Cape Coast

The morning was much sunnier than the day before. I saw a delectable item on the menu for breakfast that I just had to order: pancakes! They were delicious. They were like giant crepes, thicker but not as fluffy-dense as American pancakes. There were some sautéed bananas with them, and I ate 3 of the 4 crepes. The last one I gave to Samantha because the bread, jam, and cheese breakfast she ordered looked like what you would get on an airplane—tiny prepackaged individual servings of jam and spreadable cheese substance, and 2 pieces of untoasted thin wheat bread.

After breakfast we headed to Cape Coast Castle, where the sun really came out in full force. I had been to the castle before, and everything was just how I remembered it. The castle was originally a fort, and exchanged hands numerous times before landing its infamous reputation as one of the largest slave trading posts on the West African coast. The dungeons were incredibly dark and equally depressing. Five compartments made up the male slave dungeon, holding 250 men in each compartment. The compartments couldn’t have been more than 20 feet wide, by 35 feet deep. For 2-3 months, men were held, unable to see daylight which caused temporary blindness when they were escorted out. They sustained with what little food and water was provided, and slept in months worth of filth—vomit, urine, and feces. When the dungeons were excavated, it was found that the pool of filth that slaves slept in reached a foot and a half off of the floor. Women were kept separately, in two chambers of between 400-500 women in each. Conditions were similar. Both male and female dungeons held slaves roughly between the ages of 13 and 30. Though there was a separate entrance in the female dungeon for soldiers to select the most beautiful ones for their nightly pleasures. If a woman refused the advances, she was thrown into a smaller cell, usually holding ten women all for the same reasons. That cell was 2 feet wide by 10 feet long. If women became pregnant from the rape of a soldier, the woman would be sent off to be cared for by a nurse in a home nearby until the delivery of the baby. Once the baby was delivered, the baby was taken to the church to be raised as an orphan and educated in the first formal school of Ghana, in Cape Coast. The mothers were sent back to the dungeons. If anyone tried to escape or fight back, they were sent as an example to the cell for the condemned. The room had no windows, no opening for light or air. They were given no food or water, and within two or three days, the occupants died. Once transported to the slave ships, people were packed like sardines, literally, with each person sitting between the legs of another for the journey to Europe or the Americas. Many were shackled together, so if one person either fell overboard or committed suicide by jumping off of the ship, the entire line of shackled slaves would follow. If a woman became pregnant from a rape on the ship, she was thrown overboard—no one wants to buy a pregnant slave. Many people died. Because of the food shortage on ships, dead bodies were mixed in with food to feed to the slaves. Of the 25 million or so slaves that survived the ships’ voyages, it can be said that upwards of 88 million people had died, either on the ship or within the walls of the Cape Coast Castle. Disturbing, humbling, and heart wrenching, the informative day was well worth it, even the second time around.

After the tour, we stopped at some stands inside the castle walls that were selling various curios as souvenirs. I found some beautiful artwork that I couldn’t afford, but settled for some smaller more simple pieces. We ate lunch at the Castle Restaurant right next door. I had vegetable coconut curry, which was really good, and a glass of pineapple juice. We watched the waves, and some kids wrestle and play on the sand. Before long we decided to head back to the bungalow for a short nap. Before we walked back though, Samantha stopped to buy a small drum. While she was busily haggling her price down, a woman motioned for my water bottle. I poured some of my water into a baggie she held open, one meant to hold the soy skewers she was selling.

It was so nice out we cut naptime short to sit on the beach. Kids came by selling pure water, oranges, and other things. We watched a group of guys play soccer on the beach, which seemed somewhat challenging when the tide started to come in. There were some fisherman boats behind them; I couldn’t tell if they were coming or going. The same group of kids appeared, this time to show off in front of other tourists. They did back flips and back hand springs, over and over and over. I ordered a sandwich—a poor decision on my part, I only ate half of it. A boy named Samson approached selling oranges and asked if I remembered him. He gave us guidance earlier that morning as to which way the castle was. He had asked me to buy oranges from him and I said maybe later. Since he found us, I happily bought two oranges for us, and one for him. Three oranges are only 50 peswas. He looked at the half sandwich that lay on my plate and asked if he could have it. I obliged. Another child brought a turtle over and put it on the table. Shortly afterward, we moved to a palm covering inside the walls of Oasis since it was getting dark. There was a new group of students or something who had just arrived. One girl was sitting in front of me, and I could see over her shoulder that she was sketching the scenery. It made me wish I was back in the practice of sketching and drawing. I feel like I used to be pretty good, but lately every time I pick up a pencil, I’m disgusted with the lack of vision, more so with the disappointing product. There were some evil little children whose parents neglected to see the importance of supervision. While the parents busied themselves with their beers and adult conversation, the children began throwing large stones at the sleeping puppies. I was livid, though I felt if I told the children to stop, it might start a fight. Clearly, animal care is handled differently here. I couldn’t stand it so we went back to the bungalow.

I brushed my teeth in our tiny sink with running water. If ever someone doesn’t appreciate the little things in life, send them to Africa. I have never been one for religion, but more and more when I’m in Ghana, I find myself praising Jesus for the small graces of the occasional luxury of running water, a fan, or a cold drink of water. There was a toad in the outhouse, which immediately reminded me of the Discovery Channel-wanna be show that was televised at the STC station, particularly the segment about deadly frogs. The entire show was a condensed version of an educational snippet of nature. At the most, four sentences were devoted to describe a different species, ranging from the wrath of the North American skunk, to the vampire bats of South America, to snakes and frogs, and jellyfish and coral, all of which makes you never want to take a nature walk again in your life. South America is seriously no joke. Not only are you in danger of being shot amid a miscommunication surrounding cocaine possession, the frogs are out to get you too. And God forbid you play like a monkey in the jungle because Tarzan might shoot you with a poison frog dart. They kept showing the same clip over and over, as if it would have more effect—a naked man in a loin cloth blowing his dart at a monkey, and then the monkey falls to the ground in death… so educational and… uplifting.