A Ghanaian Funeral

A quick note of apology for taking so long to post something new. Jeremy visited, then Lindsay visited, then work got busy. I know excuses are lame, and I was thinking of you guys the whole time....it'll never happen again.

I was informed last month that Charles’ mother, Dora Poku, passed away, and that he would be out of the office for much of the next few weeks planning the funeral with his family members in his home town: a small village in the Brong Ahafo region of central Ghana, about 7 hours drive Northwest of Accra. After a week, a date had been set, and a noticeable buzz of anticipation filled the office with each passing day. The anticipation was a foreign sensation for me, as a funeral in the America is not usually looked forward to. Also, it usually happens less than a week after the death, so there really isn’t a whole lot of time. But in Ghana, it is another ballgame. Funerals are scheduled weeks and often months ahead of time, so that all family members and friends have ample heads up to travel back for it.

poster outside our office notifying people of the upcoming funeral

About a week before the event, we had a little meeting to decide who would/could/wanted to go, how we would get there, and what an appropriate gift would be for the family (It is customary in Ghana to give money as a gift for the bereaved family.). I definitely wanted to go, both to support Charles and to experience a Ghanaian funeral, and so did Dennis, John, Jonas, and Vivian, our executive assistant. It was decided that we would be taking a big coach bus, and that everyone in the office would chip in some cash for the family, with another monetary gift also coming from PSGH itself. A typical Ghanaian funeral spans an entire weekend, so the five of us left on Friday night after work.

The main “bus station” in Accra is basically a huge parking lot across the street from the much smaller government-run bus transportation hub. It is filled with hundreds of buses and vans of various sizes crammed in, in what seems like no particular order. These informal buses supplement and now completely dwarf the insufficient fleet of public transportation options. When we turned into the main entrance to the “station” we were met by dozens of men yelling at us, asking where we were going and steering us in the right direction: their right direction not necessarily being our right direction. But, for the most part, they were extremely helpful, and like many things in Ghana, something that seems to be lawless chaos turns out to have its own very clear order, if not completely observable at first sight. Vehicles going to particular areas around Ghana all congregate in certain areas of the lot on a first come first serve basis. Nothing leaves at a pre-arranged time, but rather when it is full, allowing the next vehicle in line to begin taking on passengers. So, the tickets Jonas bought for us earlier in the day said 8:30pm, but really, it could be any time before or after that, depending on the demand.

We got there around 8 to find our big coach bus about 1/3 full, which meant that we would need about 50 more people before we could shove off and would most likely be leaving well after 8:30. In the meantime, the mobile hawkers selling food and others goods from baskets carried on their heads were in full force at our windows. By the time we ended up leaving around 9:15, I could have purchased a used book, a toothbrush, ice cream, a bandana and so much more. Around 9 we were treated to a full 10-minute sales pitch from a medicine salesman who actually boarded the bus. I was sitting next to John, our accountant, who provided the color commentary for me. He said “It’s quite sad, but watch how many people buy his products when he is done talking.” And John was right. When the salesman went around to collect the fruits of his labor, at least a dozen people bought something.

our trusty red coach bus

When we finally pushed off, I thought we were done with the hawkers hissing and banging on windows and could enjoy several hours of hassle-free peace. But it was not so. As soon as we started moving, a woman in the front row stood up and began addressing the rest of the bus. I didn’t really need John’s translation (but enjoyed it anyways) to know that she was preaching the gospel. John told me that this was very common. She would probably go on for at least half an hour, and then collect whatever money the passengers gave her before getting off and boarding another bus heading back to the station to do it all again. It wasn’t so much the unsolicited preaching that surprised me, but it was the passenger’s reaction to it that really hammered home the whole Christianity in Ghana thing for me. Whereas my reaction to having more religion shoved in my face was to get extremely annoyed and contemplate heckling, everyone around me seemed to really enjoy her presence. They would sing along to the hymns and songs she led, follow perfectly in the call-and-response portions and repeat obedient “Amens” when appropriate. Religion in the parts of America where I have lived really only pokes its head out around holidays (e.g. Easter and Christmas Catholics and High Holidays and Passover Jews) and takes a back seat at most other times in the year. But here in Ghana, religion is everything. It is intertwined with every single facet of life, and it is because of god that everything happens and it is with god that all things are possible. I can’t really stress that enough.

The bus ride was fairly uneventful, where they showed Mel Gibson’s extremely violent “Apocalypto” followed by a new Ghanaian movie called “Chelsea.” Most Ghanaian movies are fairly unwatchable, where the production quality provides ample opportunity to play a game out of searching for the background lights, microphones and wires that should not have made it into the shot, but did. 95% of them are about a love triangle, and in this regard, “Chelsea” was no different. However, the quality was much higher than usual, and the main character of Chelsea, center of the love triangle, was gorgeous, by all standards, which made it much more watchable. (I would later learn that she once dated Ghanaian soccer superstar Michael Essien…obviously.)

The bus dropped us off in Mim, the town next to Charles’ hometown of Bediako, at about 4am, just in time to hear the first Muslim call to prayer over the town’s PA. (Around 10-15% of Ghanaians are Muslim, with much higher concentrations the further north you go.) We caught a lucky tro-tro to go the last 10 minutes, where we were met by a smiling Charles and his brother. Despite the hour, loud African pop music could be heard over the town. As Charles and his brother showed us to the one-room house where we would be staying, we walked by hundreds of plastic chairs arranged in neat rows, as Dennis turned to me and excitedly exclaimed “This will be a great funeral.” The house’s one room sported a big bed and two full couches. We all entered the one room, got settled onto the couches, and then Charles and his brother stood up to face their guests. Charles spoke in Twi, so I was pretty lost, but Dennis provided translation. He explained that it is a formality that needs to be performed the hosts ask the guests why they have come. Dennis responded that we have come to mourn with our good friend and co-worker over the loss of his mother. We then presented the monetary gift from the 5 of us and were instructed to present the other gift, on behalf of PSGH, at the ceremony tomorrow afternoon. With the formalities out of the way, Dennis, Jonas and I stayed there to sleep, while Charles took John and Vivian to other quarters.

A few hours later we were awoken by Charles, telling us that the ceremony would begin around 8am. We took turns taking a bucket shower, my first, (Bediako lacks running water), and then I followed Dennis’ lead by wearing a black suit, feeling slightly vindicated for bringing one with me to Ghana. As we followed Charles’ through the streets of his boyhood town, Bediako by daylight seemed very cozy. Small wooden houses and mud-bricked huts lined the narrow red-dirt roads. We came upon the same lines of plastic chairs which we had walked by the night before, but this time they were all full, whose occupants faced the entrance to what was a walled courtyard. Inside the courtyard, many more rows of plastic chairs lined the walls, all facing inward towards a closed tent. As we entered the courtyard, it was customary to shake hands with everyone already seated. This would turn out to be at least a hundred people, most of who looked at me like I was not unlike an alien. I tried to return their gazes with a strong handshake, eye contact and a solemn nod of my head. There was a microphone wielding MC whose job it was to announce the current arrivals to everyone already seated. This helped somewhat, as they explained that we were Charles’ co-workers who had traveled from Accra. We then took our seats along the back wall of the courtyard (with a nice booklet on each chair), and the next half hour or so was spent receiving others (more handshakes). Most attendants wore black, with all family members wearing shirts and dresses of a color-coordinated orange-patterned fabric, and most spent this time crying. After a while, the family members folded up one side of the tent to reveal the body lying on bed with the casket behind. Everyone then formed a line to circle the body and pay their last respects. This lasted another half hour or so, and it was a little after 9 when we departed back to the house.

I learned that it would be another couple hours before the next part of the ceremony: the church service. At the house, we ate a late breakfast of eggs and bread and then slept a little bit more. At about 11:30, we were again woken up by Charles to go to the service. Charles led us to the intersection of the two main roads at the center of town. The hundreds of plastic chairs had been rearranged in four big groups under tents all facing the main tent in the intersection, under which was the casket, flanked by the family members and the reverend. What followed was the church service, which consisted of the normal choruses, scripture readings and sermon, but which also included a nice biography and then three tributes: from Dora’s generation of family, from her children and then from her church. All of these could be easily followed along in the booklets we received earlier. There was a lot less crying, and a lot more reflection on life and death in this part of the ceremony, and I was amazed at the turnout. There were easily over 300 people there; pretty much the entire town came to a halt so that everyone could pay their respects to their fallen village member. I was personally befriended by a group of children who would not leave my side for the entire service. John got a kick out of it, and kept stealthily snapping off photos, reminding me that there was a good chance that I was the first white person they had ever seen in person.

When the service was completed around 1, everyone got up and walked up a short hill with the casket to the graveyard for the burial. This was actually the shortest part of the whole thing, and only took about 20 minutes. After that, Charles said that it was time for lunch, and he led us to another house, where we were served fufu with light soup and grasscutter meat. Let me do some translating. Fufu is a spongy dough ball of sorts usually made from pounded cassava and always served in soup. Light soup is the standard fare, and just means a tomato-based slightly spicy broth. Grasscutter is the name of a type of bushmeat, a local delicacy from an animal that looks like sort of like a porcupine (but, according to Wikipedia, with the much less appetizing name of a "greater cane rat"). All in all, it was pretty tasty, and we ate in the nice, airy house, drinking fanta and watching another Ghanaian love triangle movie.

throng of people heading up the hill to the burial site

fufu in light soup with grasscutter meat...yum.

After about an hour, we went back to the sleeping house to rest a little bit more before the last bit, which was the formal presentation of gifts to the family. We vegged out and napped a little bit until about 4, when we got dressed (this time without our suit coats!) and followed the sound of the drumming to a street that had again, been lined with the plastic chairs and tents. (At this point, everywhere I walked, I was being followed by little children, yelling “obroni!”, and coming up to me to shake hands or high-five. At one point, a little boy just came up alongside me, put his hand in mine, and walked with me indefinitely. This went on for about 5 minutes, until his mother came and grabbed him apologetically.) On one side of the street, there was a troupe of about 5 or 6 drummers beating away non-stop. There were traditional drums held with your knees and played with hands, stand alone drums played with straight sticks and then a very cool drum in the center which was played with sticks bent at a 90 degree angle. Directly across from the drummers was the family tent, where they all sat, some still dressed in orange and others in regal, flowing red fabrics. They sat behind a wooden folding table atop of which was a glass display case into which all of the gifts were being deposited. Again, the MC was there to announce the arrivals, as well as the gifts, and again, we did a big round of hand-shaking, stopping to give Charles a big hug, before taking our seats.

drummers

I spent the next hour or so, shaking a lot of hands and watching the drummers, as they played for what seemed like twenty minutes at a time. It was very clear that we had now moved from sadness to reflection to celebration, and those crying eyes were replaced with bright, cheerful ones above wide, laughing smiles. Along with the drummers came a lot of dancing, and I successfully parried several attempts from people trying to pull me up to dance. Before we knew it, it was 6 o’clock, time for us to make it back to the neighboring town of Mim to catch the bus back to Accra. As the five of us crammed into a taxi, Charles and his brother approached carrying huge burlap bags filled with yams, cassava and plantains (about 20 pounds for each of us!). They were gifts from the family to show appreciation for us coming all the way to Bediako and for our generous gifts.

It turned out to be the exact same bus that we had taken coming there, so we were again treated to “Apocalypto” and “Chelsea”. We had to stop over in Ghana’s second biggest city, Kumasi, to pick up more passengers, and another sneaky woman came on to subject us to another hour of unsolicited preaching. This time it didn’t seem as bad as before, perhaps because I was very glad to have had the opportunity to experience a Ghanaian funeral. I was able to tune out the preacher and reflect on the past day. So much of international development has to do with quantifiable variables like income, school attendance, and disease prevalence. And while it is of the utmost importance to measure and quantify these things, there are many other variables like the importance of community, ceremony and family that are much more difficult to quantify, but that Ghana and many other developing countries have in spades. All I know is that if that many people show up to my funeral, I’ve done something right.

His Holiness Haircut

The missionaries did a tremendous job in Ghana. This theme of Christianity will probably be a recurring one on this blog. Even without Dennis’ daily reminders that “We Ghanaians live by the faith,” I would have to be blind not to realize it. And even if I was blind, there would probably be a nice person leading me by the hand as a personal reminder. Every day when Dennis and I drive to work, we pass by myriad signs for such and such Anglican or Presbyterian Church. And if the churches, the pastor sitting next to me, and the bibles in the back seat weren’t enough of an indication, the signs above the storefronts crack me up every time. “His Holiness Haircut,” “The Blessed Plumbing Works,” and “It Is the Lord Shoes” are just three of the ones I can remember off the top of my head. No, I am not making this up.

But my point in writing this is certainly not to poke fun. It is merely to give you an indication of the culture and the people of Ghana. Their faith stems from thanking God for all that he has given them, when they could very easily lament that which he has not. And as I said in a previous blog, which was then confirmed in a tourism book I purchased, Ghanaians are known as “Africa’s friendliest people.” There could be much worse places to be!

PS: If you are confused by the top picture of the "In God We Trust Beauty Salon", it was taken from our car as two women with platters/baskets of smoked fish on their heads walked by. That is what you are seeing.

My First 24 Hours

I would first like to apologize for how long this entry is going to be – I had no idea I would have so much to report in one day – so please feel free to stop reading at anytime. Future entries will undoubtedly be MUCH shorter. I would also like to apologize for the lack of pictures, but I have not yet figured out how or when to take them without seeming patronizing.

7:30am-9:30am
My plane arrived on time at 7:30am (1:30am Chicago (my) time) to Accra’s Kotoka International Airport. My two checked bags appear on the carousel within 10 minutes….impressive. They are soaking wet; I think because it was pouring in NYC where I had a two hour layover: I guess it was too much to ask for the bags to be covered. Now all I have to do is wait for a small carry-on which they made me check at the gate due to a phantom lack of overhead compartment space (there was more than plenty to go around) and change some money before I try to find my new coworker/housemate, Dennis, who has arranged to pick me up. I did not end up leaving the airport until 9:30, so you do the math on how long that took.

Now I find my way outside the airport pushing one of those trolleys with my two big bags on top and pray that he is there, since I have no phone (that works in Ghana) yet and a very vague idea of where the apartment is: all attempts to googlemap (that’s right, it’s a verb now) the address Dennis gave me proved futile. As luck would have it, he is still there (a kind-faced man in his 30s with an imposing stature and no hair), flanked by his wife, Patricia (Pat- an attractive, full-bodied woman about my height) and their friend, Desmond (jolly in every sense of the word – short, stout, chubby cheeks, huge smile). Apparently they were about to go check with the airline to see if I had boarded the flight. Regardless of other factors, I had arrived with all of my bags intact and my ride was there: no complaints here. As we head to the car (a very nice VW), we fend off several sketchy men who follow us all the way to the parking lot and then make the money motion to me (sliding index and middle finger against thumb), as if I am supposed to pay them for doing nothing more than unsolicitedly following us for about 100 yards. I’m just glad I am not alone with my big bags.

9:30am – 10:00am
Desmond, who quickly tells me his is an IT guy, and Dennis place my bags into the car. Ghanaians are known to be extremely kind and polite, and I find them no different. I try to pay for the parking, but they won’t let me. After they learn that I am not currently sleepy, even though I have not slept in some time, they ask if I would like to go to church with them, so I jump at the chance to witness a Ghanaian Sunday mass. It turns out that when Dennis is not being a pharmacist during the work week, he doubles as an associate pastor at a Pentecostal church. The church is in a city called Tema about 30 km (18 miles) East of Accra. The road from Accra to Tema is a very nicely paved highway, two lanes on each side. I don’t think anything of it until Desmond asks me if I know who Kwame Nkrumah is. He is pleased to know that, in fact, I wrote a paper on him and Gamel Abdul Nasser for a college history class. He states that Nkrumah was the greatest African leader in history and that the road epitomizes Nkrumah’s vision: He got a lot of slack for “wasting resources” by making it four lanes instead of two, because at the time it was built, Accra and Tema were a small fraction of the population that they are today. But now, they are big cities, and no one complains about the size of the road. They find out that I also like soccer (football), and when I comment on Ghana’s U-20 team beating Brazil’s to win the World Cup last month, they are very pleased that I can walk the walk. I also learn two words in the local language of Twi (Akwaabah, meaning “welcome” and Medasi, meaning “thank you.” We drop Desmond off at his house for him to change into nicer clothes, and then I ask if I can do the same. We go to Pat’s family house, where I quickly change into a shirt and tie, after fishing them out of my bags in the trunk.

10:00am – 1:00pm
Nothing could have prepared me for the Ghanaian Sunday mass: It is fantastic in every sense of the word. I’ve been to over a hundred Catholic masses, I’ve seen the Baptist ceremonies of singing and dancing and “Amen” and “Hallelujah” from popular culture, and I’ve caught a few of the ridiculous Evangelical ministers on TV in the states, but this blows them all out of the water. I learn that it is a fairly new Church, and they meet in an outdoor but roofed school hall for lack of their own proper building. It starts with reading groups, where Patricia and Desmond split off into 2 of 3 separate groups of about 20 people each to read bible passages and clap and sing, while Dennis goes to the altar to prepare for the service. Dennis gives me a bible, and I sit alone and start to read Genesis. So far, so good.

After about 20 minutes of reading groups, the service is about to start and chairs are brought out to create rows of pews. I take a seat in the fourth row and Desmond motions to me to get up and we carry two chairs behind the very back row. He says it is better for us back there, so that we will not disrupt the service… Band instruments are unveiled beneath a big tarp: guitars, drums, tambourine and keyboard. It begins with songs played and sung so loudly that Black Sabbath would approve. The songs are half in English and half in Twi, so Desmond kindly provides translation. It is getting pretty heated as people start crying, while others clap and yell and raid their arms for 10 minutes at a time. Some members face the walls of the hall as they cry and sing and pray. As opposed to some other sects of Christianity that stress penitence and punishment for sins, the most common theme of this group’s songs is about thanking the Lord for all that he has given them.

The songs go on for about an hour, and then it is time for Dennis’ sermon. He takes the stage to discuss (and sometimes scream) giving gifts to the Lord and others, and how that encourages others to give: a very nice topic. With Desmond’s continued translation in my ear, parishioners continue to face the walls as they cry and yell and pray. It becomes clear to me that these Ghanaians are more passionate about Jesus than I have ever been about anything in my life (except maybe the Harry Potter books). At one point, a woman in the back row who had been facing the wall is overcome with emotion and falls to the floor. She continues to sob and yell as she rolls around on the ground for about 5 minutes, while no one gives her a second look. At some point, the international developer in me thinks about how religious groups can be better used to move education, health and other agendas forward. The sermon lasts about an hour, followed by another half hour of songs after that, and then we are done…3 hours total.

1:00pm – 6:00pm
We are finally headed home, which is great, because I am starting to feel exhausted. As we head back on the paved highway, Desmond is quick to discuss politics. He asks me if I like Bush, and after he decided it was ok, he boldly states that Bush might go down as the worst American president in history. We discuss local politics, and he says that in Ghana, there are no legal mechanisms for public funding of elections, and that politicians are innately corrupt, because they have to campaign with private funding (or funds from other nations) in exchange for rewards, contracts, etc. when they take office. We move on to discuss Obama (Ghanaians generally love Obama); America as a giving nation (in relation to the sermon), in terms of foreign aid; and then Desmond says that without America, the world would be taken over by Islamic fundamentalists. Thankfully we are somehow able to avoid that conversation and begin discussing movies. Desmond and Dennis are big movie buffs and we discuss “The Godfather” (Dennis’ favorite movie), Mel Gibson and Arnold Schwarzenegger. When we finally turn off of the main highway, I realize why Desmond made a point about it earlier. In a word, the road-traffic situation elsewhere is terrible. None of the roads on which we now travel have line markings, lanes, signals, or signs of any kind. The drivers make Massachusetts drivers (infamously terms Massholes) seem like they are in drivers education cars. I have already feared for my live 7 times. The roads are anywhere from half-paved to fully dirt, the former having potholes bigger than my checked bags. The dirt roads, whose copper-red hue immediately reminds me of the movie “Blood Diamond” (which was set in the fellow West African nation of Sierra Leone), can best be described as undulating, like speed bumps scattered randomly over the entire terrain and each other. We turn onto the road where we will live, and it is the worst of all. Drivers go no more than 10 miles an hour, as they cautiously navigate the terrain, going wherever it is least bad, and praying for their cars. We find ourselves on the other side of the road as much as our own, as that is where the bumps have take us. The cars coming at us do the same, and it is completely ok to pass each other on the wrong side.

We finally pull into our place, and it is much nicer than I could ever have wanted. I have my own spacious room and bathroom, and even though there is no A/C, the ceiling fan keeps the temperature tolerable. I spend the next hour unpacking and then come out into the common area living room to watch a little of the World Cup qualifier between Ghana and Mali on the nice flat screen TV there (Ghana was the first African nation to qualify already, but Dennis and Desmond yell all the same). Everyone is hungry, and before I know it, food is already made. Pat has made spaghetti for me, and everyone else eats a traditional Ghanaian soup made from oil of palm with goat meat and rice balls. I eat the spaghetti, and after telling them many times that I am perfectly fine eating what they are, I finagle some of the soup. It is delicious, and they are surprised that I like it. It is decided that I will take a nap for a few hours, and then we will go to the Mall to buy some things. I pass out before my head hits the pillow.

6:00pm – 10:00pm
For all of you access to finance people, Accra is very ahead of the curve, and the area where we live is called Spintex Road: a rapidly developing street with all kinds of shops, foreign banks and local kiosk/huts. Before we hit the mall, Dennis stops at a Barclay’s Bank (UK) to use the ATM, but is denied when it is out of cash. He tells me that it is very common for the AM to run out of money on Sunday nights. The Accra mall is very nice and new, sporting many stores, including an Apple store, grocery store and cinema. In fact, I could have seen 2012 if I wanted to, but I would never do that to John Cusack. (It would force me to judge him for a role he took when times are tough in the middle of the global recession, and the movie will undoubtedly be worse than “The Day After Tomorrow” and that is saying something.) We go to the grocery store, and I am amazed at how expensive it is. I paid the equivalent of $30 for groceries I could have easily obtained in DC, Chicago or Boston for less than $20. All of the phone stores are closed because it’s Sunday, so we leave and drop Desmond off at his house in Tema and then head to some pharmacies to see about getting me a bed net. We go to two different places and find one kind where you need to hang it by something from the ceiling and another where you need 4 bed posts. We decide that the prophylaxis pills I am taking combined with my bug spray will be ok for the night and we will check out the room and get a bed net after our reconnaissance. Trip fairly unsuccessful.

We return to the house and Dennis flips on the DVD player to show Terminator 2 about ½ over. On the coffee table are DVD boxes which display anywhere from 30 to 80-in-1 disks (One disk contains 80 movies!). I make it about 20 minutes before I’m doing the sleepy head bob, so I leave Sarah and John Connor for my new bed. Thinking that my first day in Ghana was fairly crazy, and that I had slept about 2 hours in the last 40, I fell asleep more quickly than before.