For my second day in Ghana, I responded to an invitation to attend a lawn party at the U.S. Embassy hosted by Ambassador Shirley Temple Black to celebrate our Bicentennial on July 4, 1976. This somewhat epitomized my concept of colonialism in the Third World as I surveyed the expatriates nibbling hors d'oeuvres. In spite of my disdain, I took advantage of the opportunity to greet Ms. Black then promptly left to discover the wonders within the people of Ghana.
Good fortune and the friendship of a thirteen-year-old boy named Armahfio Tawiah lead me to a very fulfilling experience with the Ada people in and around the fishing village of Otrokper near Ada-Foah, Ghana, West Africa.
Armahfio and my Polaroid camera services were beneficial to my successful inroads to meeting the people but I feel an amicable smile combined with conveyance of respect gave me access to good ethnographic information. I have failed until now to state my evaluation of this experience.
I would spend about three days a week under Armahfio's guidance. After the first few weeks, he understood my interests and would direct me to "juju" happenings, local events, and my summons to photograph a local chief, or just visit family members in neighboring villages.
This one particular day in late August, he greeted me with, "Hurry, we must go for the `Changing of the Fish'." Off I drove with blind trust down the sand road leading to one of the remote eight or so fishing villages along a five-mile stretch of Atlantic coastline of white sand beaches. Six degrees north, on the Prime Meridian, was where mud huts with thatched roofs housed the pleasant Ada people.
Armahfio explained as we went that his father owned a net, which was loaned to a village for fishing, and he had to collect his father's portion of the catch for the use of the net. I recalled seeing a net being brought in by people onshore. It took about sixty people to retrieve the giant semicircle of the net from the surf being managed by men in long dugout canoes. It appeared as though the crew on shore was made up of everyone from the village, all in a very festive mood. I asked Armahfio about the participants, he confirmed the net was loaned to the whole village.
At Armahfio's signal, I pulled the Datsun off the sand road. We made our way to a cove outside the perimeter of the village. This departed from my normal entrance of attracting a following of giggling children to pave my way. Ahead of us was an assemblage of adult males who glanced up coolly at our approach. Until this moment I had been secure with the warmth of reception by women and children. We entered the area but I stood silently on the sidelines and only managed to get a couple of nod/smile acknowledgments. Within moments of my arrival, one of the principal men of the group rose from his log seat, muttered a few words to the two men seated next to him at a crude wooden table, and hurried off. To my relief, he returned carrying a chair.
A chair is a rare possession not used by the owner except for guests. It would not have the acclaim of an Ashanti Stool, which is held by the chief and is said to contain the spirit of the village and only used on ceremonial occasions, but I sense there is a distant relationship. The man placed the chair in the midst of the proceedings and gestured for my acceptance with a businesslike smile. I mutely displayed thankfulness and pleasure at his hospitality. As I sat down I received a cordial nod from the majority of the group. While I had their attention I displayed my previously shielded camera which found no rejection.
At this, the meeting came to order. Although the English language was taught to a privileged few such as Armahfio who were able to attend school. Their communication was in the local tongue, alleged by the expatriates to be discernible within a particular associated group of villages, yet trade and commerce seemed to have a universal language. Here, as in many third world countries, the evolution of their words stopped at the technical level and colonial words were intermixed in conversation. Armahfio had to explain most of what went on at the "Changing of the Fish".
This was an assembly of twenty senior males and four teenage boys. The first order of business was the proceeds from the sale of fish at the market. While the spokesman of the three told of the details of the sale, the accountant of the group placed on the table a presorted bundle of bills and coins taken from a box. The accountant used a pencil to check off his list tabulated on a steno pad as each individual of the group filed up to receive his bounty. As often happens through interpreters, points of confusion lead to my making some assumptions. I believe the equal money shares were allowed to a head of the family regardless of the number of members participating. The monies came from a wholesaler's bid for the marketable fish, rather than an individual effort at the marketplace, which I would have thought to be the norm other than in this collective operation. The real business of trade and marketing was earned by a demonstrative group of women who controlled the field very aggressively. I had observed them in action at the Accra wholesale center where fleet-fishing vessels entrusted their catch with them for barter. I could envision the head three men here taking what the women dealers offered.
Off to one side was non-marketable fish and octopus being sorted on a woven mat. The octopus was being cut into jelled segments and placed on a stack of three or four pan type fish. A broad leaf was the "grocery bag" used by the individuals to carry home the loot.
As the business end of things drew to a close a lighter mood took over. My "chair benefactor" brought out three packs of cigarettes, removed the wrapping, and offered me a smoke. I refused, as an ex-smoker needs to do, but I was concerned at dishonoring him. He shrugged and I was the only abstaining adult offered. Smoking here was a rare social happening. The expense left the habit-forming nature of cigarettes to government and police officials. I carried packs of cigarettes in the car to ease my passage through checkpoints. The first question of the heavily armed police was to bum a smoke, without gratuities long delays and harassment could be expected.
As the matches were being passed for a second round of cigarettes my host came up with three bottles of murky liquid which brought cheers from the crowd. He stood ceremoniously in front of me, poured himself a drink into a weathered four-ounce shot glass, and dumped it down his throat. This was a prelude to offering me, their honored guest, a drink from the one and only glass. All eyes were on us as he filled my glass. I held it in "salut" then took a drink, which caused me to gasp to their amusement. Holding the only glass, I had to finish my portion. My third gulp freed me to pass the glass; this received a cheer from the crowd. Obviously it was "bathtub gin" inherited from the "Brits", but I think it missed a few stages of distilling to have such a murky color.
With the "gin" consumed, the "Changing of the Fish" had ended. Armahfio spoke briefly with the leaders about future use of the net and we left. As I took Armahfio home, his share of the fish jiggling on the seat between us, I felt quite exhilarated at being accepted by this group of adult males.
Good fortune and the friendship of a thirteen-year-old boy named Armahfio Tawiah lead me to a very fulfilling experience with the Ada people in and around the fishing village of Otrokper near Ada-Foah, Ghana, West Africa.
Armahfio and my Polaroid camera services were beneficial to my successful inroads to meeting the people but I feel an amicable smile combined with conveyance of respect gave me access to good ethnographic information. I have failed until now to state my evaluation of this experience.
I would spend about three days a week under Armahfio's guidance. After the first few weeks, he understood my interests and would direct me to "juju" happenings, local events, and my summons to photograph a local chief, or just visit family members in neighboring villages.
This one particular day in late August, he greeted me with, "Hurry, we must go for the `Changing of the Fish'." Off I drove with blind trust down the sand road leading to one of the remote eight or so fishing villages along a five-mile stretch of Atlantic coastline of white sand beaches. Six degrees north, on the Prime Meridian, was where mud huts with thatched roofs housed the pleasant Ada people.
Armahfio explained as we went that his father owned a net, which was loaned to a village for fishing, and he had to collect his father's portion of the catch for the use of the net. I recalled seeing a net being brought in by people onshore. It took about sixty people to retrieve the giant semicircle of the net from the surf being managed by men in long dugout canoes. It appeared as though the crew on shore was made up of everyone from the village, all in a very festive mood. I asked Armahfio about the participants, he confirmed the net was loaned to the whole village.
At Armahfio's signal, I pulled the Datsun off the sand road. We made our way to a cove outside the perimeter of the village. This departed from my normal entrance of attracting a following of giggling children to pave my way. Ahead of us was an assemblage of adult males who glanced up coolly at our approach. Until this moment I had been secure with the warmth of reception by women and children. We entered the area but I stood silently on the sidelines and only managed to get a couple of nod/smile acknowledgments. Within moments of my arrival, one of the principal men of the group rose from his log seat, muttered a few words to the two men seated next to him at a crude wooden table, and hurried off. To my relief, he returned carrying a chair.
A chair is a rare possession not used by the owner except for guests. It would not have the acclaim of an Ashanti Stool, which is held by the chief and is said to contain the spirit of the village and only used on ceremonial occasions, but I sense there is a distant relationship. The man placed the chair in the midst of the proceedings and gestured for my acceptance with a businesslike smile. I mutely displayed thankfulness and pleasure at his hospitality. As I sat down I received a cordial nod from the majority of the group. While I had their attention I displayed my previously shielded camera which found no rejection.
At this, the meeting came to order. Although the English language was taught to a privileged few such as Armahfio who were able to attend school. Their communication was in the local tongue, alleged by the expatriates to be discernible within a particular associated group of villages, yet trade and commerce seemed to have a universal language. Here, as in many third world countries, the evolution of their words stopped at the technical level and colonial words were intermixed in conversation. Armahfio had to explain most of what went on at the "Changing of the Fish".
This was an assembly of twenty senior males and four teenage boys. The first order of business was the proceeds from the sale of fish at the market. While the spokesman of the three told of the details of the sale, the accountant of the group placed on the table a presorted bundle of bills and coins taken from a box. The accountant used a pencil to check off his list tabulated on a steno pad as each individual of the group filed up to receive his bounty. As often happens through interpreters, points of confusion lead to my making some assumptions. I believe the equal money shares were allowed to a head of the family regardless of the number of members participating. The monies came from a wholesaler's bid for the marketable fish, rather than an individual effort at the marketplace, which I would have thought to be the norm other than in this collective operation. The real business of trade and marketing was earned by a demonstrative group of women who controlled the field very aggressively. I had observed them in action at the Accra wholesale center where fleet-fishing vessels entrusted their catch with them for barter. I could envision the head three men here taking what the women dealers offered.
Off to one side was non-marketable fish and octopus being sorted on a woven mat. The octopus was being cut into jelled segments and placed on a stack of three or four pan type fish. A broad leaf was the "grocery bag" used by the individuals to carry home the loot.
As the business end of things drew to a close a lighter mood took over. My "chair benefactor" brought out three packs of cigarettes, removed the wrapping, and offered me a smoke. I refused, as an ex-smoker needs to do, but I was concerned at dishonoring him. He shrugged and I was the only abstaining adult offered. Smoking here was a rare social happening. The expense left the habit-forming nature of cigarettes to government and police officials. I carried packs of cigarettes in the car to ease my passage through checkpoints. The first question of the heavily armed police was to bum a smoke, without gratuities long delays and harassment could be expected.
As the matches were being passed for a second round of cigarettes my host came up with three bottles of murky liquid which brought cheers from the crowd. He stood ceremoniously in front of me, poured himself a drink into a weathered four-ounce shot glass, and dumped it down his throat. This was a prelude to offering me, their honored guest, a drink from the one and only glass. All eyes were on us as he filled my glass. I held it in "salut" then took a drink, which caused me to gasp to their amusement. Holding the only glass, I had to finish my portion. My third gulp freed me to pass the glass; this received a cheer from the crowd. Obviously it was "bathtub gin" inherited from the "Brits", but I think it missed a few stages of distilling to have such a murky color.
With the "gin" consumed, the "Changing of the Fish" had ended. Armahfio spoke briefly with the leaders about future use of the net and we left. As I took Armahfio home, his share of the fish jiggling on the seat between us, I felt quite exhilarated at being accepted by this group of adult males.
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