TheTraveler

 

Title
Beena Nadeem

I had spent the day in some confusion. At first it was the schoolgirls, then the builders, and in fact nearly everyone I met greeted me – albeit genially, with the word “abruni”. Had this not have been followed by near hysterics, and chattering behind cupped hands, I might not have worried.

My partner, who I’d come away with, couldn’t speak any Twi, the vernacular language of the Ashanti region, so it was left to his uncle to let me in on the joke.

“ABruni means white person,”

"But, I’m Asian," I protested.

“Out here, you’re white.” I could see the corners of his mouth creasing at the edges. I was pleased – I never thought I’d find a similar sarcasm to where I was born in Yorkshire, way over in West Africa. I was so very wrong.

We were staying in one of Ghana’s few mansions in a salubrious part of Kumasi, which are almost exclusively the property of ex-pats. Houses could almost be transported from Beverly Hills, and no doubt rich locals here would have loved the city’s name spelt out in giant white letters, gazing at them from a nearby green carpeted horizon. Landscaped gardens, and the occasional pool provided a huge contrast to the many Kumasians who lived in poverty, but the guilt didn’t consume me enough not to take a paddle.

Kumasi, in my opinion and that, obviously, of many who live there is superior to the capital, Accra, in many ways. Kumasi is refreshingly less hectic than the capital, yet still offers a rich array of hotels, restaurants, the biggest open air market in West Africa at Kejetia, a clutch of well appointed bars, that ranged from the surreal to the frantic. And of course, Kumasi is in famed for its rich cultural heritage: the birth place, and continued decadency of the Ashanti people.

A few days of ‘settling’ into heat, we were ready for some serious exploration of nightlife. We headed to a few makeshift bars where, with failing neon lights, where we supped beer under the warm night skies, before venturing to those where the air-conditioning could cause frostbite. We even found Kumai’s very own cliché ridden Irish bar before ending off the evening with a visit one of the roof-rocking clubs complete with Twi renditions of that club classic: “Who let the dogs out”.

The next morning, with a heavy heads, we wondered around the random clusters of stalls dotted around the city. Vendors were selling anything from puppies to wardrobes and you could even get hair braids at ‘Jesus Christ our Saviour Hair Salon’ one of the many biblically named shops reflecting the strong Christian ethic in this city. We’d pass coconut sellers, who would carve perfect diamond shaped holes for drinking milk – using nimble fingers, a concentrated eye and a nine-inch machete.

Temperatures all week had been creeping up but for a city in a county sliced across its waist by the equator, it wasn’t actually ‘that’ hot. That probably had something to do with visiting in the rainy season, which here peaks between May and June.

Be cause of the dramatic tropical rains that slam the dry ochre soils beneath like bullets, the air is often cleared of humidity. This is a Godsend when after a day of walking around you feel like you’re battling through airborne syrup. We only witnessed one twenty-minute storm all week – dramatic, but once it was over it was back to warm skies and sunshine in no time. Kumasi has its tropical climate to thank for its bounties of ebony hardwoods as well as generous mango and towering coconut trees, and understandably so, the locals are proud of what they call their Garden City.

By mid-week, we were beginning to get used to the early mornings – enforced by the chorus of cockerels that perched outside our window. After a breakfast of sweet breads and tea with carnation milk – something I be came quite partial to, we were on our way to Bekwai, a town some 40km north of Kumasi.

Bekwai’s crumbling and cramped conditions were humbling to see, especially after being so carefully wrapped up in the palatial cotton wool of rich ex-dwellings.

Here, many people lived in poverty, but all seemed pretty much self sufficient and happy to see us. Bekwai was this day however, in mourning. The death of a former Queen Mother of the Ashanti tribe leader had occurred and the funeral was today. Despite gold playing a huge part in the tribe’s cultural heritage, royalty, here does not necessarily equate to wealth like it does in the West. Of course, the queen mum wasn’t considered poor at all. She had a refrigerator and a home of three or four rooms. She was considered well off.

I was offered plantain or rice, many, many times. I was invited to dance in the procession that would mark the Queen mum’s life.

Despite the generosity of Bukwai’s people, poverty in parts of Ghana, such as Bukwai, remains rife. Subsistent and struggling villages and strained towns haven’t been helped by years of colonial occupation. At one time, the British, Dutch and Portuguese have all traded in gold and slaves from here, while a string of later occurring military governments fell foul to mismanagement and corruption. All the while, the people suffered, and notably so than when under the unpopular half-Scottish polo playing, Flight Lieutenant Jerry Rawlings. But things are bettering since John Kufour be came Ghana’s president.

Despite years of oppression, Kumasi stands proud as a significant exporter and investment here is growing. Eco-tourism is also on the pulling visitors in thanks to its natural beauties, magnificent tree walks, not to mention the 50km crawl east of the city to Bosumtew, Ghana’s only freshwater lake.

The roads to the lake are pre carious and steep, but our driver handled them like a run to the newsagents. The trickle of distant birdsong, and the noise of crushing stones under the tyres accompanied our journey to the top and before we reached the colossal crater which housed the lake, lined with sumptuous villages, co-co and okra growing in abundan ce. Locals told us stories of their ancestors’ spirits who cared for the lake, as they reeled in baskets of silvery fish. We sat down and baked the fish, while shooing away dragonflies and clouds of butterflies, which had meandered, form the nearby Bomfobiri Wildlife San ctuary. What a way to end a holiday.

Beena Nadeem is a freelance writer and regular contributor to The Traveler

Back to TheTraveler.