A Woman's Place

A driver from the American embassy was picking us up at 10 a.m.. Because Scott is a Fulbright scholar, a representative from the embassy, Sarpei, had some information for us. My hair was a greaseball from the dust and sweat of the night before, so I couldn’t put off showering, despite my fear of the tap water. The stand-up shower reminded me of a community wash room you might see at a campsite, with painted cinder blocks and a thin shower curtain. If we had been in America, this type of shower would definitely be home to Daddy Long Legs in the corners but upon my inspection, I saw no insects save a few tiny ants that didn’t worry me. The water pressure was equivalent to pouring a watering can over my head so it took pretty long to get the shampoo and conditioner out of my long hair. Thankfully, the water stayed warm until I finished and stepped out of the stall. I grabbed a towel I had balanced on the sink and whipped my hair upside down to rub it dry just as I saw that I had had an audience for my shower after all. A cockroach, just about an inch long must have crawled up the drain and was now silently standing on the shower floor. I was far enough away from the bug so I didn’t wake the house screeching as I would have if I had seen him while showering, and I chose to stay far away from him. I dried off, spying on him out of the corner of my eye, just to be sure he stayed still. Then I left the bathroom to get dressed.

We didn’t know if the orientation would last an hour or all day. My guess was that Scott would be busy in meetings and the kids and I would mostly be waiting around, so I packed my backpack with coloring books, crayons and a video game to entertain Elle, along with my Kindle, laptop and a book for me. We ate Miriam’s breakfast (a small white omelet, toast and cocoa), swallowed our malaria pills, sprayed down with sunscreen and mosquito repellant, and were ready for our first outting in Africa.

The sun wasn’t a scorching fireball beating down on us as I expected it to be. Instead it was a small circle of light beneath a yellow, dusty sky. In fact it was very hazy, smoglike. When we flew into Accra at dusk the night before, Scott and I both thought it was foggy, but whatever it was hadn’t lifted. “What do you think it is?” I asked. “I dunno? Maybe smog from Accra. It’s a big city.” “Do you think it cuts the heat down?” I would guess the temperature was only around 85. “I bet it does.” Scott agreed.

The streets we rode through were again lined with vendors on both sides, and men and women darted between the cars selling goods from head-balanced baskets. It was crowded, but nothing compared to the market through which we rode the night before. I told Scott, “Before we leave Africa I want to walk through the market from last night.” He answered, “We probably won’t get back there before tomorrow when we have to head to Cape Coast.” I clarified, “I’m not ready to go yet. I mean before we leave Africa in June, I’ll be ready to come back to Accra and go to that crazy-busy spot. I’m still too nervous now for that one. I’d like to walk around on the main road by the guest house before we leave, though.” “Yeah, me too. We’ll see how long we’re at the embassy. And we have to find out what time our ride is coming to take us to Cape Coast tomorrow. We should be able to take a walk before then.” And so I set a goal that day. I promised myself that before this trip was over, I would walk through that market that had freaked me out so much the night before. I took comfort in that fact that I still had 5 months to gather the nerve. Plenty of time.

We drove up to the embassy, a neatly landscaped haven from the dusty, brown surroundings. It had concrete sidewalks, benches, and symmetrical flower beds in black soil.  Sprinkler heads rhythmically spit streams of water onto the green grassed lawn. A black iron gate surrounded the perimeter and a large white sign ordered, No Photography.” I found out later that due to national security issues, photographing any government building in Ghana is forbidden. Two uniformed guards, toting machine guns ushered us into a carport beside a small security building, where we unrolled our windows. One guard perused our passports while another performed some type of bomb litmus test across the sides and under the SUV. After returning our passports, the guard ordered us inside the building, while the other guard continued the vehicle check under the hood. Our bags went through an x-ray and we had to empty out any electronics. My backpack went through six times before it was ok to pass. Of course by then it was empty besides 2 books, water and Elle’s crayons. They checked anything and everything electronic under their desks, passing us each a rounded wooden chip, hand-numbered with marker, and a visitor card to hang around our necks.

As expected, most of the time at the Embassy we spent sitting in Sarpei’s cubicle. Our security clearance didn’t allow us to move anywhere in the building without an escort, not even the bathroom. In fact, when Elle announced, “I have to go potty,” Scott asked Sarpei if he would take him to the restroom with Elle. Sarpei looked shocked, “You can’t take her to the men’s room! Mommy will take her.” So we all, Sarpei, Scott, Dakota, Elle and I filed through the halls and I took Elle in the ladies’ room while they stood outside the door. Scott told me later that while they waited, Sarpei explained, “Men do not take little girls in the men’s room. It’s not proper.” “What if a mom has to take a little boy into the women’s room?” Scott asked. “That’s fine. That’s her job.”

Later, Scott asked about homosexuality, a sensitive issue in Ghana. Sarpei’s attempt at diplomacy was apparent. He told us that traditional Ghanaians don’t acknowledge the existence of homosexuality. “It’s thought of as a mental illness here. Let me explain. Here, a young man can marry a woman, then he makes enough money so he can marry another woman, and he can marry as many women and have as many children as he can support. A man who gives this up to be with another man must be crazy. Some so-called enlightened people encourage acceptance of the idea but traditional Ghanaians do not.” I had an inkling on which side Sarpai fell, as well as some clue where women stood in the hierarchy here.

“Do you have any questions for Sarpei?” Scott asked me. I asked him about taking pictures and about the hazy sky. He advised me to always ask first when photographing people. He informed us the sky was hazy due to a dry season here called Harmaton (sp?). It lasts about two months. Because of the arid conditions at this time, sand from the Sahara is blown into the air here, so the sand and dust from the desert form the smoggy haze. He said the Harmaton came late this year, but it should pass by February.

At one point, Sarpei escorted Scott away to exchange his currency into Ghanaian cedis. The kids and I waited in the cubicle until they returned. Scott wore a childish smile. He carried a black plastic bag, and he bent over to transfer the cash to his backpack. Dakota’s eyes widened, along with his grin, as Scott opened the black bag, displaying piles of currency, bundled in color-coded denominations of 20, 10, 5, 2 and 1 cedi. At the moment, the exchange rate was about .65 dollars to one cedi. Scott’s backpack bulged with the loot. Carrying it around in the Embassy was one thing, but the thought of dragging it along with all of our other luggage until we finally reached our final destination in Cape Coast was unnerving, especially considering our track record the last few weeks. I privately vowed not to even touch the backpack. That way, there would be NO POSSIBLE WAY I could have anything to do with losing it.