More African observations
The house we are staying is a multi-generational house. That is to say, it’s occupied by George and his wife and kids, George’s brother, and George’s dad. We are living in a room that was that of George’s other brother, but he is off in the UK for the moment. So basically there are three generations of family living in this house.
The house itself is actually more like an apartment complex, except in miniature. In our talks with Dom we got to the bottom of why every tenth building here seems to be abandoned and half built. Basically (in Dom’s view) Africans don’t have access to credit, so instead of a 30-year mortgage for their dreamhome (all completed and sold to them by some realtor) they buy a plot of land and just start building. The add a brick or two at a time, over the course of a life, until their home is done. So to me what looked like abandoned properties are actually works in progress. It’s obvious that some of them aren’t being inhabited, but the more I look the more I see signs that Dom is correct, that most of these are just large-scale home additions.
George’s house is no exception. So to see the inside it is interesting to see how the entire house was built in pieces and how that has affected the construction. The second floor is yet to be built, so there’s a staircase that just goes nowhere, probably the most telling aspect. Anyway, just an answer to an early question I’d posed here.
George’s dad is probably 70 or so, and everyone here just calls him “the old man,” or something like that. There are few pets in Africa that I’ve seen, but George’s dad, for all his gruffness, strikes me a lover of animals, at least as far as Africa goes. There are always a handful of kittens on the porch (that he feeds), and there’s a dog that hangs around, that the old man calls “poh-pee.” Popi sustained an eye injury the other day, either through a dog fight, or someone might have kicked him (he is protective of the house, so I can see someone who shortcutted through the yard at night disliking being barked at). His eye has been looking better lately, and we’ve seen the old man putting drops in it. Popi has also recently been tied up (to a cv-shaft of all things), I think to keep him from wandering off and getting into more trouble while still wounded.
Anyway, so today a taxi pulled up in front of the house while I was working on some film stuff. I could see it from our room, but didn’t think much of it. It was a mid 1990s Nissan Sentra (or whatever they call Sentras over here). I see the taxi driver open the trunk, the old man get out of the car, and then Popi jumps out of the trunk!!! Hah!
Apparently this is how dogs ride in taxis in Ghana, and what i wouldn’t have given to see the old man negotiate that fair, “Will you go to Ciru compound? Oh, also, this dog is going to ride in the trunk.”
Miranda and I stared as Popi trotted off into the yard, looking happy to be home (and doubtless happy to be out of the six-billion-degree trunk). In the United States this would probably be animal cruelty, yet in Africa this strikes me as the opposite — the old man cared for the dog enough to hire a taxi to town, roundtrip, for a checkup. The taxi alone would be close to a day’s wage. So I find myself confronted with mixed feelings. In this situation, all we could do is stare and laugh at the absurdity of a dog riding in a trunk of a taxi and us as hapless alien onlookers.
Also, speaking of dogs, there is a beachside place we eat lunch, that has several actual ‘pet’ dogs (the place is owned by Obruni). The dogs sometimes growl at street vendors who venture too close, and I suspect the owners have taught them to do this, as a way of discouraging people from bothering their clientele (which is more than half-white, based on my informal “having eaten there a dozen or so times” survey). Today two of the dogs lunged at a black customer who was standing playing pool, and he expertly kicked both of them in the face in literally the blink of an eye. By the time Miranda turned around to see what had happened both dogs were scampering away, pride wounded. What might have been a nasty dog-attack elsewhere was nothing but a split second of instinctive kicking in Africa — all of this football* Ghanaians engage in (and they love their football here) pays off!
Another thing I have noted with Miranda, mostly because we walk everywhere, is that most any club or bar in Cape Coast will have music playing, and this music will be loud. LOUD. So loud and distorted I don’t know how any of their speakers survives even a week. The music at a club or a bar here is never normal volume. It’s not even loud — loud isn’t even the right word — it’s deafening. We’ve passed some churches with this same take on the need for volume. I’m not really sure what it’s all about, but it amazes me how the occupants can even stand the volume (and I am quite sure they are doing damage to their hearing), as most times we will be hundreds of feet passed the bar or church before the music is at a volume where I could sit and listen.
I would speculate they turn it up this loud for advertising sake, except that 200 feet later you come upon another bar with blaring music and you have no idea the first bar even exists anymore. In a country where so much commerce takes place because of intimate knowledge of who has what and where, the notion that loud music can attract random customers seems to go against the grain of how so much business gets done here.
There are exceptions to the loud music rule — George’s and Dom’s church, as well as the hilltop dive bar Dom takes us to, both of these are tolerable (thank God), but they are the exception to the rule.
Also, today is laundry day! Miranda says she now sees why it’s called laundry day, hah. We were very tight on space (well, weight and space) when packing for this trip, most notably because we are shooting a documentary (so we have a lot of film gear) and also because of my diet (I am a very strict vegetarian — so we also brought about 50lbs of non-perishable food (protein bars, Clif bars, sealed containers of cashews, granola, etc)). Because of space restrictions, I packed three [Merino wool] t-shirts, three pairs of lightweight REI-brand cargo pants, and two pairs of Smartwool socks (I could have brought more of these but they are expensive and I’m budget-conscious). This basically means I am wearing the same clothing for several days in a row, something I knew would be the case, and partly why I chose lightweight natural fibers. Merino wool tends to not hold body odors, wicks sweat away, and dries quickly, all good things. Because of the cost of Merino clothing I bought one of these shirts about five months in advance of the trip and wore it for days at a time, to be sure it really lived up to my expectations. So far I am happy with my decisions about clothes for the trip, but also wishing I had just a few extra pairs of clothes. I also wish I had a motorcycle here too. And some tortilla chips and salsa. And a Taco Del Mar vegan burrito. Wishes, wishes.
*by football I mean the sport known in North America as soccer.
