Homowo
An eventful week, full of the typical Ghana-esque highs and lows. Last week was slow, punctuated by a few trips to the pub to watch Olympic soccer. Ghanaians are gaga for soccer and there’s nothing like sitting outside under the stars, watching the game on a projection screen surrounded by people who are fervently sending their team good karma in a language you don’t understand. When they won against Portugal it was amazing, I almost teared up. Soccer fans in Toronto couldn’t rival the jubilation the men showed running around, screaming. It was fantastic.
We hung around the house on Saturday waiting for Johnny to stop by and take us to the Homowo festival, the annual celebration of all things Ga. On Tuesday night, as I was thrashing around in a terrible mood after a hideous day at work, Barbara and the Captain, owners of our local spot, asked us in for dinner, a kind of peanutty-squashy soup with fermented cornmeal served, in my case, with a tasty boneless fish. (It was boneless fish and I will not believe otherwise.) Alex, however, got cow’s head. It was quite delicious, but the story behind the festival is that it’s not only a celebration of the harvest, it’s also a symbolic recognition of an important battle the Gas fought and won against the Fantis. According to the Captain, the Gas and Fantis had been fighting for months and months, when they came to an impasse in the battle that would give the winner supremacy over the water’s edge land now known as Accra. The Ga women prepared a meal and took it down to their husbands as they prepared for battle. The Fantis got wind of it and decided to rush them before they had a chance to get “re-energized” by the cooking. With the Gas scattered, the Fantis decided to sample the food. Their poor stomachs were so unused to the combination of spices that it gave them the runs in more than one sense of the word. They were so sick they abandoned the fight and the Gas were the defacto winners.
My stomach had a Fanti-like reaction the next day, but it didn’t put a damper on my appreciation for Ghanaian hospitality.
We were told that Homowo is marked by a ceremonial parade, featuring Ga chiefs in all their regalia. But by 2 p.m. on Saturday, the appointed day, we decided Johnny had the date wrong and we took off for the African Market, a three-storey treasure trove of all the souvenirs one could possibly want from Ghana. They were horribly overpriced, but nice to look at and get a sense for their value. We ate lunch on the rooftop terrace, then Alex and I headed out to the Osu beach, which is about 10 minutes walk from our house. It was a landfill, essentially, the saddest stretch of sand, littered with every type of refuse and feces from a couple different species. Goats swallowed whatever they could manage, chickens darted around pecking away at half-rotting fruits and vegetables. Again, it makes you consider vegetarianism.
Osu is the Little Italy of Accra. It’s the posh, upscale home of the academic elite, the corrupt, the powerful and the obruni. It has more fast-food joints than any other part of the city and the main drag, known colloquially as Oxford St., is a full-on pumping, vibrant strip of restaurants, spots, clubs and hotels, with hawkers and venders of everything from gorgeous leather handbags to cheap scarves and Ghanaian flags vying for precious cedis. Head straight north and you fall into the quiet, comfortable neighbourhood of guarded compounds and beautifully landscaped gardens. (It’s a perfect spot for walking, one of the few places in the city where the streets are actually wide enough to accommodate cars, tro-tros, pedestrians and the occasional motorcycle.)
But straight south, by the water’s edge, is a slum like I’ve never seen in the entire city. Tin shacks were crammed one next to the other. Public toilets let their presence be known several steps before you spotted them. Children ran around in rags, playing soccer in their bare feet amongst heaps of pineapple peelings and discarded drinking satchets. The sewer was clogged and overflowing with blue-grey water. The whole place had a slight stench and seemed busy, chaotic and slightly menacing. I was glad for Alex’s company, but found the people to be just as friendly as the people I meet in Adabraka.
As we were rounding the corner to our house, we came across the parade Johnny had recommended. Scores of people were ambling down the street, singing and banging on instruments. Every few minutes someone would shoot off a rifle. Women and children wore brilliant orange wigs. The chiefs, resplendent in plush fabrics, laden with gold chains and carrying ornate walking sticks, marched along protected by a throng of similarly dressed followers, as well as someone carrying an elaborate umbrella to shade them from the sun. It was quite something.
We hung around the house on Saturday waiting for Johnny to stop by and take us to the Homowo festival, the annual celebration of all things Ga. On Tuesday night, as I was thrashing around in a terrible mood after a hideous day at work, Barbara and the Captain, owners of our local spot, asked us in for dinner, a kind of peanutty-squashy soup with fermented cornmeal served, in my case, with a tasty boneless fish. (It was boneless fish and I will not believe otherwise.) Alex, however, got cow’s head. It was quite delicious, but the story behind the festival is that it’s not only a celebration of the harvest, it’s also a symbolic recognition of an important battle the Gas fought and won against the Fantis. According to the Captain, the Gas and Fantis had been fighting for months and months, when they came to an impasse in the battle that would give the winner supremacy over the water’s edge land now known as Accra. The Ga women prepared a meal and took it down to their husbands as they prepared for battle. The Fantis got wind of it and decided to rush them before they had a chance to get “re-energized” by the cooking. With the Gas scattered, the Fantis decided to sample the food. Their poor stomachs were so unused to the combination of spices that it gave them the runs in more than one sense of the word. They were so sick they abandoned the fight and the Gas were the defacto winners.
My stomach had a Fanti-like reaction the next day, but it didn’t put a damper on my appreciation for Ghanaian hospitality.
We were told that Homowo is marked by a ceremonial parade, featuring Ga chiefs in all their regalia. But by 2 p.m. on Saturday, the appointed day, we decided Johnny had the date wrong and we took off for the African Market, a three-storey treasure trove of all the souvenirs one could possibly want from Ghana. They were horribly overpriced, but nice to look at and get a sense for their value. We ate lunch on the rooftop terrace, then Alex and I headed out to the Osu beach, which is about 10 minutes walk from our house. It was a landfill, essentially, the saddest stretch of sand, littered with every type of refuse and feces from a couple different species. Goats swallowed whatever they could manage, chickens darted around pecking away at half-rotting fruits and vegetables. Again, it makes you consider vegetarianism.
Osu is the Little Italy of Accra. It’s the posh, upscale home of the academic elite, the corrupt, the powerful and the obruni. It has more fast-food joints than any other part of the city and the main drag, known colloquially as Oxford St., is a full-on pumping, vibrant strip of restaurants, spots, clubs and hotels, with hawkers and venders of everything from gorgeous leather handbags to cheap scarves and Ghanaian flags vying for precious cedis. Head straight north and you fall into the quiet, comfortable neighbourhood of guarded compounds and beautifully landscaped gardens. (It’s a perfect spot for walking, one of the few places in the city where the streets are actually wide enough to accommodate cars, tro-tros, pedestrians and the occasional motorcycle.)
But straight south, by the water’s edge, is a slum like I’ve never seen in the entire city. Tin shacks were crammed one next to the other. Public toilets let their presence be known several steps before you spotted them. Children ran around in rags, playing soccer in their bare feet amongst heaps of pineapple peelings and discarded drinking satchets. The sewer was clogged and overflowing with blue-grey water. The whole place had a slight stench and seemed busy, chaotic and slightly menacing. I was glad for Alex’s company, but found the people to be just as friendly as the people I meet in Adabraka.
As we were rounding the corner to our house, we came across the parade Johnny had recommended. Scores of people were ambling down the street, singing and banging on instruments. Every few minutes someone would shoot off a rifle. Women and children wore brilliant orange wigs. The chiefs, resplendent in plush fabrics, laden with gold chains and carrying ornate walking sticks, marched along protected by a throng of similarly dressed followers, as well as someone carrying an elaborate umbrella to shade them from the sun. It was quite something.
posted by Palmer in Africa at 6:25 AM
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