Slow Travel: Sunday in Accra

Africa is a slow place.

It’s a land where people move slowly and make decisions even slower.

The days turn into weeks and the weeks blend into months.

If you’re caught in the lifestyle, a year will pass and you’ll wonder where it went.

Grandiose plans fade before your eyes and the epic thoughts disappear into the slow rhythm of the land.

Ghana — Accra — is not immune to the contented amble of the continent.

I’m in the friendliest African nation. Africa for beginners.

It seems just as friendly — or as mean — as the other countries I’ve visited, but that’s an opinion seen through the eyes of a black man traveling in a predominantly black continent.

I’ve mastered the subtle art of Pidgin English. It comes with certain perks.

When I go to the marketplace, I’m taken as an African traveler, not a western traveler. A distinct difference.

When people interact with me, they see me as their brother as opposed to a rich tourist they can use to earn their daily bread. They’re happy to show me the best spots and the cheapest ways to enjoy their nation.

Accra is no different.

There’s a rich tapestry of people, ideas, cultures, and influences that make this country — this city — tick. Together, they give it a unique flavor. I’ve been to places where it’s dangerous to be an unaccompanied tourist. This is not one of them.

I woke up this morning with a clear goal in my mind. Get lost in Accra. After visiting the local church and giving thanks to God for another week of fun, safety, and exploration, I set off. My companions were my phone and my sunglasses. Everything else was left behind.

I didn’t get far before I ran into a local with a head full of thick locks. He reminded me of a Jamaican that’d gotten lost on their way back home, ended up in Ghana, and decided to stay. He wore baggy cargo shorts with a desert military design. Sandals and a Bob Marley bro shirt completed the look.

When I got within talking distance, he flicked the ashes from his cigarette off his glistening ebony skin — Accra is hot.

We started to talk because that’s what sane people do, they talk to each other. He told me about Ghana and the indigenous people of the city. They’re called the Gha tribe. I found that funny because it seems like the country was named after them. I told him. He agreed.

I offered to buy him a drink so we could get out of the heat. He wasn’t fazed by the tropical sun. I was. We strolled to an open bar facing a busy street. Heineken for me. Club for him.

We sat down and spoke about the rich culture of Ghana. I was the thirsty traveler, ready to drink anything that looked remotely like water. He was the oasis in the desert, ready to provide succor.

As he weaved tales of the history of his nation, I found something odd. He took pride in the fact that Ghana was the center of the West African Trans-Atlantic slave trade. Africans slaves from Ghana and neighboring countries would be shipped to Cape Coast before they started their journey to the new world.

We opened our second bottle.

He started to tell me about the current problems of his beloved country. They were about to undergo a fundamental change. The new president was a former drug dealer and a son of a member of The Big Six. He was rich and he was going to enrich a nation.

He jumped into the stories of the new presidents exploits. They seemed a bit crazy to me, but I’ve no problem humoring a drinking man. The sun was starting to go down. The shadows were getting longer.

We opened our third bottle.

The street was transforming before my eyes. During the day it’s a busy two lane street in the business district. At night, it turns into a one lane affair. People who’ve been resting — hiding from the heat — come out to sell drinks, food, and everything in between to the office workers who aren’t ready to go home to their families.

Maybe there’s no family to go home to.

On Sundays, the people who are tired of the company of their family come here.

I start to tune my companion out. The sight before me is far more compelling. I see beautiful women clad in crop tops and spandex roaming the darkened streets. What are they looking for I wonder?

I jump down from my stool to get a closer look and my companion asks if I need a woman. These ones are cheap he tells me, he knows where I can get half casts for a good price. I murmur I’m not interested and amble along the street.

He opened his fourth bottle.

The smells of exotic cuisine assault my nostrils. It’s the smell of Accra. It’s the smell of Africa. A woman to my right calls me brother and offers me fish — Tilapia. It’s delicious. I buy another one for my companion. She smiles like my mother.

A man further up flags me down and forces me to try his meat. I’ve been drinking. I oblige. I bite into the meat and a cocktail of flavors fight for dominance in my mouth. I swallow it and my eyes water a bit from the pepper. I buy two more. One for me and one for my companion. I eat them both. He smiles like my father.

I continue my stroll through the avenue that’s come alive in the night. I try different street dishes. Each one carrying with it the traditions of the cook. No two pieces of food taste exactly alike.

I stop in front of two young women; they look like they’ve been at work all day. Both of them are wearing form fitting dresses. One is as black as onyx. One is the color of caramel. Both are stunning.

They’re sharing a plate of meat. My mouth waters while I look on. I swallow my saliva. I greet them both with a loud hello and a warm smile.

They look up with slightly annoyed expressions which quickly soften. I sigh with relief; it’s too late in the day and too early in the night to get rejected. I give them my spiel; I’ve used it well in my travels. They look me over once more and invite me to sit down.

They’re bankers. They point in the general direction of their office. We make small talk and I entertain them with stories of Africa. They relax. They offer me the meat they’re sharing. I order a round of drinks. We laugh together like old friends. They are old friends.

Hours tick by. My first companion comes to find me. I introduce them. They’re not interested. I give him the Tilapia and money to pay for the drinks. I wish him a good night. My new companions ask me where I’m going.

I tell them anywhere my feet carry me. My caramel goddess offers me a ride. Her friend shoots her a look. I act oblivious. I accept the ride. We tell her friend goodnight.

We tell Accra goodnight.