In the Slum Again

David and I went back to Agbogbloshie (the slum). As we passed the river there David picked up a large rock and threw it in. It made a small splash that looked like thick black oil.

Our first stop was at the ‘copper boys’ as David has named a group of half a dozen boys whose job it is to extract useable copper from old mechanical items. Today they had found themselves a big beach umbrella, it was a good day – the first day they have a small amount of shade to work under.

Apparently in the days since my last visit, these guys who speak very little English would say to David “where is madam, where is madam?” And I think seeing me made them a little coy at first. After a while they would say to David “give me your wife!” or “tell your wife to come here!” I am not yet used to, or perhaps I never will get used to, the way women are spoken about here.

Rasta

The whole time we were sitting with them I could not take my eyes off Rasta, named that for his short attempt at dreadlocks.  If he was in Australia he’d be on the cover of FHM. He is tall, slender and cut. He has a huge smile with dimples that make you a little weak at the knees and I was totally drawn in by a combination of his demure demeanor and elusive deep brown eyes. He told David he likes me, and I swear that if I was financially stable enough, and not terrified of STD’s, then I would go home carrying his child. If my children could have half his good features they'd be lucky! I am told that looks aren’t everything, but I want my children to get a head-start in life, and lets face the facts, if you are attractive life is a bit easier.

I wish I knew how old he is, but none of them know their age. I was told that they could probably find out if they asked their elders what the crops were like when they were born, and from that information it is possible to find out when they were born.

I could have stayed and stared at Rasta all day, but it wasn’t enough to keep David interested in hanging around and he soon left with me in tow. I tossed my head over my shoulder and gave Rasta my best interpretation of a ‘straight-girl flirting farewell’ face, which to me was a fleeting eyebrow raise and lingering look and only one side of my mouth smiling… I never saw him again.

We left accompanied by another Agbogbloshie tenant named School Boy, because he was the only one in his crew who was educated. He took us for a little guided tour right into the thick of the place. I already mentioned in a past blog that it is believed that 40’000 people live there, it really is baffling!

Clambering through the improvised shacks made from scrap materials I noticed that actually some are quite sturdy, a few I noticed were even two levels. I peeked in to the darkness of some and noticed nothing but blankets or pieces of cloth and clothing scattering the floors. Heat was emanating out of them the stuffy air inside fermenting in the corrugated iron.

In the center out in the open was a fence encircling a large empty space – apparently this is where the chickens get plucked and the goats get slaughtered. There were also shops here and a bar. School boy took us in to the bar. It was midday and people were already spilling out of it. I had my hand jammed in my pocket to protect my camera, but to my surprise people seemed genuinely inviting… I would bet we were the first white people to ever step foot in their. The floor was carpeted in rubbish and the air heavy with marijuana smoke. At the back of the bar was a door way which leads into another room, and propped up on stools were some women very heavily clad in make-up, waiting to make their money for the day. 

Out the other side of the bar I heard the echoing bang bang bang of fire crackers. School Boy led us to a big square area under the shade of a tin roof where 30 or 40 men sat driving their mallets into sheets of metal. Each shirtless man, dripping in sweat, their shoulder, back and arm muscles tearing through their skin, beating away at a regular pace of about a hit a second: pang-pang-pang. Multiply that hit a second by the number of men there and that is the deafening sound of fire crackers. They were as shocked to see me as I was to see them. These men would sit in the same spot for 10 hours a day, every day and repeat that exact same movement every second of that 10 hour day… okay, take an hour out for a break and we’ll say a 9 hour day. But that’s something like 32’400 times a day they would strike that metal. What happens is they get the lids of 44 gallon drums and hammer those lids into a smooth round bowl. That bowl gets sold to construction sites so that the workers can carry concrete on their heads.

We also passed the school just as the school day was finishing. Government schools in Ghana are free in theory. But in reality a lot of people cannot afford the school uniforms or school books for their children, nor can they afford to have a working child in school and not bringing in money. School Boy told us that 20’000 kids went to this school, not just from the slum but from neighbouring Jamestown - the poor suburb. I am not sure I believe that 20’000 kids can fit in this school, but that’s what he told me.

You really can see that these kids are poor. Most of them either have uniforms too short and too tight or they're swimming in them. Nearly all the uniforms they wear have missing buttons and broken fly’s, the brown and mustard yellow uniforms are much older than the children wearing them.

When we leave the slum David leaves School Boy and I to go to the market place. I want to buy some material to get a shirt made for me. In the material section of the market I am totally overwhelmed by all the different brightly coloured patters, but eventually I settle for a bright blue and yellow floral piece.  It is a striking print, but one I think now I won’t have the courage to wear in Sydney. In Ghana that pattern gets lost in a sea of bright colours, but in Sydney I may have passers-by shielding their eyes from the brightness.

After buying the material I take it to a crammed little alley-way where running down the left side are school-aged girls perched behind the steady hum of sewing machines. And running down the right side are women slouched in picnic chairs having the oddest things done to their hair. Hair extensions are all the rage here it seems. Women have shaved heads and then feather-like straight black strips of faux hair is glued on or braided in. Some women were having plastic tubes stuck to their scalps… I’m not sure why. Women eagerly beckoned for me to sit and have my hair braided, but I politely declined, babbling weak excuses, thankfully none of them spoke English so it didn’t really matter what I said. 

All the women gathered around me, touching me, stroking my hair, giggling amongst themselves. I pointed to a picture of a man’s shirt and indicated this is what I wanted. They giggled and shook their heads and  pointed to pictures of dresses and frilly tight tops. But I shook my head and pointed again to the men’s shirt. They laughed. They laughed harder still when taking my measurements I kept saying “bigger bigger”. One lady cupped my breasts in her hands and showed me how a shirt is meant to accentuate them, I pulled a face of horror and repeated “bigger, bigger”.

They told me that I could pick up the finished shirt tomorrow, and that they would wait for me so they could practice their English. 

On the walk back with School Boy we passed the railway track that runs along one edge of the slum. My chest felt heavy with the strain of inhaling the smoggy air and I honestly felt ill. I watched children playing near the fires that burn the metal and plastic all day, every day. They were cart-wheeling beneath the brown air that they live in, sleep in and even go to school in. I felt sick not just from the pollution but the sadness of how unfair life is.

It was 5:45pm and the second and last train for the day was passing. It was terribly amusing to see all the people hanging off the sides and sitting on top of the train, I felt confident enough to take a photo. One of the guys sitting on the front of the train pegged a bag of water at me and I turned just in time to have it land with a smack right on my back-side (a hard target to miss!) I had to walk the rest of the way home with my pants wet like I had peed myself which was an important reminder that some people really don’t like having their photo taken.

The man in yellow was the one who threw it!

More on God in Ghana

Solomon called me four times the next morning before I finally decided to answer.

He wanted to know how I was feeling, if I felt different from the day before. I said I never know how I feel before my morning coffee. He said he will call back tomorrow and see if I feel different then.

Text messages between David and I:

Me: WARNING! Solomon is about to call you to see how you feel today. Perhaps to see if the Holy Spirit visited you in your sleep.

David: Thanks. I have a bit of a headache. Maybe a side effect of the Holy Spirit.

Me: What else could it be! Oh wait! You aren’t allergic to cheap vegetable oil are you? You did rub quite a bit on your head.

David: I squeezed my hair and deep fried a plantain. Resourceful!

Me: So I guess that means you ate the Holy Spirit? It is in you.

David: Should have a stomach ache not a head ache.

That morning I went to my local breakfast spot for more of Abigail’s sweet porridge and Nescafe with canned condensed milk. I love that in Accra I have a local where the woman knows my name, how I like my coffee and what I eat every morning. I love that she sits down beside me for a chat when there is no one else to serve. I love the broken picnic chairs, and generally get quite upset when I find someone else in MY chair. But not as upset as I get when a customer comes and Abigail has to leave me to do work. Abigail makes me nervous, and I am not exactly sure why.  I get nervous that I ask the wrong questions, like when I asked if she has children and I am sure that when she said no I detected a flash of sadness in her eyes. I have developed a habit of playing down my life of relative luxury and ease, almost to the extent of lying – I just can’t shake that privileged guilt. Either that or I don’t want my new friend to think we are that different from each other… though in reality I suppose we are. David later said that he nearly told her I date women and I nearly had a heart attack! I could never go back if he had. I would have lost my local, and my only Ghanaian friend.

This particular morning I bought the newspaper. The front page story read ‘Woman Turns Snake After Sex’. A fascinating read! This woman had gone to a hotel to have casual sex with a man, the next day she was seen by the hotel staff leaving with scales and a tail. I couldn’t shake the feeling that this article wasn’t particularly well researched. However the moral of the tale was loud and clear! 

God infiltrates every aspect of life here. Every shop and chop bar is named after something religious, for example: ‘God Loves Electrical s’ and ‘When God Says Yes No One Can Say No Fashion’. Billboards line the main roads with images of cheesy suited-up pastors smiling in front of orange flames. The only time I ever see a local reading it is always the bible (the only other books I see for sale are self-help books). 

One night David and I were walking in town and we passed a crowd gathered around a film screen.  The film was showing images of Beyonce and declaring that she is the Devil. It went through interviews, images, her songs and film clips and explained how each part is proof of her Demon possession.  Apparently she dances like a snake, conveys secret messages in her songs and tries to take over your mind.

People watched in fascination, I watched in great amusement.

We left just before the film went on to deconstruct Michael Jackson’s relationship with Satan.

I am not at all religious, but very interested in it. People in Accra often ask if I am Muslim or Christian, I say Christian because the few times I tried to explain what it means to be agnostic they simply didn’t understand. To not believe in anything is plain and simply incomprehensible.  Religion has and continues to play an important part in my trip, from my church readings in the village I stayed at in Ghana, to the Voodoo chief I saw in Benin, to the Mosque in Addis Ababa (all of which I will go on to tell you about later). It is undeniably a huge part of African culture, by ignoring religion I wouldn’t see the heart of Africa.

God in Ghana

One evening David and I decided to take a walk to Jamestown, probably the poorest area in Accra. Walking down the dirty dark streets, past make-shift houses, playing children and staring people who were genuinely confused as to why two white people were just wandering around this area.

At dusk in Accra the streets are always full of noise. My favourite thing about African culture is that life is lived outside the house, so this night like all others, the streets were filled with people bathing, cooking and eating, drinking and even dancing. But there was a noise quite distinct from the general chatter and laughter and it was coming from a few blocks ahead.

It was a noise that by then I knew well. A man's deep voice that often bellows through the alleys of Accra. Although it comes from  different men, it somehow always sounds the same - a unique mix of deep and scratchy yet also shrill and hysterical. Always that same elusive tone that trembles down the microphone and sounds like an inaudible screeching foreign language except occasionally you hear the words "jeeeezus charissst" and "haaaaallelujah" and "pa-raise tha loooord".

Sometimes it comes from lone preachers in the street babbling in a microphone, sometimes it blares from megaphones on top of cars that glide past at a painfully slow pace, even louder than the usual steady strum of the market place. Or often you hear the tinny noise racketing out of crappy car radios turned up full blast (especially disturbing when you are a passenger in that car). This preaching had become the chorus to my Ghana soundtrack. But this time it had the distinct echo of a large hall, and the sound of a large and energetic audience playing along noisily. I skipped up the street following the sound with excitement.

We arrived at a huge white wall and large steal bars. A building that is so big and so grand it dwarfs anything else in the area. A woman appears at the gate and welcomes us in. I want to stand at the back and watch but she insists on moving another lady to the back so that we can take her seat. I sat and I tried to take it all in but it was a sensory overload.

In no particular order this is what I witnessed.

We were in a huge square white hall. No crosses or art works or stain-glass windows like your typical Catholic church (the only church I have been in and can compare it to). The only similarity to a more traditional church was the narrow wooden benches that pained me in my childhood. There was a large stage up the front where a four-piece band was vaguely audible in the background of all the screaming chanting voices. On either side of the stage were large flat-screened televisions and above the stage another projection screen.

Most people were standing most of the time. Arms outstretched, fingers splayed, bodies swaying. Some people were rocking back and forth. A few people paced up and down whatever space was near them. In the isle people dropped to their knees and pounded the floor with their fists.  People were grabbing and pulling at their own hair, hiding their faces in their hands, they would mutter under their breaths and then when encouraged they would scream out "hallelujah", "yesss", "Praise the lord".

There was one young boy wearing a lime-green 'Milo' t-shirt who would take two steps forward, two steps back, two steps forward, two steps back.... the whole time he was screaming at the top of his lungs. One man across the aisle from us was crying. One woman had her face pressed up against the wall, she slapped the wall repeatedly with the palms of her hand and this is where she stayed the whole time we were there.

You know, some of this behaviour is not that different to what I've seen at rock concerts or football games, but even the drug-induced, alcohol-spurred behaviour there is far more sane than what I was witnessing here. The few times I have walked passed individuals on the streets at home acting this way, I kept walking, pondering the complexities of mental illness.

But this frenzied panic was carefully created. It was worked up and encouraged and fed by the real estate agent up the front. That was my first impression of him. A stereotypical real estate agent or car salesman. A smarmy looking guy in a pin-striped suit with a cheesy-grin flashing snow-white teeth looking down on us from the projection stating 'Rev. Pastor Robert Koofie populating heaven'. A chill ran down my spine whenever I looked up at him.

Practically eating he microphone he screeched:
"The power in you... I said [even louder] THE P-O-W-E-R I-N Y-O-U"
To which everyone in the audience jumps to their feet and screams and stamps their feet and waves their arms in the air. The boy in the green Milo shirt is doubled over as he squeezes the last bubble of air out of his lungs.

The screen projects a number of bible verses one at a time. One of them stated this:

"Luke 10:18: And he said unto them, I behold Satan as lightening falls from heaven".

... Whatever that means.

The smarmy real estate agent reads it out loud. Then he raises his voice and repeats it.

"AND HE SAID UNTO THEM"

And the audience roars.

Even louder he yells.

"AND HE SAID UNTO THEM"

And again people scream and stamp and and wave their limbs around.

"I BEHOLD SATAN"

And the roar around me is so loud my body is reverberating.

"I SAID I B-E-H-O-L-D S-A-T-A-N"

And he pauses, either for greater effect or because he cant remember the next line.

"AS LIGHTENING FALLS FROM HEAVEN"

And the crowd is really berserk. They jump up and down and slap the person beside them on the back and hug each other and drop to their knees like that last line really hit them in the guts.

Clearly I missed something, cause to me that sentence doesn't really make much sense. But despite my bitter cynicism I too decided to get to my feet. I jumped up and down with my arms waving in the air. I plastered a huge grin on my face and did my best "I can see God" face. David sat beside me in an open-mouthed state of wonder. I think for a second he was actually worried that I had found Jesus.

I even politely accepted the greasy bottle of cheap vegetable oil from the guy beside me. I allowed him to pour some in my cupped hands and as I had seen other people do I rubbed it through my hair, and across my arms and I continued to do my 'life is better cause I am accepting the power of Jesus in my heart' kind of smile. Even David rubbed the oil in his hair. I started to think that this isn't so bad after all. These people are poor, working themselves to an early grave and usually probably don't have any other reason to cheer and stamp their feet.... That is what I thought at first.

That was until Mr Smarmy says: "Who has 50 cedi for God? Come up here and put 50 cedi in the basket for God!"

50 cedi!!!! In the poorest part of Accra this man wants 50 cedi! That would be more than double what most of the people in this part of town would make in a week.

About half a dozen people walk up to the stage and drop 50 cedi into the basket. I am relieved that it isn't any more people. At least the other 150 people here aren't throwing away their weeks earnings.

"Who has 40 cedi for God? ... 30 even?"

I think steam blew out my ears!

"Everyone come quick. Your gift to God. Give your thanks and praise to God so that he can take care of you... 20 cedi... even just 10 cedi... whatever you can give to God"

People streamed down the isle, like flood waters rising they poured down there. I watched in utter disbelief as every single person flew up there to give at least a whole days earnings but quite likely more. I actually buried my face in my hands, I couldn't watch. It was not like a car crash where I couldn't help but peek, this was doom that I couldn't bare to face. What exactly is 'God' going to do with the money from the poorest people in Ghana? I nearly took up believing in a God just so that I could pray that this would end. To think that I waved my arms in the air for this guy... well for him and a vain attempt at blending in.

It gets better... or worse... hard to say which.

Mr Smarmy asks "Who is here for the first time?" I stupidly and cockily raise my hand, wrongly assuming that being in the back row no one will notice. The old man in the pale pink suit beside me starts nudging me and trying to force me to go on stage. I jam my heals into the ground and try to reason and then beg him not to send me up there. "I'm shy" I say "Tomorrow" I plead.

"It is for Jesus" he insists "It is the only way to get forgiveness". I manipulate his blind beliefs and promise him that instead of going up on stage I will allow him to show me how to accept Jesus. I say that "I promise I will stay back after the show... errr... I mean service".

When people start to pile out of the hall me and the man in pink sit down together, he tells me to repeat after him.

"I accept Jesus... He died for me... I reject Satan..." It goes on and on. Initially I am impressed with his ability to regurgitate these learned lines on the spot and I wonder how many times in his life he has been spooned the same speech.

I am aware that I have just silently been nodding along and that I should really be feeling God by now. So I decide to get into it. I clutch my chest with both hands and solemnly nod along. I dramatize the words as I repeat after him. I occasionally pause like I am really processing the prophetic-ness of what he is saying. I even surprise myself by declaring "it feels like a warmth inside of me". He tells me that is the Holy Spirit. He told me that even though he was always a Christian life was hard for him until he said those exact words and now everything is light. Good for him. Personally I am as heavy as ever. Though he did say I will wake tomorrow and be lighter.

As I collect David to leave a man named Solomon pulls us aside and says that the preacher wants to speak to us. For some reason I was surprised that he had noticed the only two white people awkwardly plonked up the back of the church refusing to give money like everyone else. We get taken in to his office. Again no crosses or images of Jesus, just a big screen TV, a solid wood desk and leather arm chairs and leather lounges.

The pastor flashes his pearly whites and tells us he is glad we came. He picks our accents straight away and says "so now you have a story for your friends". Not a stupid man. Blinded by greed perhaps, but not blinded like his congregation. He asks if we think he could go to Australia to share his message. He asked for our numbers. We promise him that we will back for tomorrow nights twelve hour service.

Within minutes of leaving David gets a call from Solomon, my guess is he was checking that we gave real numbers not fake ones. I check my phone and see that I have a missed call from him... I decide not to call back.