Heaviness and Mirth: Cape Coast Castle and Akropong, Ghana

The hours I spent in the hot, thick, seacoast humidity were "heavy," not so much because of the weather, but because of the unsavory events that took place at the Cape Coast Castle. This is where African slaves were "housed" until being shipped, those that lived that is, to the Americas and the Caribbean. The dungeons were below ground and built of brick and stone. Each room was practically pitch black, and looked to be about twenty-five feet by twenty. Each room held up to one hundred slaves. There were five rooms for the men and two separately located ones for women. Carved into the floor were small channels a few inches deep and wide--for conveying human urine, excrement, and rain water. Sand also found its way there, and with so many people in one space, the result was four to five inches deep of filthy muck spread wall to wall across the entire floor. Imagine how horrible the stench must have been? Many died here. Many of those who didn't, died aboard the ships that took them west. The "lucky" ones ended up enslaved to Europeans and Americans.

I experienced the same physical feeling here as I did touring the Holocaust Museum in Washington, D. C. I felt sick to my stomach and shameful of my forebears' complicity in this inhuman treatment of others made in in the image of God. Upon reflecting on what took place here and in the transatlantic slave trade in general, I shuddered to think what I would have done had I lived in those times. The physical condition of the castle is excellent. It is nearly 350 years old, and constantly exposed to corrosive salt air and sea. Nevertheless the limestone they used from crushed oyster shells as well as other materials seems to have preserved it well. I came to Cape Coast from Akropong, a day trip. It took at least five hours of driving time, each way. It turned out to be a long, heavy day. The trip was made longer because of congested roads, road construction and resultant detours, and also because in Ghana Saturday is "funeral day." (Ghanaians dress in their best black, dark brown, and red outfits to pay their respects to deceased friends or family members. They look fabulous! This is a hugely important aspect of Ghanaian culture.) Nevertheless, I saw and experienced that for which I'd come to Cape Coast Castle, and more. In Cape Coast I also saw Ghanaians repairing their fishing nets as they probably have done for hundreds of years.


I've been staying at the Akrofi-Christaller Institute of Theology, Mission, and Culture (ACI) in Akropong. This degree-granting theological institution was founded by the late Dr. Kwame Bediako, the world-famous Ghanaian Presbyterian scholar. Being here has further motivated me to read his books. ACI is in the mountains about thirty miles outside of Accra, so it is significantly cooler than the city. Walking around town, I happened upon some "friends" who were partying to celebrate a family members' being a chief for four years, or something like that. My friends had been drinking the potent milky substance known as palm wine. Their varied states of inebriation and my difficulty deciphering their English (if only I spoke their language, Twi (pronounced "chwee") made it almost impossible to understand what it was they were really celebrating. I did understand that they said that the seven guys were all brothers and the one women their sister, all, they assured me, had the same parents. Trumpets blared and drums pulsed. They offered me a cup of palm wine but I declined as my stomach has been a bit "irregular" of late, shall we say. A gaggle of kids found me ambling about town and before I knew it they were holding my hands and we were all running down the street together laughing and taking pictures. What fun!

Arrival/Departure #2, Douala, Cameroon

Just in case you didn’t believe that I ever made it to and out of Cameroon somewhat as planned, here are a few pics. They include my good Cameroonian friend Aboseh Ngwana, my sis Karen, bro Bill, and mom. There's also a shot of Mt. Cameroon from the cabin of a Virgin Nigeria flight from Douala to Lagos.
I also stumbled upon a Presbyterian church in Lome, Togo, where I am now, after passing through Nigeria and Benin. Next stop, Ghana.

From Familiar to Foreign: DEPORTED BABY!

I recently read an interesting little book entitled, From Foreign to Familiar. Yesterday I experienced precisely the opposite. The day started out so well. On the flight from Lusaka I met a Zambian I'd come to know through my work here. It was a very pleasant surprise to find the Rev. Teddy Sakopapa sitting behind me. He said I looked familiar, which I almost immediately dismissed as a Zambian's typically friendly attempt to strike up a conversation. (I've heard that greeting more than a few times here.) As we talked we both realized he was right. Meeting this cheerful acquaintance made me feel like I had really become a part of Zambia.

It shaped up to be a relatively smooth day of flying. I was treated to a kind of aerial tour of African capital cities: Lusaka, Zambia, Lilongwe, Malawi, Nairobi, Kenya, and Yaoundé, Cameroon, all very nice. At the end of the day, literally, I ended up in Douala, kind of. Then just like that--bam--I was leaving. I could not believe it.

Here's what happened. The letter I'd received from the Moderator of the Presbyterian Church of Cameroon requesting that I be granted an airport visa (despite that Cameroon doesn't issue them), suddenly wasn't satisfying the Cameroonian immigration officials. Just after midnight I was told that my airport visa had to come from Yaoundé, Cam's capital--of all places, the last stop we'd made before Douala! I was hastily escorted back to the plane I'd just debarked and told I'd have to go back to Nairobi. The passengers on that plane couldn't have been too pleased. Their flight to Nairobi was delayed by at least three-quarters of an hour as immigration sorted though what to do with me, now perspiring profusely in the stifling Cameroonian humidity. It turned out that a woman at the jet way gate knew my Cam friend, but that didn't seem to bear me any fruit.
At one point, an immigration official took off down the wide corridor looking very purposeful--with my passport and the letter in question. When the airline ground crew tried to prod me on board the bird, I seized the opportunity to resist, asserting that I was going nowhere without my passport and letter, and especially not stepping foot inside that 737. I had a glimmer of hope that the airline would have to keep its schedule and leave in the interim, but this didn't pan out. Then there was that faint ray of hope that because I didn't have a return ticket to leave Cameroon, (since I'll be traveling overland through Nigeria), the airline wouldn't be permitted to let me go back to Nairobi. That hope also turned out to be short-lived. Suffice it to say that I ended up on a red-eye and found myself in Nairobi at sunrise, not feeling too fresh, and shall we say, more than a little disappointed and annoyed.

When I hit the tarmac in Nairobi I was abruptly met by a red-jacketed young man eager to keep tabs on my whereabouts and escort me, well, somwhere. It turned out that the Kenya Airways transit lounge has two things that are huge blessings that can never be taken for granted in Africa, or anywhere I suppose: a fantastic wireless internet signal and a table and chair next to a FUNCTIONAL electrical outlet INTO WHICH FIT MY PLUG ADAPTER! This enabled me to correspond with my Cameroonian friend as well as my bro Bill, twin sister Karen (who's celebrating a birthday today!) and my mom, who met me in Douala. After not seeing them for over a year, I was fortunate and thrilled to be reunited with them for about five minutes--before being whisked away like a criminal. The five-minute reunion itself felt a little like being a prisoner. From feeling familiar I now felt very foreign.

All I can do now is be a prisoner of hope. The visa is supposed to come through tomorrow, and now I just have to hope that the airline will let me travel to Douala with a visa. If all goes well, I'll be on tomorrow night's flight, once again touching down in Douala just before midnight. As Yogi says, "Déjà vu, all over again," right?-- only to a point, I hope. I figure there's a sermon or sermon illustration somewhere in this mess. And here I was thinking I had "the patience, flexibility, and humor thing" for travel down. Maybe this is another reminder that God isn't done with me yet. Stay tuned friends.

Shalenipo Mukwai Zam

Can you believe it? I'm in Lusaka preparing to depart Zam. I didn't expect saying shalenipo mukwai (Bemba for "goodbye") to the many people who've been so warm, kind, gracious, and generous to me-I never expected this to be easy, but I didn't think it would as difficult as it has been. In fact, many of these people have become friends. Gasp! These people, this place, has captured a piece of my heart, and, come to think of it, my mind. Zambia is a place of colorful people. The muzungus I've met and befriended here are among the most colorful people I've been privileged to meet. Here's yet another story of a friendly encounter with a Zambian. On the way to the internet cafe to write this entry, a Zambian army sergeant pulled his vehicle over to the side of the road along which I was walking. He asked how I was doing and, I think, if I was safe. I was walking to Kabulonga, from Ibex Hill, both very nice sections of the capital city. It was about 1 p.m. on this hot, sunny Sunday afternoon. I told him I was fine. He asked me where I was going and the told me to jump in, that he'd give me a lift. Once at the internet cafe the service was down. I asked a man at the counter where I could find another nearby internet cafe. Then I asked how long to get there by foot. About twenty minutes he said, but I'll take you there. Complete stranger, Panjani was his name, which means "Search."
Last night at about dusk, en route to a farewell/welcome reception with my friends Cheryl and Adrian, I made one last stop by Chisokone market in town. We were in search of a particular memento. An eager, studdering Zambian man seized the opportunity to escort us to find this item. After about ten minutes or more of walking ever more deeply into the dirt path maze of the market as it was shutting down for the day, we heard the man talking to the marketers about chitenges--the single two-meter swatches of material women wrap aroound their waists! I said, "No!, not chitenges, we're looking for "xyz"! The onlookers roared with laughter. It occurred to me that what I thought was a natural studder may have been induced by chibuku, the millet-based beer Zam men drink for a cheap buzz!

I'll surely miss the people. The smiles, the perfect white teeth, the friendly greetings as I run in the mornings. Some people, usually men, would greet me with apparently hard stares-- until hearing my greeting in their tongue-- at which time the scowl would morph into an ear-to-ear grin. The giggles and bursts of laughter at the shock of being greeted in Bemba or Lozi or Nyanja by some clueless muzungu. I'll miss the laughter, the joking and seeing the love my colleagues in the office have for each other. The impromptu Bemba lessons. The deep discussions about the culture, and about how to make sense of it all theologically. I'll miss the spontaneity of Zam life. I'll pray for the hard-working women. I'll miss the curious children. I remember the people who give me hope for Zambia, their faith, hope, and love. Their drive to do better, serving God and others. I'll miss the zigzagging with my friends Richard and Kangwa. I hope to return to a Zambia that achieves its dreams. Shalenipo mukwai Zam. Time to zigzag to points beyond. West Africa and Asia, here I come!