It has been a very fully week, and it is hard to believe that my
Ghanaian adventures are over half over. The biggest adventure recently
was my trip down the hill to Accra last Thursday to interview some of
the faculty members of Trinity theological seminary, which is another
theological graduate school in the area. So, once again, after
breakfast, I stood by the side of the road waiting for the Trotro
(basically an oversized minivan…which perhaps is just a “van,” but
these are substantially smaller than the proper “vans” I’ve
encountered in the States), which apparently keeps no schedule, so you
just stand until one stops by. The good news is, they’re hard to miss;
each time he sees a person or group of people standing by the side of
the road, the driver’s assistant or “mate” will lean out the window
and yell very loudly and quickly, “Accraaccraacrraccraaccra!” to let
alert them as to the destination and see if they seem interested in
boarding.
On the way, we picked up four blond young women in one of the towns
between here and Accra. They were speaking in slightly accented
English (although the German girl’s accent was scarcely
distinguishable from the American West Coast), and I found out that
they were four volunteers (two from Denmark, one from Germany, and one
from Switzerland) doing a three-month stint with an international
organization. Two had just finished high school and two had just
finished university. Two were volunteering doing teaching or child
care, and two were involved in “building” of some sort, although I was
unable to ascertain exactly what it was that they were building.. They
got off the same place I did, at the station entering Accra.
It was a bit of a strange cultural experience to be sitting next to
this loud, boisterous English conversation coming from these four
white women amidst an otherwise quiet van full of black faces. The
topic of conversation was also a bit striking: their coworkers, with
particular emphasis on their drinking, cannabis use, or amorous
adventures. This incident felt in some ways like a trip back home, and
made me a bit nervous in thinking about the return trip. What was
striking to me was the difference between my perceptions of their
“volunteer” experience, and the “mission” that the students at ACI
describe. The latter is purpose-oriented, other-given, and therefore,
is understood to be larger and more consequential than the individual
person engaging in it, and therefore merits whatever sacrifice to
momentary comfort or well-being may be necessary to complete it. The
former seems to be little more than another adventure to cross off the
list—a way to fill the time—a different, more exotic location to
party.
The interviews with the two professors went shockingly smoothly, since
I was going down to a place I had never been to talk with people I had
never met with no precisely fixed meeting time or location. The only
minor hitch was that my recorder batter ran out, and I had not brought
a spare (it had appeared to be fully charged when I had left in the
morning). Although I volunteered to do the interview “old-fashioned,”
Prof. Kwabena insisted on it being recorded, so I went to the
“settlement” outside Trinity to search for a AAA battery. This proved
more difficult than expected. I asked at virtually every roadside shop
for probably half a kilometer, and each one told me that they didn’t
have one, but if I would go to the shop “down there,” then I would
find what I was looking for. Unfortunately, it’s not terribly clear
what “down there” means. Fortunately, I finally found someone with
AAAs, paid my 30 pesewas (about 15 cents), and was able to finish the
interview. Following this, I was to return to Akropong. I assumed that
I could go back the way that I came (namely, stand beside the road
until a Trotro happened by), but apparently, this was incorrect; Prof.
Kwabena got an employee of the university (Yaw, a tall 30-ish man with
a light beard) to escort me to the station where I could catch a
vehicle going to Akropong. The station was like something I’ve seen in
post-apocalyptic fantasy movies: a dusty lot packed with people and
cars, most of which looked like they had seen the better part of
thirty years, some of which were not running, the rest of which were
absolutely packed with people, and looked like they couldn’t possibly
running for much longer. (Nearly all of them had some sort of
religious logo on the back—most Christian, e.g. “One way Jesus” or
“Nti Adom [Because of Grace]”, although there were also a fair amount
with Insha Allah and a few other Islamic-themed messages. In
retrospect, I wonder if perhaps the thought was that constant prayer
was the only way to keep these old vehicles running). There were women
vending fruit with baskets on their heads, a large stall full of
bleating goats, general confusion everywhere as the loaded vehicles
made their way out of the parking lot with no apparent traffic
control, and the vehicles being loaded had criers loudly advertising
their destinations in Twi (at least, I think it was Twi, since I
couldn’t really understand it). Yaw saw me to a vehicle that was
heading to Akropong, and said that “we’ll meet again,” and then was
gone. I was in the backseat o a Troto with a Christian logo on the
back window; in this vehicle, only slightly larger than a min-van,
there were 24 people—four to a bench, six benches, including the front
seat with the driver, each close enough to the others that it was not
possible to sit straight, since the was not quite a femur’s length
between the benches. (The bad news is that there were no seatbelts;
the good news is we weren’t going anywhere anyway.) We did not leave
until every seat was full, which to my surprise, did not take long at
all. The trip up was slower than the trip down, since the vehicle
seemed to struggle a bit to climb the hills with its proportionally
massive human cargo.
My other main adventure was on Sunday, when I went with one of my
friends at the ACI to a Presbyterian church. It was like no
Presbyterian church I have ever seen or heard of before. The sermon
lasted probably a half hour to forty minutes. (The only thing
substantially out of character about this was the “Amen” and
“Alleluia” that the preacher would ask for, and receive, about every
five minutes). After this, we rose for probably 20 minutes of prayer,
which was slightly more of a cultural adjustment. In a loud voice
(since this church did not have any sound system beyond the vocal
variety), the leader would announce a topic for us all to pray about,
clap once to signal the beginning of prayer, and release the church to
pray “Korean style” (i.e. everyone out loud simultaneously) for a few
minutes. He would then draw the attention of the church back with
three loud claps, after which he would announce the next topic of
prayer. Topics included things such as healing, deliverance,
relationships, etc—nearly every broad category of daily worries, as
well as broad topics such as prayer for the country.
After this came tithing, and I have never seen tithing done anywhere
like this. They brought out three large gold-painted vessels to the
front of the church, in front of the pulpit, one labeled “Tithes”
(with a reference to Malachi as a reminder of the blessings that God
promised to those who would be faithful in their tithing), and then
two smaller vessels on the two sides of this labeled “Offerings I” and
“Offerings II” (I’m not sure what the categorical distinction between
these two might be.) Then, the worship team, which consisted of
several brass instruments (Daniel, I thought of you), congas, and a
drum kit, started playing a chorus that the congregation evidently
knew, because they all stood, and burst into singing and dancing in
Twi, but it seems here that the lyrics of the music are not really the
point—the music is a vehicle to convey one into the presence of God in
a kind of ecstasy that transcends rational understanding. Particularly
notable to me were the numerous mothers or older sisters who likewise
were standing and dancing with babies slung over their back in the
traditional cloth baby-pack, or holding them to their chests, or
moving the babies’ hands in time with the music.
After a minute or two of this, what seemed to be a conga line began to
form in the aisles, as people slowly danced their way in a steady
stream to the front of the congregation to present their offerings,
and then danced their way back to their seats. When everyone finished,
the dancing continued, and even increased in intensity; after the song
was finished, the congregation demanded more. It struck me as
interesting, since “party” is never a word I would have previously
associated with “tithing” or “offertory” (“dirge” would probably be
closer to the mark), but nonetheless, I don’t remember ever being at a
party where people seemed as happy to be there as this.  (Granted,
this probably says at least as much about my lack of party experience
as it does about the exuberance of African Christianity, but take it
for what it’s worth).