. Look, there’s the eye hole.” He flung the head onto my plate, “UUUuuueeeeckk, I don’t want that on my plate. I think I ate part of it’s head!”

Because we only had one bed for the four of us, Dakota got his own room again. He moved his backpack and computer bag over. I followed him over to his room. “Hey, this is begger than our roo…” “NO it’s not,” Cody cut me off defensively. “It’s just turned sideways so it looks bigger.” I swear it really was bigger but that really wasn’t the point. “Cody, even if they are the same size, there’s one of you in here and three of us in the other room, so you have more space.” “No I don’t,” he argued. I’m not sure why he wanted to fight about this; I just wanted to store some of the luggage in his room so we had a walking path to the bathroom. “Cody, my god. What is the big deal. I just want to put half the luggage.” “Fine,” he sulked out going to pull bags across the hall. Sometimes, every little move was an irksome debate with him.

A driver from the American Embassy would pick us up at 10 a.m.. “What time do you want to set the alarm for?” Scott asked, rustling through a suitcase to pull out a small gray alarm clock. He fitted a plug adapter on the cord. “Maybe 7 a.m.?” I answered. “That early?” “Well, yeah. We have no idea where anything is in the luggage so that will take extra time, and I will need a shower but I don’t know how long that will take. Then we’ll have to wait for Miriam to make breakfast. Who knows? That may take an hour? I don’t even know what they make for breakfast here. I don’t want to be in a rush because that will make me forget something stupid.”Plus we have to find the malaria medicine and everyone needs to put on mosquito repellant and sunscreen. 7 is the latest we should get started.” “OK I’ll set the alarm for 7 then.” He reached down to plug in the clock and a small poof sounded but the digital numbers didn’t light. “Uhoh. I think I blew up the clock!” Scott threw the alarm clock and we asked Dakota to set the alarm on his Ipod touch instead.

After basically pulling everything out to find something cool to sleep in (we were still dressed in what we left wintry Germany wearing), we fell into bed exhausted. The room had an air conditioner and a powerful ceiling fan that spun no slower (or quieter) than helicopter blades. Cody was sleeping across the hall with his door locked and Elle squirmed between Scott and me. I’m sure my anxiety should have kept me up all night but the exhaustion of the trip here knocked me out.