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!