The gate of no return

It was Sunday morning. I woke up early in order to indulge my breakfast in my Oasis.I picked up my Africa book and sat at a table close to the beach. I ordered the popular Milo chocolate beverage, which came to pieces. Hot water, milk, sugar cubes and Milo- chocolate powder. The kind waitor helped me to cook my drink.

In a while the rest of the company woke up and we moved to the beach. An interesting everyday scene was unfolding before our eyes. A dozen of big fishermen were dragging the nets out of the sea. They were also singing  a motivational fishing song in an African language. The nets were spread far into the sea and judging from the hard effort depicted in the fishermen's faces, fishing was not an easy case. The majority of the fishes was gathered at the end of the nets. Nontheless some small fishes and sea snakes were accidentally caught on the way. They were collected carefully in plastic buckets by naked experienced kids. A man approached them and bargained on the price of the catch with the liliputian fishermen.

When the entire net was laying successfully on the shore the song seazed. Turmoil prevailed among the group. They were argueing upon the share of the catch. The amount of the fish each would take home, was depending primarily on the personal  contribution. Some were accused of inadequate input in the fishing process, while others underlined their essential help.

A girl, selling sachets of water, passed slowly in front of us. Her eyes were modestly looking at our direction. On her attempt to bring the heavy platter down, half of the sachets fell clumsily on the ground. She picks it up hastily, while shame was conceivable in her moves. Another woman was selling fried bread and cut it wide open to fill it with peanut butter. When the fishermen had vanished from our eyesight and everyone had taken a generous breakfast was time to head to the Cape Coast Castle  (http://www.ghanamuseums.org/forts/cape-coast-castle.php).

Driven by ignorance, a day before I had asked my Ghanian friend and guide, if Cape Coast Castle is an exciting place. He answered with a mysterious tone that I will figure out myself. So I did. Excitement was not the feeling that Cape Coast Castle caused to me, rather bewilderment, shame and  repugnance. The place, where we were standing, was actually one of the thirty "slave castles", where the slaves were held before shiped once and for all to the "New World", America. A spirited guide narrated the dreadfull history of the Castle. It had changed several hands in the past. Portuguese, Swedes, Danes, Dutch, French had passed from this strategic venue for trade, before the British established their power. For 150 years, the atrocious exploitation of human life had been the most prolific source of wealth for the Europeans and Americans. Cape Coast castle is a painful reminder of this inhuman human activity.

The captives generated from many neighbouring african countries and were forced to come to Ghana  by foot. The captives, who had survived the unfavourable trip were to be held underground until they were picked, sold and shiped away. Sometimes this process lasted even months Our first stop was the main concentration room for the men slaves. It had a tiny hole high on the wall and the atmosphere was sultry. It was imposible to imagine that a thousand men used to be held in that room. Scientific findings confirmed that the ground was covered by layers of human waste, blood and urine.

Close to this room the Europeans had built a church in order to not miss the chance to pray to their God. Ha! How ironic!

The next room was the cell where the people who dared to escape were to find excruciating death. The room had no windows at all and the walls were extremely thick. No food, no air, no light was accesible to the sentenced. Scratches on the walls and the floor gave away the pointless struggle of the slaves for survival. It felt as if the walls screamed from the horror of the untold human tragedies.

The women were held separately. Some of them were destined to become sex slaves. The children, who were born via rapes, were given European names and received western education. This way a new caste arose.

   

The "Gate of no return" was leading straight to the atlantic ocean. Its name was attributed to the fact that any slave who passed it would never view Africa again. The guide assured us bitterly that we will return.

Then we moved to the first floor, which belonged to the commander of the Castle. The contrast was unbearable. The space was huge, with vast windows, which allowed plenty of air and light to go through the rooms. A question was swirling in my mind: How could he ever sleep in this luxurious apartment while at the same time over a thousand people were dealing with diseases, hunger, fear, solitude, many of whom leaving their last breaths just a floor below?

“Those who deny freedom to others, deserve it not for themselves” 
― Abraham Lincoln, Complete Works - Volume XII

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World-Cup vibe in Cape Coast

"Oasis beach resort" is best described by its name. After the exciting yet tiring canopywalk we headed to Cape Coast. A six-bed dormitory was waiting for us in Oasis. The resort is located straight on the beach. The big mighty atlantic waves create a mesmerising sound, that is spreading in the atmosphere. The summer resort is consisted of an open air restaurant, which serves both traditional and western dishes, and several accomodations in different styles and shapes. Some were white round huts, with big tribal signs engraved on them. Others were made out of wood and had a small porch with matching wooden stools in the front. Hammocks and picnic tables were completing the idyllic scenery. Cute little puppies were joyfully playing with the customers.

The resort was accomodating mostly volunteers, like us, who were travelling Ghana during their free time. Canadians, Americans, Germans were among the costumers. I honestly hadn't seen so many "obrunis" gathered in one place in Ghana. The average age was twenties to thirties. The vibe was extra-positive, with a little anticipation in it. You see, that night was a World Cup night and not just any World Cup night, but The Most Important one for Ghana. Germany vs Ghana. The entire country was tuned in the Football match rhythm. Huge posters were advertising the big football event, supporting the Black Stars, Ghana's national team. Everyone were talking feverously about the good chances of an African team managing a highplace in this World Cup. Even in the trotro a preacher mentioned the hope of Black Stars winning the Cup. 

    
Most of the obrunis were wearing a white T-shirt with African-inspired graphic print inserts on the neck and sleeves. It should  be noted that the Ghanian kit is considered to be one of the most fashionable in the World Cup. The Germany fans were also not missing. Even some Ghanians were supporting the European team. Jokes and teasing were increasing as the time approached. 

       

Shortly before the game started we made a walk in Cape Coast. The people seemed happy, although did not have even the basic comforts. Many small roads had been turned into World Cup venues. Neighbours were bringing their chairs together in order to view their team playing against one of the most powerful opponents. On the way back to the hotel, we took a shotcut and crossed the dark beach. We could merely see one another. A strange noise was coming from somewhere near. We discovered astonished that the noise was actually made by two cute pink pigs!

    
The restaurant now was much altered compared to the serene place we had left an hour ago. Costumers of the hotel and residents of Cape Coast had secured a place in front of the big screen. In every worth-to-mention phase of the game the crowd was both cheering and booing. Go, go, go Black Stars. Each Ghanian Goal was followed by happy Ghanian music. The final score was satisfactory for both teams. It was a draw. 

The match succeeded a fun beach party. Some African men impressed us once again with their dancing skills  on the raised dancing floor. After a non-stop performation in the party, we withdrew to the beach. Six girls from different parts of the world were chatting gazing at the ocean. Although unsaid, we shared a common comprehension that night. How far were we from our homes!

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Walking on the canopy

Our first trip began in the most cheerful mood. Our personal trotro driver showed up on Saturday morning to make our virgin trip outside Accra happen. The agenda included Kakum national park and Cape Coast. 

When in the trotro, I felt that I was actually in a tropical place. The flora was dense and consisted of peculiar plants I had never met again. Plantain, banana trees, coconut trees. After a four hour drive, we found ourselves at the entrance of Kakum National Park. Salesmen approached the trotro trying to entice us with cute bracelets, african masks etc. 

The fee is up to thirty ghc for the foreigners (http://kakumnationalpark.ghana-net.com). The entire place was crowded by tourists but mostly schoolkids. They were all wearing school uniforms and no girl had long hair. I asked my local friend who confirmed that in the public highschool girls are not allowed to have long hair, but a short boy's cut. Moreover many of the students at puberty age had two scars in their cheecs. They were tribe marks. A distinctive way to indicate in which tribe each person belongs to. Although I was informed that the practice has been prohibited, it seems that it is still broadly implemented. 

The surrounding area of the Park is very pleasant, where one can visit the gift shop, buy a refreshment or spicy sausages. The cashier is located in a room with short information about the Park. The most interesting was about the forest elephant, who inhabitates there. The chances to encounter him were signifficantly low though, because of the human made fuss. 

 
We would soon experience the canopy walk, that has been pined in my wish list from the first moment. In fact, there are 7 air bridges, which connect the huge tropical trees. The employee let us know that there is a shortcut of 3 bridges instead of the 7. We declared brave enough and followed the hard path. Right behind some 15 year old students. 

Ropes were holding a wooden path. The extreme part was that in some points the wood was missing and a small hole replaced it. The tip is to always watch your step. According to the norms of nature the canopy should shake a little, but the school boys ahead of us decided to intervene and make the shaking much more intense. They aimed to scare the girls and raise their manly shelf esteem. Goal achieved! The girls were screaming, eliminating the already scarce chances to meet any forest elephant.

We were practically in the heart of a rainforest. The beauty was impeccable. The walk did not last more than ten minutes and the fear of the unknown canopy walkway was diluted from the first bridge. Nonetheless, at the exit we took a traditional touristic picture under a porch which congratulated us for surviving the canopy walk!

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Black and white

Half a year ago if someone told me that I would soon test my teaching skills in an African school, I would probably question their mental sanity. Even when I flirted with the idea of an adventurous trip outside Europe, the entire plan felt too distant and utopic. I pictured Africa as a semirealistic place that you could only approach through documentaries. In my mind Africa was wild animals, palm trees and barefoot kids. 

 
It only took a ten hour flight for those misleading documentary pictures to fade away. Ghana is a country of real people who play, dance, work, go to school. The kids at my school are unique little individuals, bearing names as Mary, Patience, Prince, Sheriffa, Christopher, William, Bismark, Deborah, Kelvin.

To start with, it was kind of difficult to learn the names. I had to ask each kid a hundred times "What is your name?". I am getting to it though. It should be noted that twin brother and sister often have the same name. For instance "Sherif-Sheriffa", "Joseph-Josephine". Most of the Ghanians also have European names such as Philip and Fransisca, but there are also some traditional names given like Madwa and Kabu.

two girls playing

Some of my students have made their existence noticeable from the very first day. One of these kids is Mary, a brilliant little girl. She introduced herself right away and asked my name only once. From our first meeting she would always greet me, offer me her snacks and help any way she could. One day, she had an unusual request. 

Mary: Oh, Lilly. You are so pretty! she said caressing my hair

Me: Thank you Mary. You are very beautiful as well.

Mary: No I am not. I wanna ax (=ask) you somethin.

Me: Of course, you are. But tell me, what do you want?.

Mary: I wanna be white..

Me: What are you talking about? I replied astonished

Mary: I want you to use your magic and turn me into a white man like you. Please, please, Lilly.

Me: But you do not need to become white to be pretty. You are already very beautiful, Mary.

Mary: No, You whitemen should make blackmen white, when they ax you. She gets stubborn, trying to explain her argument.

Me: But how would I make you white, Mary? Could you please make me black?

Mary: No I don't have magic, but you do! Please, please, Lilly. I Beggin you. She actually fell on the floor in a begging position.

 
Since that day, every time she sees me she is puting her hands together and looks me straight in the eyes in order to convince me to use my magic and turn her white. My reply is the same every time: If you make me black, I will make you white. She is not satisfied and tries to persuade the other interns to talk to me and change my mind about the issue.

Girls are taking care of a Brazilian intern's hair

In the beginning I became seriously worried. I ran to my Ga friend, whom I always make dizzy with my countless questions and remarks about school. "Why does this clever girl want to be white? Doesn't she love herself the way she is?" Frankly, I was not expecting his reaction. He laughed! He actually found it funny and attributed it to the movies, which intrigues kids' imagination. A lot of girls at this age are carried away by the movies they watch, he added. His explanation was rational and calmed me down a lot, but I cannot defy the impression that little kids in Ghana have about white people and it is not only the kids.
   
"Obrunis" are thought to possess two positive characteristics: beauty and wealth. Although the infatuation from white skin is too incomprehensible for me, the latter attributed characteristic is not completely unfounded. A coeval Ghanian girl with me once told me " You white people are lucky, because you have money. We, black people have rich country, but no money to make use of it." My first response to this was that not all white people are rich. For example, Greece is facing severe financial crisis. Later on, when I had acquired deeper insight in African reality, her words became more sensible, with a little alteration. In the sentence of my Ghanian friend the word "money" should be replaced by the word "means". Right now, in construction's field chinese companies are predominant, the social care is an unknown word, there is no running water and electricity in many households and every time the President passes from the road a ridiculously long procession of expensive jeeps and motorbikes follow his car horning. 

    

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Alternative teaching methods

Every morning when we make our appearance at school, we encounter some students in front of the wooden table with the snacks, counting carefully their coins and ordering biscuits or juice. They are the first to notice us and call loudly our names with excitement. " Li-lly, Li-lly, Li-lly", sounds like a rhythmic children's song and spreads from class to class successively. The kids shout, laugh and jump at the same time. It is the best start of the day. The most warm wellcome, that reminds me why I had traversed 6.000 km to be in La.
 
On the way to the class, some students climb to the windows and wave their little hands vibrantly. Once I enter the last classroom in the row, one by one my students summon me:
-Lilly...( They expect my response)
-Yes, please?
-You are wellcome! (They say with sparkling black eyes)
The same dialogue is reproduced about twenty times with unabated enthousiasm.
   
The prayer inaugurates the start of the lesson. First comes Maths, according to the timetable pined on the grey wall. Most of the students were assigned to solve little mathematical problems. Just a few though were behind at Maths, so they had an easier task: to write a number repeatedly in a whole page. Due to the minimal furniture of the class, there are no shelves or bookstore to keep the books and the pencils. Instead, everything is located on the teacher's table. The pencils are in fact too small for me to even hold them properly. At the likely event of a broken pencil nose, a cutter is used by the teacher, not a sharpener. The erasers are also so scarce that their value raises vertically. Once the work is completed, the kids come up to the teacher's table to show their colourful books. "I'm finish" they declare. This time, I was armed with thousands of stickers to award each student for his effort. When they see the sticker album they become at once overexcited- rushing to finish their work so they could get a valuable sticker. They intend to use it either as a decoration in their bags, or as a jewellery on their forehead. One is not satisfactory for the most of my little students who are frequently complaining that another classmate was given two stickers, or a bigger or a nicer one than theirs.

When Maths lesson has officially finished and the battle for the stickers as well, plenty of teaching time remains. In order to fill it productively I observe the room around me. Which of these precious little objects could be of any use? Aha! The most classic one. The blackboard! The other teacher announces to the class that I am going to teach them. I take a chalk and draw an empty room on the blackboard. "Who knows what there is in a kitchen?". The enthousiastic students mention many kitchen devices, food, furniture. Then they appear on the blackboard, by my childish drawing skills. Sometimes the roles reverse since my students explain to me many interesting things about Ghanian cuisine and other Ghanian habits. My trick works. They stay focused on the game and ask for more. So, a jungle, zoo, sea, follow.
 
The game triggered our appetite. The ritual of the lunch did not take long to start. Today's menu includes rice with fish in a green sauce.
 

After lunch, a familiar commotion prevails in the school. The dance teacher has arrived by his bycicle, carrying a big drum. Twelve of my students participate with great joy in the graduation's choreography. The sound of the drum, intertwined with the voice of the teacher and the happy kids created a cheerful atmosphere.

Most of the students who did not take part in the dance, remain in the classroom. I am under the opinion that they should be engaged in some equally interesting activity as their classmates. Thus, I tear the pages from the drawing book I had brought from Athens and distribute it. The pages were not enough for everyone though. I suggest that two students share one sheet, which was double-fache, while I and the teacher were copying some of the drawings for the rest of the kids to colour. Fortunately, my coppying skills outweigh my free design ones. In the end, every kid coloured a dragon, a boat, a fairy, a rabbit and many more cartoons. Looking at the bright side, shoestring fosters creativity and unity.
 
At three o clock the school day comes to an end. Every time that I unhang my bag, worried faces look at me and ask :
"Are you goin?".
" I am going home now, but I will come back tomorow."
At the sound of my answer, they regain their usual carefree expression and greet me grining. "Bye. Bye!"

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My first attempt to teach

The big question before I even commenced my adventure was: how would I manage to teach a classroom of fourty kids, since I was completely irrelevant? I had neither previous education nor experience in this field. I was squizzing my mind to remember what activities we were engaging to when we were at the age of 5. A blury memory of this time includes a song of a dinosaur and some art craft. 

 
I presumed that the stationary would be inadequate at school. Thus I visited a big store in Athens, where you can find pretty much everything, from balls to frying pans. The abundant colourfull toys in the shelves enticed me and I wished to transfer the whole of the store in Ghana. My sister put me back together. We agreed that I should purchase things that would easily fit in my luggage and be apropriate for teaching children aged 2-6. The outcome was: colour pencils, bubbles, pumped up animals, spins, books of stickers, drawing books, puppets, small cars, cards with animals and veggies.

 
After the trial period of three days, I had collected enough information for the school system, the difficulties and the specifities. The time to take action had come. I requested some teaching time from the teacher, who offered it to me eagerly. At first, I selected the puppets, because they had caught the attention of my little students, who asked me persistently what they are and whether they are allowed to play with them. I answered that they actually belong to the teaching material and we would soon all play with them.

The puppets were 5. Three pigs , a wolf and a red riding hood. Two different fairytales could be narrated with their contribution: "the three little pigs" and "the red riding hood". I took a minute to recall the stories properly. I felt more confident about "the three little pigs". So I started from this one. The children were abnormaly quiet. They were all expecting to listen to the new story accompanied with the new clean puppets. In  order to refresh your memory, the story goes as follows: The three little pig brothers had to part with their parental house, because they had grown old. The oldest builds a house of straws in one day, as he was idle. The second born built a house out of wood in a week and joined the first in playing. While the youngest one buckled down and built a strong house of bricks in one month under the teasing and laughter of his older brothers. To cut a long story short, the wolf blows the house of the first pig and burns the wooden house of the second. The two brothers seek shelter in the habitat of the youngest pig, which at the end proved to be the wisest of all , as his stable and firm structure assured their survival from the menace of the wolf.

When I was halfway the story, I felt that my students were not following me. I was describing the residences of straw and wood as insecure and inapropriate and instead of disapproval for the oldest pigs i could only discern confusion in their cute black eyes. And then it dawned on me. The houses of the story might seem much more luxurious and safe than their own. Some houses in the community were even a wonder to stand still and not collapse. Through the trotro window I had seen houses, which were leaning and had no doors or windows. Small ones were shared by big families and the furniture were little and old. My shame was undescriable. I rushed to finish the fairy tale and decided to fathom the reality of the kids standing before me. One thing was for sure: the western stories were incomprehensible and useless. Therefore, my new task was to search for traditional ghanian tales, that would "speak" genuinely to my students.

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A bad trotro day

Three girls from Bazil, China and Botswana joined me at school on Monday. Because of my three days experience in traveling around chaotic Accra I was going to be their guide. Their first day ended up being quite adventurous, when it comes to trotro rides.

   
On the way to school we boarded in a white trotro. The driver was in a hurry like every other driver in Accra. It feels as if they run on a formula competition or play a computer game. When some poor pedestrian is trying to cross the road, instead of cutting down the speed the cars accelerate. 

   
Overtaking is also an extreme activity. The cars try to squeeze into one line when the road becomes narrower or they intend to turn. This time it looks like the drivers play the "chicken" game. Nobody is willing to retreat and give away their position till last minute. That day, our vehicle lost one of these battles, having as a result a little crash with a black fancy car. A man in a suit went out of the car looking cool. Of course they had to exchange details for the insurance companies. But it was not as simple as that. It took a lot of time to come in an agreement and we also deviated from our route. An hour later we eventually reached our destination. The newcomers were not complaining, just looking a little confused. I tried to explain that it was actually the first time that I had a trotro accident.

37 trotro station

The Ministry of Defence on the background

To my great surprise, the second time came fast. On the way back from the school, we boarded in a dark blue trotro with leather seats. The mate was diligently doing his duties. The rolling door was disobedient though, and all of the sudden ... BOOM. The door went off the tracks and fell down with a thundering noise. Luckily noone was close to the trotro at the time and we had not gained fast speed. We instantly looked at each other with a fearful expression drawn in  our faces. Next minute we bursted into laughter. 

       

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A day at the beach

Sunday is dedicated to God in Ghana, like everywhere else in the world. Unlike most of the Europeans though, the majority of ghanian citizens are religious and attend the church every Sunday, in their most impressive outfit. Christianism prevails among religions, while Muslims also coexist peacefully with the former (http://www.ghanaembassy.org/index.php?page=language-and-religion) . The churches are plenty and have smaller or bigger differences in beliefs. Presvyterian, Pentacostal, catholic, protestants. 

   
On this Sunday morning some of the interns and the locals woke up and directed to different churches. Some prefered an English speaking, while others a french speaking church.

Late in the afternoon we ordered our own trotro to go swimming in the atlantic ocean. It would be Labadi beach, which is located very close to Accra-city center and my school. Halfway our trotro was stopped by the police, which was armed. Frankly speaking, we were a little intimidated, because it was the first of the many times that followed that we were checked by the blue-dressed  ghanian police. The control was focused on the driver's license, the amount of the passengers and the speed. Most of the times bribing is the key to overcome the pointless delay. It is a common secret, anyway, that corruption has contaminated the police.

   
At 5 o'clock we finally arrived in Labadi Beach. Rnb music was spreading in the air through two gigantic speakers placed in the entrance of the resort. After the entrance fee of 10 ghc was collected from each passenger, we were permitted the entrance. Our excitement, enhanced by the music, was very high. Nonetheless, the beach was nothing like what I imagine when I listen to the word "beach". The waves were long, frequent and mighty. The swimming area was indicated by big buoys and a lifeguard was fiercely whistling, when someone tresspassed the forbidden water. The swimming was also restricted in the first 10 meters close to the shore. Practically, the people were having fun being hit by the dark waves and diving into them. 

   
Soon I found out that no girl was wearing a bikini. On the contrary, they were dressed by normal clothes, shorts and t-shirts. I, generated by Greece, had no idea of the perils that were hiding in the waves (I am not referring to the strong waves themselves, or the marine life). So I had my hot pink bikini on. Our friends said that we should stick together and we'll be fine. The big waves in addition to the whistling, the friendly warnings and the fact that I was one of the scarce white girls in a hot pink bikini, made me feel a wee bit uncomfortable. This feeling did not stop me, though, from having my first contact to the atlantic ocean. The minute my toe touched the brown water, a stranger grabed me and carried me in his arms. I was trying politely to explain that I wanted to go back to my friends, when he finally let me go.
   
Once the first big wave hit me, I was decided to stay still and let it go through me. I was not ready to let an atlantic wave carry me away yet. But the wave came with a surprise-gift. A big, muscly man (probably the same one that grabed me before) had dived in it. He very rudely touched me in a place and way that made me seriously upset. In a split of a second I pulled him out of the water, called him a name and slapped him in the face. Picturing the incident now makes me laugh at my silliness. I should have looked like those tiny weak Maltese dogs who bark at the big strong wolfdogs. 

   
After that, I felt that swimming was officialy over for me. Thus I joined the poeple of our company that did not know how to swim or were afraid to try. I did not blame them at all. Swimming is an extreme sport in Ghana!

Photograph: Phillipa Leighton-Jones/Observer

Ghana-net.com

White horses appeared soon on the beach, available to rent for a stroll or to be captured in a photo. Soon the night succeeded the day. The night paid me back, as we had an amazing beach party. At first the sandy dance flour was monopolized by an incredibly flexible man, whose moves were hard to compete. A group of people had formed a circle to admire the skinny bendable man. A woman was brave enough to accept the challenge and did not do bad atall. Slowly more people joined the circle. Us included. That night we danced the Ghanian beats barefoot. It was a carefree happy night just a breath away from the daunting yet alluring Atlantic ocean.

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Cra- Cra-Cra

On my first Saturday, we decided to become tourists in Accra. We went all the way from Madina to Accra city center, by our favorite transportation means, the trotro. On my right, I noticed  an impressive, monumental building  in a shape of a pyramid. I found out that it was the recently built presidential palace, the Flagstaff House, which serves as a residence and office to the President of Ghana. The grandeur of this Palace was not alike to any other building in Accra. It was glowing under the African sun, as if made of gold. 

Flagstaff House

In a while, we passed from another grand building on our left. I discerned the sign on its cement grey front:"National Theater". It looked also magnificent and reminded me of a gigantic boat. In a mini research I conducted, I learnt that it was a gift from China. We made promises with the other girls that we will attend a theatrical performance, which we unfortunately never kept.
https://www.facebook.com/NationalTheatreofGhana

National Theater

 After about an hour, we arrived at the chaotic and loud central trotro station. Having my new camera at hand, I followed my local friends close behind, as the pavements were narrow and congested. Our first stop would be Makola market. I was very curious to visit a local market, because by that time I had only shopped at the big, expensive supermarket in the mall. I wished to dive into the real ghanian life, whose core is the market. But reality was not as exciting as I expected. Once the sharp smell of the market was caught by my olfactory system, I grasped that we had arrived. The sun was burning and there was no shade anywhere. In the sides of the narrow paths you could find plenty products. Smoked fish and fishtails, immense snails, pig 's feet, plantae(=big bananas), animal fat, kasawa, tomatoes, oil and red sauce in plastic bags, pepper, yams, chops. Everything was exposed to the hot sun, dirty air and the carefree flies. The market women were wearing big straw hats and seemed to be in a very bad temper.

Woman at the market

Makola Market

I made an attempt to take a photo of  some oversized potatoes, who were in fact yams, but at my great surprise and fear the seller spoke furiously in twi and made a move to oust me. Noone seemed to applaud my artistic quest. On the contrary at the sight of my camera they became even more agitated than before. Even when I sensed that my camera was a mere useless accessory hanging from my neck and decided to hide it, an older, big woman and a younger fierce man nearly attacked me. They mistook my move as a photoshoot.

Yums

Since there was no photographic interest anymore and the food was not appealing to most of us, we made the wise choice to leave this market, never to come back again. 

   
Our next stop would be the"Arts centre Market". As i was still intimidated by the market people's reaction and dizzy by the smell, I turned a blind eye to the treasures of this special market. African wear, leather bags, colourful accessories, drums, african masks and many other unique objects were waiting for us in vain. At this place I did come back though.

   
A local boy recommended that we should visit the "Kwame Nkrumah Memorial Park & Mausoleum". Being evident by its name, this sight is dedicated to the most respected personality of Ghana: Kwame Nkrumah. He was the first president, who led Ghana to the deliberation in 1957 and made It the first independent west-african country. His Birthday, on the 21st of September, is also celebrated as a national holiday in Ghana.

In the entrance we were informed that the non Ghanians needed to pay 10 gc, while the Ghanians 2 gc. The entrance fees were differentiated in every touristic site, according to the ghanian origin of the visitor or not. The museum was an oasis after the craziness of the market. There was a spacious green garden with artificial water channels and a monument. The exhibition space was just one room, with a lot of pictures on the wall and some glass windows. The pictures depicted Nkrumah with other wellknown political personae from all over the world. The items in the windows were his personal stuff: his stick, traditional attire, books.

What I found most interesting is a collection of his personal mail, that was exhibited in a corner. I particularly liked a letter to his daughter, who lived in America at the time. He was asking her news and requested in an annoyed tone that she and her brother write more often to their father. I smiled and thought that however strong and important a person is, always has a sensitive side and needs affection by his beloved people. I also made a little story in my mind. Maybe they were reluctant to contact their father because he was not a loyal husband to their mother. But this was just a guess.
    
Last stop was the Independence square. It is in fact the second-largest city square in the world and is used for national ceremonies. After bying a "fanice" from a pitchman, that means an ice cream in a sachet, we headed to the seats. There we could indulge an amazing shade and chat about what we have seen and learnt during our tour. Gazing at the most signifficant national symbol of freedom, the black star, it was impossible not to reflect on the struggle of the nation for freedom and independence.  

   

    "Freedom is not something that one people can bestow on another as a gift. Thy claim it as their own and none can keep it from them." Kwame Nkrumah

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