15: A Sunday Drive to Elmina and Encounter with Poverty

I cannot haggle with cab drivers. I end up tipping them instead. This patient good-natured cabbie waited while the Divine Miss Larissa used an old-style swipe gadget to process my credit card. Then he waited while she was put on hold when calling the bank for authorisation. And then he waited some more when I dashed to two cash machines en route to Kaneshai Station. Besides, he has three teenage daughters to put through school. He deserves a few extra cedis for his trouble!

Pastor Charles had told me that Ghanaians are renowned for their friendliness and kindness. This is very true and I would add honesty and trustworthiness to the list of good qualities. Their strong Christian values permeate transactions.

The hawkers with their heads piled with dubious snacks who swarm the departing tro tros never persist or badger when you say ‘No’. And traders politely give you the correct change, despite how tough it is to earn a few bucks here. Stallholders are scrupulously honest, not full of trickery, up selling and cross selling, like in some dog eat dog cultures. And Ghanaians are funny, constantly joking, enjoying the moment. Always smiling! (except when you point a camera and they go all solemn!)

The squashed passengers bump along in companionable silence, with Reggae music creating a happy mood. A large pleasant woman presses against me but at least I rescued my laptop from my battered green duffle bag the guy was shoving under her seat with great gusto. The image of my cracked Apple Mac makes me shudder.

I am truly on my own now, travelling solo as the only pale-faced, bleached blonde middle-aged woman amongst a van jam-packed with Ghanaians who know where they’re going. It is Sunday, July 1^st, the start of the third week of my adventure when I am free to go sightseeing. I’m on my way to Elmina, a must-see destination in the Bradt tourist guild book.

I haven’t booked a room at the Coconut Grove Bridge House. I couldn’t get through on the phone number. After several failed attempts I gave up and surrendered to the NOW! I’m trusting, like Joseph and Mary, that I’ll eventually find somewhere to shelter tonight!

The rocky two-hour journey is cramped and awkward on the back seat as my sore bum registers every pothole and puddle. The large lady and I grimace as we bounce up and down and stare through the rain-smeared windows passing poor shantytowns, rural slums, of dilapidated shacks and imposing half-finished houses, abandoned dreams, decaying in long grass.   

As the trusty tro tro finally approach Elmina, we pass cheerful little timber stalls with names such as Mama Grace, Mama Lucy, Mama Monica painted in bright letters. I’m looking for the produce on sale but there’s hardly an old cabbage in sight. The poverty is palpable and I’m filled with sadness.

I am hoping for an escape in a luxurious resort but my fantasies are dashed.

The only USP of the rough brick Coconut Grove Bridge House is its location, smack in the middle of the historic town, right next to the infamous castle.

When the porter opens the door, my nostrils are assaulted by a musty smell. The air conditioner is broken, the TV doesn’t work, the fridge is turned off but hey it’s a place to plug in my laptop. But no, it doesn’t have internet.

I venture out for a stroll in the late afternoon. An atmospheric mist hangs over the bustling harbour. The tattered white castle looks eerie on the hill, brightly painted fishing boats sit still in dainty rows as if calmly posing for a picture.

Striding across the bridge that straddles the murky inlet, I’m mobbed by a bunch of rowdy kids. I let them take photos, nervous they’ll run off with my camera but they hand it back, all giggles to see themselves on the screen. I buy a little cling-wrap bag of nuts and crackers and give them a tip. Their big eyes widen with this stroke of luck.

I wander across to the rugged cliff overlooking the wild, grey ocean and snap pictures of a lone pig contentedly grazing under a tree. More marauding goats, a ubiquitous feature of African life. Note To Self: Stop photographing goats!

The main street is teeming with hoards of noisy people, ragtag market stalls of junk, crazy honking cars and loaded bicycles, men with dangerous scowls, hollow-eyed women weary under their loads, mischievous boys begging for coins. I feel slightly intimidated and grip my bulging handbag tightly under my arm. This is a very poor town. And I am very conspicuous!

An old woman emerges from a laneway with her stock of fake gold jewellery and half-heartedly asks me to buy. When I start looking with interest through her dish of trinkets she lights up like she’s just won a TV game show. I buy six pairs of sparkling earrings for two cedis each and she is overwhelmed, on the brink of tears.

I dine alone, missing Andrew, in the empty guesthouse on beer, Red Red bean stew, rice and fried plantain then retire to my smelly little room. All night the ceiling fan is spinning fast like a helicopter about to take off. I have a dull headache from dehydration and I’m out of clean water. I’m tormented by strange dreams.

Instantly awake at 6am with the rooster, I take a shower. No hot water. Then no water at all. I’m having a little taste of Poverty. And like cold, gluggy porridge, the taste is depressing.