I just got back from my fourth visit to Jamestown. I’ve spent most of my time in the fishing village below the cliffs.  There it is an extremely close-knit community.  Everyone seems to know each other and watches out for their neighbors.  So when a gaggle of obronis covered in sunscreen descended on the place with Nikon necklaces, word traveled fast.  Before we had all dismounted from expensive SEED-issued SUVs, one of the main guys was there to meet us and understand our mission.

Nii Quaye – our guide and friend

Nii’s Friend

Nii Quaye is a member of the Fishing Association which, as you might expect, is a force in a fishing village. Bodyguard in tow, he headed over to “greet” us, sort of a “why are you here?” challenge.  Then he recognized Tony Aidoo, our driver.  Tony had escorted former SEED coach Bill Scull on numerous visits to Jamestown.  Bill is also a professional photographer, and cemented his friendship with Nii by printing his best and giving out the pictures upon return.  With so many tourists coming down just to shoot “poverty porn” and leave, Bill’s gifts to these people spoke volumes.  His work is truly remarkable, and his care for the Jamestown denizens comes shining through in his work at http://billinghana.blogspot.com/ .

Nii ushered us around his community, a very active commercial fishing port. The long canoes bearing a variety of phrases praising God Almighty are launching and beaching continuously.  It’s very easy to get caught up in the lines strung out across the beach.  They jump out of the sand without warning as boats put tension on them, making you look like a real idiot if you don’t keep your wits about you.  Watch where you are going and don’t trip – or get in the way.  This is serious business.  Crews of about 8 young men jump on these dugout boats to cast nets and haul in whatever they can catch.  A few meters away you can buy some of the still wriggling haul.  Any time not on the water is spent mending or untangling nets.

All in a row

Maybe not his boat, but he sure acts the part

I followed Bill’s lead and returned the next time with a handful of photos. I hadn’t a clue how to find the people in my pictures.  No matter – Nii was right there, grabbing the photos and dragging me, Linda, and Dodoo through a jumbled maze of storefronts and dwellings to chase these folks down.  Along the way he would direct me to shoot a frame or two of an unsuspecting victim.  Many of these people are just not crazy about being photographed.  I’d pantomime something like asking for permission.  If they demurred, Nii would start yelling at them.  Then he’d turn to me and inform in no uncertain terms that HE is the boss here.  OK, I guess we’re gonna shoot.  Afterwards, he’d show the person the photos and explain that I was going to give something back.  Order is restored and my ink bill goes up.

Breakfast

Three fishermen

The kids in Jamestown are the best. They are running all over the place, curious and innocent.  They have plenty of supervision, though.  Every woman is an “auntie,” and men are “uncles.”  As much as possible in this environment the adults look out for their welfare and help keep them out of trouble.  To the children, white people are living, breathing novelties they just have to touch.  And pose.  I’ll let them finish this part of the story.

I expected bugs when I came to Africa. And they are here.  They’re a lot like our bugs, at least the ones I’ve seen.  But I expected Big Bugs like in National Geographic.  Most of what I’ve seen are smaller.  I mean really small.  The omnipresent mosquitos who have not yet shown an interest in me (thank God) are tiny.  You could fit 3 of them inside one of our Idaho bloodsuckers.  I bought one of those cool electrified tennis racquets from a hawker on the street.  Think light-saber-bug-zapper.  It’s alarming what a thrill I get when I stalk them and hear that satisfying sizzle.

Since there are two men living in this apartment and our housekeepers are both men, one would expect that stuff doesn’t always get cleaned up on time. Sunday evening is the worst, since that’s the day that Prince and Ernest are off.  One of my little luxuries here is not doing dishes.  Linda would probably ask, “And that’s different how…?”  I’m not going near that mess after Kweku and I have both asserted our culinary skills (Mark, our chef, is also off Sundays).  This leads to the scourge of 5B:  Ants!

These guys are tinytinytiny. And very fast.  And crazy.  They’ll run around in circles over and over again with no (apparent) goal.  I’m picturing my daughter’s cat on meth chasing a laser pointer.  They’ll swarm anything, too.  I’m still trying to figure out what’s so attractive to them about my drum, which they temporarily held hostage.  I’m the coffee addict at the SEED Center, so I fire up the brew in the morning on one of those updated Bunn-o-Matic industrial strength coffee makers.  One morning, I found that someone had dropped a bit of cake on the grate where you add water.  When I lifted the cover, several million ants dived down into the reservoir, taking the morsel with them.  The cleaning lady and I looked at each other conspiratorially.  “I won’t tell if you won’t,” was the unspoken oath.  The coffee was quite flavorful that morning.

Cake is their favorite prey. It is our favorite too.  The battle has raged for several months.  Saran wrap hermetically sealed to the plate barely slows them down.  Someone bought a high tech “cake keeper.”  It was child’s play to these 6-legged demons.  We’d been working with our chef to get him to bake American-style cakes.  Apparently Ghanaians like theirs very thick, like brownies without the charm. One night, Mark cooked the best cake I’ve had in years.  By morning, it was captured by a force of thousands.  By this time, it was Ants 15, Humans  0.  Then came The Moat.

Kweku has an extensive design background, some of it in architecture. While I don’t know the exact genesis of this medieval throwback, his hand can be clearly seen.  The cake is set on a pedestal which is then lowered into a large plastic pan.  Water is added to just below the “cake line.”  Voila!  The Moat.  The ants crowd the shoreline shouting all kinds of high-pitched threats and obscenities, but to no avail.  Victory is savored with a cold glass of milk.

The Moat. Primitive. Effective.