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!
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