Two Lists, Two Markets

So we made two lists; one for Don, the housing guy at University of Cape Coast, and one for us. Don’s list detailed the repairs needed on the house. Our list cataloged supplies we needed to make the house our home.

Don was in and out of the house for the next 2 days delegating countless maintenance men. Within 48 hours, the sink and toilet were fixed. Elle had a bed. They brought in a TV and stand. Curtains were put up in the bedrooms. An insecticide was sprayed around the house. The walls and floors were washed. The new ceiling fans we bought were installed in Elle’s and Cody’s room. A hole in the bathroom wall was covered and attempts were made to fix the bathroom door. One more concern on our list couldn’t be fixed, hot water. Don and his workers looked a little puzzled by our panic. The dialogue went something like this.

“No hot water?”

“Sure,” they pointed to the petite gas stove in the kitchen, “You put the water in a kettle on the heat.”

“But what about out of the faucet? We don’t have hot water out of the faucet?”

“You can heat it up on the stove.” I don’t think they quite understood why we had an issue with this.

“What about showers, baths? How can we take a shower?”

They pointed into the bathroom.

“We want to take a shower with hot water.”

“You can get a pitcher to pour the heated water over you in the bathtub.”

It was obvious that this problem didn’t register as any such thing to them. Scott tried another route.

“Do you have hot water?”

“Yes, we have kettles to put on the stove. You should buy a big kettle at the market.”

“What about when you shower? You take cold showers?”

“Sure.” The other workers matter-of-factly agreed.

“Do any of the houses on campus have hot water that comes from the faucet?”

“No.”

We made a hearty attempt in the market at finding a small hot water heater to mount above our tub. Don said that if we found one, they would put it up for us. But I’m pretty sure it was an optimistic gesture. Kind of like, hey, if I win 28 million in the lottery tonight, I’ll give you 100 grand. Same.

Dakota, along with some international students from Grand Valley, finally broke through our hot water paradigm. Three students from GVSU are attending U.C.C. this semester. We met with them back in Grand Rapids before the trip and had arranged to meet them for dinner upon arrival. On our way to meet them, Dakota reasoned with us, “Come on guys, I took a cold shower last night and it wasn’t that bad. You just get in and out fast. That’s just how they do it here. If they do it, we might as well do it. That’s the reason we’re here, right. To learn how other cultures live?”

(From left to right) Patrick, Regina, Elle, Jessica

The college students, Patrick, Jessica and Regina held the same open-minded reasoning. My age and inflexibility blazed apparent when contrasted with their ingenuity.

“I just put bottles of water in the sun all day. Then by evening they’re warm. I can use them to pour over myself when I need a shower.” Patrick shared.

Regina shrugged,” Yeah, you only need to shower like once a week.”

So we took “hot water” off of Don’s list and added “kettle” and “pitcher” onto our list.

Big John was the taxi driver who drove us to Kortakraba (I’m spelling it how I say it and I’m probably pronouncing it wrong), the biggest market in Cape Coast. Like Accra, it’s comprised of rows and rows of stands, booths and shelters with crooked shelves holding all types of items. There are some open stores where you actually walk in to shop, but they are few and far between. There’s no rhyme or reason to the items sold and the location you’d find them, so shopping is like one big, hot, sweaty, scavenger hunt. The roads are narrow, and a perpetual traffic jam forces cars and honking taxis to swerve in and out and around each other, pedestrians and head-vendors (meaning they’re balancing their goods on their heads, not selling heads). There’s a very tiny space between the shops and the road to walk, but it takes concentration to maneuver. Small concrete slabs straddle a deep cement gutter. The slabs aren’t always uniform and are sometimes wobbly or just plain gone, so walking through the market takes precision and athleticism, to say the least.

After showing Big John our list, he took us to Ghana’s answer to Target, Melcolm. It’s the biggest walk-in store. It actually has a floor and fluorescent lights, aisles and metal shelving. There’s a checkout girl sitting beside a table with a calculator and cash box and a security guard sitting atop a tall stool near the entrance. And by entrance, I don’t mean door. This is an open entrance, as if the front wall of the building has been removed. Big John accompanied us into Melcolm. Straight ahead were televisions on the wall and oscillating fans on the floor. Some stairs led to a lower level with table and chair sets. To the left were kitchen electronics, pans, storage containers and utensils. Elle and I headed right, where we passed little bikes and linens on our way to a wall of clocks. Scott strode to the fans, followed by Dakota and Big John. “I’m going to find a clock,” I told Scott over my shoulder.

“O.K., I’ll start looking for other things on the list.”

In front of the wall of clocks was a counter, behind which stood a young woman waiting on two middle-aged men in front of me. I stood beside them, holding Elle’s hand. She shuffled around between me and the two men. When the woman turned to me, I pointed to a round, white clock with cute colored flowers on the front. She shook her head, “That one’s finished.” I pointed to my second choice. She shook her head, “That one’s finished.”

Meanwhile, I heard Elle behind me asking, “Mama, will you scratch my back. Mama. Mama. Will you scratch my back?” I was intent on finding a clock that was available so I held a finger up behind my back. She continued her plea, as I pointed to another clock. This time the girl at the counter turned around searching among stacks of boxes, pulling one out and placing it on the glass counter. As she opened the box, I turned to check on a now quieted Elle. She had her back to me and the man who had been standing beside us, gently scratched her back. He looked up at me and smiled, then Elle turned back to me satisfied. “Thank you,” I stammered. I would learn soon that our boundaries with other people’s children are non-existent here, and his reaction to her request was quite natural.

When I turned, I saw Scott and Dakota approaching. Behind them, Big John carried sundry items from our list. Scott recited his finds and pointed to where he had seen pans. I walked that way, but Big John reached in front of me to take the clock out of my hand. It was an awkward moment, and I felt uncomfortable with this. I could picture what we looked like. The only white family in the store, empty-handed, followed by an African man hauling around all our purchases. It felt wrong to say the least, but I wasn’t sure how to deal with the issue at the moment, so I went to pick out some pans as quickly as possible. As I perused the pan sets, a young woman again stood beside me. I reached for a set but the lady shook her head, “It’s finished.” I reached for another. She shook her head, “It’s finished.” I finally found some pans, including a large kettle, that were available.

I spied some plastic pitchers on the top shelf and reached for one. The same woman shook her head, “Those are no good.” She pointed to cracks along the sides of it, took the pitcher and placed it back on the shelf. She grabbed a different pitcher from the lower rack and handed it to me, “This is a good one.” I knew Big John would take it from my hand to add to our other purchases. I felt anxious and sweaty. I didn’t like the situation and claustrophobia was setting in at the cramped check-out aisle.

“I’m taking Elle outside. I’ll wait for you out there.” Elle and I waited just outside the entrance. Four little girls stood in a line watching us. With their short black hair cropped to their heads, their big brown eyes stared silently as I found a bottle of water in my backpack and held it to Elle’s mouth.

The four of us, and Big John walked through the market for another hour, peaking in each stand and shop to complete our scavenger hunt. Among other things, I bought two rugs and a blanket to cozy up our living room a bit. Before we could even find half of the items, Elle was crying, Cody was complaining, I was whining and an exasperated Scott announced, “I’m done.” We piled into Big John’s taxi as he loaded our things in the hatchback. I whispered to Scott, “I don’t like him following us and carrying our stuff like a servant.”

“Me neither,” he agreed, “I’ll talk to him about it.”

We decided we should complete our scavenger hunt on another day. Scott arranged for the GVSU students to come to the house, so we could go to the market sans children. We soon found out that leaving our children at home didn’t necessarily mean we wouldn’t have a group of children following us through the market.

This time Big John drove us to Abbra. It’s closer to the U.C.C. campus. It’s also smaller with dirt roads, fewer cars and fewer people. We still had to complete our supply list, plus now we had to purchase some food. For our first four days, the university had provided our meals at a small restaurant on Campus. That free meal ticket ran out so I would be expected to cook meals at home now. Big John dropped us off at an area of the market where vegetables, fruit and fish could be found.

We walked off the roadside and entered the maze of wooden stands. Women sat on stools in front of large trays spiraled with raw red snapper. There were also women with trays of dried brown fish stacked in a circle upon their heads. Wooden tables crowded the area, displaying colorful fresh tomatoes, cabbage, green peppers, onions, cucumbers, potatoes, huge, long yams, bananas, pineapples, bananas, along with plenty of unrecognizable berries, melons and gourd-like veggies. The walking area was narrow and we had to weave in carefully not to knock over stacks of fresh eggs or tables covered with assorted bottles (including coca cola and Heinz) filled with some kind of red sauce. I asked a young girl behind the stand what the sauce was used for. A language barrier prevented any explanation besides, “It’s used for stew.”

We used a textbook barter system to buy supplies, asking, “How much?” then offering less, expecting a counter-offer somewhere in between. But the food prices seemed more set. For instance, I had already figured out that I couldn’t expect eggs to be any less than 1 cedi for four, or a juice box for less than 50  pesewas. I suspected sometimes that a cedi or two was being added to our price because we were white, and so assumed rich. That didn’t bother me. I could see that relatively speaking, we are loaded, and one cedi means a lot more to them than to us. But when someone tried to add an exorbitant amount, just taking advantage of our ignorance, I walked away. They’d call us back, offering a reasonable price, but by then I was offended and risked finding the item elsewhere. One aspect of buying food here that really doesn’t make sense to me is buying large amounts of something doesn’t save you any money. I tried to buy a box of granola bars that I found in town. The woman gave me a questioning glance and stated, “18 cedis.”

My mouth dropped open and my eyes popped, “18 cedis?! That’s too much.”

She pointed to a rack with single granola bars perched in rows according to flavor, “They are 1 cedi 50 pesewas for one. This box is 12.”

I put the box back and grabbed two single bars instead. In the end, I’m glad I only bought 2 because they tasted like they’d been soaked in dish soap.

The same thing had happened in Accra when Scott tried to purchase a box of 100 band-aids and the woman asked for 50 cedis, explaining that each band-aid costs 50 pesewas. We hope Elle’s one box of Hello Kitty band-aids from home lasts 5 months, or we’ll be buying band-aids one by one.

After buying food, we decided to explore a side path that intersected with the main road. As soon as we passed the corner we could tell we’d entered a space rarely taken by Obrunis. The path wasn’t big enough for cars to pass through and behind each small stand stood a shack that looked like the vendors’ living spaces. Goats and chickens wandered through the path. Cement blocks and wood sheltered tiny dirt plots around the dwellings. There were open door frames and window frames, from which tiny brown faces poked out in excitement. We heard little voices announcing, “Obruni. Obruni. Obruni,” as we made our way down the path. In front of the dwellings, women and men lounged beside their stands. Soon, the peeking children ventured into the road behind us. At one point I turned around to find at least 15 little kids trailing us like the pied piper.

This is the 2nd picture. Look at the little boys running to join the photo!

Two little boys stood on the side of the road in front of us and pointed to the camera hanging around my neck. One called to me, “Obruni. Take our picture.” I happily pulled up my camera to frame the photo. Before the shutter snapped, little children began bolting toward the other two, gleefully posing for the camera. I took three pictures in succession and by the third, the picture of two boys became a group photo. We bought juice boxes and salt from one stand. The children gathered around to watch the purchase. Scott whispered, “Let’s buy them some candy.”

“No Way!” I had seen what happened when I pulled my camera up. If we bought this group of kids candy, I suspected every child in the small road would gather around us with hopeful eyes I couldn’t deny.

One girl really touched my heart. She was probably 9 years old. She balanced a white five gallon bucket full of water on her head, and sidled up to me. The other children backed up but continued to follow. “What is your name?” her small voice queried.

“My name is Molly.”

“Where are you from?” she asked on flawless English.

“I’m from America. Do you live here.”

“Yes.”

“What are you carrying?” I asked.

“Water for my home.” She told me.

“Do you have to carry it far?”

“No.” She pointed strait then to the left. “I went to America for Christmas. I went to Flor-ee-dah.”

“To Disneyland?” Her eyebrows pulled together in confusion. “Mickey Mouse. Do you know Mickey Mouse?”

A large grin displayed her comprehension. “Yes. Yes. I went to Disneyland.”

As we turned to leave her road, she waved and called, “Bye Bye. Bye Bye.” The group of following children  had started to sing a song in English. They followed us out of the street with a repeated chorus. Their high, sweet voices sing-songed,

“Hel-lo

How-are-you

I’m-fine.

Thank-you

And-You

Hel-lo

How-are-you

I’m-fine.

Thank-you

And-you”

We heard another song chanted by two middle-aged women sitting on a wall beside the corner. I recognized their repeated “Obruni” but I didn’t know any of the other Fanti lyrics. Based on their tone and the bystanders’ cackle of laughter following their rhyme, I’m guessing it wasn’t as sweet as the children’s. I didn’t mind, though. I sang all the way back to our bungalow, Hel-lo, How-are-you, I’m-fine,thank-you, and-you, wishing I could somehow take that little girl to Disneyland.