What I said about our role in the industrialization of human misery is true, and the guilt is properly shared by Brits, Americans, and other Europeans. But I always thought it was Americans who put an end to it. Although I never believed that crap they taught us in school about states’ rights, I always thought it was our citizens, a combination of the Suffragists, Abe Lincoln, and a few pinko liberals in the North, who were determined to stop the human suffering. But not so. I recently learned it took the whole of Britain, at great personal and national sacrifice, to put an end to it. So this little piece is just an attempt on my part to be fair and historically accurate. According to Kristof and WuDunn, it was almost single-handedly a Brit named Thomas Clarkson, who was just doing a little research while a student at Cambridge. It was he who documented the actual implements of torture and gruesome restraint, and brought the information to the British public. Profiteers tried to have him killed, but he persevered and in a single decade the British people were so revolted by the facts that as a nation they demanded an end to the suffering. Britain banned the slave trade in 1807 and freed its slaves in 1833. France followed in 1848, and we as a nation eventually caught up.
In Half the Sky the authors also tell us that Saudi Arabia did not make slavery illegal until 1962, and Mauritania in 1981. Even if you are a teen ager now, and those dates seem waaay back, you should make them part of your basic history lesson. Maybe, as we internalize this stuff, we can find a path to make some changes in our own world. We can at least think about it.
Saturday, July 10, 2010
The Slave Castle At Cape Coast
The castle is really grim, and it is almost as tough to write about it as it was to walk through it. We went there in March, but I’m still not able to tell you everything I saw and felt. Slavery has long been a part of human history; defeated warriors became slaves, the father asked his slave to prepare the Fatted Calf for the Prodigal Son, etc. The Greeks, the Romans, the Visigoths, and Native Americans all captured or held slaves and whatever women became the spoils of war. However, it took the Brits and the Americans to industrialize it, and the stain is with us still.
We had a terrific guide, a young Christian Ghanaian man, who was very professional and knowledgeable, and who never glossed over the fact that it was other Africans who raided villages and sold their kinsmen for the best price possible to the slavers. You can even visit another site where the prisoners were held and evaluated for strength and capability before being moved to the castle for the final sale. The guide’s professionalism slipped a bit, just once, when he talked about white men and women worshiping in a chapel they had built directly above the women’s dungeon. Somehow he was personally offended by that. Me too. But we all came out of the dungeon with such strong images that it was hard to blink in the daylight. A young black woman from the US wept openly, and I also would have but felt she was more entitled to her tears than I was to mine. Then the guide asked us to read an inscribed marble plaque at the exit. It asked us all to remember what we had seen, and to pledge that we would never permit such a thing to happen again. Ever. To anyone.
I couldn’t speak, because I knew that even as we read it a 12-year old girl was being pimped out of a 4-car garage in Southern California, a 9-year old was being molested by her father in Iowa, some parents somewhere in Asia were selling their prettiest daughter in order to buy food for the rest of the family, and other parents have locked their daughter in a small room until she agrees to marry her cousin. So it is happening, not again, but still; and we don’t really want to know, because we feel so helpless to change it. Please at least just think about it, and maybe our collective energy can fashion some kind of global change. The book, Half The Sky, by Nicholas Kristof and Sheryl WuDunn, is a bit hard to read at first, but it’s not sensationalistic and they do offer hope and some real strategies that could make a difference.
Back to the castle, being witness to such commercialism of pain and squalor is pretty tough. And I’m not saying that slavery was ever a good thing for any nation, so don’t be sending me any hate mail. But sometime later, when I was alone at home, I lit a candle to honor the ancestors. I wanted to celebrate the fact that they survived such horror, and to express my gratitude that because of their strength and courage their descendents, my black friends in America, are living where they are.
We had a terrific guide, a young Christian Ghanaian man, who was very professional and knowledgeable, and who never glossed over the fact that it was other Africans who raided villages and sold their kinsmen for the best price possible to the slavers. You can even visit another site where the prisoners were held and evaluated for strength and capability before being moved to the castle for the final sale. The guide’s professionalism slipped a bit, just once, when he talked about white men and women worshiping in a chapel they had built directly above the women’s dungeon. Somehow he was personally offended by that. Me too. But we all came out of the dungeon with such strong images that it was hard to blink in the daylight. A young black woman from the US wept openly, and I also would have but felt she was more entitled to her tears than I was to mine. Then the guide asked us to read an inscribed marble plaque at the exit. It asked us all to remember what we had seen, and to pledge that we would never permit such a thing to happen again. Ever. To anyone.
I couldn’t speak, because I knew that even as we read it a 12-year old girl was being pimped out of a 4-car garage in Southern California, a 9-year old was being molested by her father in Iowa, some parents somewhere in Asia were selling their prettiest daughter in order to buy food for the rest of the family, and other parents have locked their daughter in a small room until she agrees to marry her cousin. So it is happening, not again, but still; and we don’t really want to know, because we feel so helpless to change it. Please at least just think about it, and maybe our collective energy can fashion some kind of global change. The book, Half The Sky, by Nicholas Kristof and Sheryl WuDunn, is a bit hard to read at first, but it’s not sensationalistic and they do offer hope and some real strategies that could make a difference.
Back to the castle, being witness to such commercialism of pain and squalor is pretty tough. And I’m not saying that slavery was ever a good thing for any nation, so don’t be sending me any hate mail. But sometime later, when I was alone at home, I lit a candle to honor the ancestors. I wanted to celebrate the fact that they survived such horror, and to express my gratitude that because of their strength and courage their descendents, my black friends in America, are living where they are.
Dee Dub Is Tired and Cranky, July 3, 2010
But just barely amused. Yesterday I rode three hours on a rickety tro with no springs to interview some girls who have applied to attend our leadership camp. Just a few basic questions, and got mostly the same answers from all. Tell me some qualities that you think a leader needs to have. “Neatness, punctuality, and dependability.” Tell me one or two things you know about the United States. “Obama is president, and Ghana beat the US football team.” One girl also said she had heard that two men got married to each other? And had to go to court? But that probably isn’t true. Then three and a half hours back, on three different tros, and it’s the end of a long day. My backside does not have enough padding any more for such long rides in such dilapidated vehicles.
So today I want to just take it easy, and I am sick and tired of insects, goat poop on the porch, ants in my closet, warm beer, no electricity, petty village feuds that are just like office politics at home, and, mostly, sick and tired of kids. These kids have definitely taught me the difference between status and authority. I have lots of status here, and so does the kid who can talk me out of a biscuit, a pen, or an empty water bottle. However, I have absolutely no authority. None. Zilch. So no matter how many times I tell them not to go through the garbage, they do. If I catch them they run away laughing, but always come back. And there is nothing there they want, so they just leave it scattered all over the ground and the porch. I have fantasies about rattlesnakes, or mouse traps, or thoughts of botulism, etc. I know you are all proud of the work I am doing here, and especially the mature, adult ways I have learned to deal with conflict resolution. So you will be pleased to learn that I called an eight-year old boy an asshole. At the top of my lungs. And then threw the rest of the garbage on the ground and slammed the door. Way to go.
Talked to Colleen later, and she reminded me that at home scavengers go through their recycling, and then leave what they don’t want on the ground. And she often wants to shout that they are assholes, but it’s two am and she would have to get dressed and go outside so she just shines it. So all things are the same, and I giggled a lot while we were talking, and then it was late enough I let myself pour a glass of box wine and count my blessings.
July 4, 2010
Today is better. Last night I made a nice soup for dinner, and yesterday in the lorry station I actually found some fresh green beans. I am cooking them with some cocoa yam and bacon bits, so it smells sort of like the way my Texas grandmother cooked green beans, ham hocks, and potatoes. I think maybe I’m homesick, as well, but didn’t realize it. I am prepared for that at Christmas, Thanksgiving, and my children’s birthdays, but not the Fourth. Sometimes I do feel like such a stranger in a strange land, but it’s because EVERYTHING here is different, and I usually get over it. I remember spending July 4 in Paris alone, not the best way to be in Paris, ever, but I joined a bunch of strange Americans. Not weird strange, you understand, just travelers who were mostly unknown to each other. There was a restaurant that put on a little celebration for American tourists and ex-pats, and it was a nice way to spend some time. Another time I was in Peru at about 14,000 feet with some other American hikers, and we had some wine and a lot of laughs. Then last year, here in Ghana, I and some other trainees were at a tourist site at a small hotel at the top of a mountain. No wine, but the staff built us a bonfire and we sat around and told stories. Ghanaians don’t get the thing about bonfires. Everybody has a burn pile in their yard, and most people cook outside using wood or charcoal, so they don’t understand why we would waste wood just to sit and look at the flames. So ordinarily I wouldn’t be so nationalistic, or miss home on this particular day. But it’s Sunday morning, the church drums are really firing up, and I will go eat some distinctly American food. So Happy Fourth.
So today I want to just take it easy, and I am sick and tired of insects, goat poop on the porch, ants in my closet, warm beer, no electricity, petty village feuds that are just like office politics at home, and, mostly, sick and tired of kids. These kids have definitely taught me the difference between status and authority. I have lots of status here, and so does the kid who can talk me out of a biscuit, a pen, or an empty water bottle. However, I have absolutely no authority. None. Zilch. So no matter how many times I tell them not to go through the garbage, they do. If I catch them they run away laughing, but always come back. And there is nothing there they want, so they just leave it scattered all over the ground and the porch. I have fantasies about rattlesnakes, or mouse traps, or thoughts of botulism, etc. I know you are all proud of the work I am doing here, and especially the mature, adult ways I have learned to deal with conflict resolution. So you will be pleased to learn that I called an eight-year old boy an asshole. At the top of my lungs. And then threw the rest of the garbage on the ground and slammed the door. Way to go.
Talked to Colleen later, and she reminded me that at home scavengers go through their recycling, and then leave what they don’t want on the ground. And she often wants to shout that they are assholes, but it’s two am and she would have to get dressed and go outside so she just shines it. So all things are the same, and I giggled a lot while we were talking, and then it was late enough I let myself pour a glass of box wine and count my blessings.
July 4, 2010
Today is better. Last night I made a nice soup for dinner, and yesterday in the lorry station I actually found some fresh green beans. I am cooking them with some cocoa yam and bacon bits, so it smells sort of like the way my Texas grandmother cooked green beans, ham hocks, and potatoes. I think maybe I’m homesick, as well, but didn’t realize it. I am prepared for that at Christmas, Thanksgiving, and my children’s birthdays, but not the Fourth. Sometimes I do feel like such a stranger in a strange land, but it’s because EVERYTHING here is different, and I usually get over it. I remember spending July 4 in Paris alone, not the best way to be in Paris, ever, but I joined a bunch of strange Americans. Not weird strange, you understand, just travelers who were mostly unknown to each other. There was a restaurant that put on a little celebration for American tourists and ex-pats, and it was a nice way to spend some time. Another time I was in Peru at about 14,000 feet with some other American hikers, and we had some wine and a lot of laughs. Then last year, here in Ghana, I and some other trainees were at a tourist site at a small hotel at the top of a mountain. No wine, but the staff built us a bonfire and we sat around and told stories. Ghanaians don’t get the thing about bonfires. Everybody has a burn pile in their yard, and most people cook outside using wood or charcoal, so they don’t understand why we would waste wood just to sit and look at the flames. So ordinarily I wouldn’t be so nationalistic, or miss home on this particular day. But it’s Sunday morning, the church drums are really firing up, and I will go eat some distinctly American food. So Happy Fourth.
Dead Chicken, No Water June 19
Dead Fowl, No Water June 19
KB has come to help me work with my computer. The drillers have not returned, and we are wondering if another ceremony will be required when they do come. Sunday morning we find that the chicken is dead, and then we really wonder. Where you wait for transport is just outside the Presby Church and Kathryn is waiting to return to her site. When church is out we are talking with my counterpart and the committee chair, and the fetish priest joins us. All three assure us that nothing more is required when the crew returns to work. Everything is OK. KB says it’s certainly not OK for the chicken, the chicken is dead. Everybody laughs, but I explain to the priest that although we are laughing we recognize that what he does is serious. He then assures us that the fowl knew her role in the process and accepted it. I can certainly testify that seemed to be the case. During the course of several days she was tethered to a rock, then moved to a tree, to the porch out of the rain, and then to another rock. She scratched around in the dirt, but she never squawked, flapped her wings, or gave any sign of complaint. Interestingly enough, a dog that roams around the site sniffed her out a couple of times, but always wandered away. It seemed to me that the fowl was quite sanguine about the entire process, so don’t be calling the animal rights people, OK?
KB has come to help me work with my computer. The drillers have not returned, and we are wondering if another ceremony will be required when they do come. Sunday morning we find that the chicken is dead, and then we really wonder. Where you wait for transport is just outside the Presby Church and Kathryn is waiting to return to her site. When church is out we are talking with my counterpart and the committee chair, and the fetish priest joins us. All three assure us that nothing more is required when the crew returns to work. Everything is OK. KB says it’s certainly not OK for the chicken, the chicken is dead. Everybody laughs, but I explain to the priest that although we are laughing we recognize that what he does is serious. He then assures us that the fowl knew her role in the process and accepted it. I can certainly testify that seemed to be the case. During the course of several days she was tethered to a rock, then moved to a tree, to the porch out of the rain, and then to another rock. She scratched around in the dirt, but she never squawked, flapped her wings, or gave any sign of complaint. Interestingly enough, a dog that roams around the site sniffed her out a couple of times, but always wandered away. It seemed to me that the fowl was quite sanguine about the entire process, so don’t be calling the animal rights people, OK?
June 29 update
I am learning more about how all this works, but the drillers started in another spot on Sunday and today they took their equipment off to another job. They have not found water. They will have their hydro-geologist come back to site and do another analysis, and then they will return. It is the geologist who failed them, not the fetish priest. They began this job without the proper rituals, and it was for this reason the earth seized their drill pipe and broke it off underground. After he did the appropriate libations, they were able to remove the broken pipe from the ground and resume drilling. The fact that they did not find water is because the geologist did not point them to the right spot, and has nothing to do with the need for libations. However, after the geologist does another analysis, and they return with the drilling equipment, we will pour more libations before they begin work. That’s really just a precautionary measure, but I will insist on it.
It seems that this village is actually located between two rivers. The smaller one, down the hill to the northwest, is protected by a goddess who cares for the women in the village. Because of her concern she always releases enough water that they can do their work and take care of their families as they have always done. (But that was before giant poly tanks entered the picture.) The larger river is up the hill on the other side of the road, deeper in the forest. It is that river that feeds the groundwater supply, and it is guarded by a male god who is very concerned about what is happening to the environment. He is particularly disturbed that mineral deposits are being moved around and depleted, and is reluctant to let just anybody come in here and do whatever they want in his domain. It was probably he, or one of his lesser gods, who seized the pipe as a small warning to the villagers to do this properly. And I’m with him. A few months ago I visited a small village where a company is mining for gold on the surface. You could see the chemicals, including arsenic and cyanide, going right into the small river and then seeping through to the groundwater supply. The chief of that village knows what is happening, but has brushed away the concerns of a few obrunis who always seem to worry about something that is not their concern.
So we will wait for the geologist to do his work, the fetish priest will then do his, and when the drillers return they will find water. My friend has another bottle of lavender scent that she has offered to donate to the cause if we need it. I also bought some lavender silk flowers (made in China) that we can use as well, so I think we have it covered. Will keep you posted.
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