On Pilgrimage Monday 22 July 2013
Rob Radtke, the President of Episcopal Relief and
Development, impresses me with his direct but gentle manner. He calmly told us
on Sunday night that we needed to be awake earlier than expected on Monday
morning. A bus would leave the hotel at 4:15 am for the airport and then return
to get a second group at 4:30. It is a testament to his guidance, and to the
responsibility of this pilgrim group, that we all got up on time.
So, we made our way quickly to the Accra airport, where we were
efficiently checked in, as a group of nineteen, on a 6:00 flight to Tamale. The
trip was fine, and I particularly enjoyed my first cup of coffee at around 7:00
on the flight. Late!
We packed ourselves into quite a small van, and made our way
to Hotel Mariam for a good breakfast, including eggs and oatmeal for me. During
breakfast, our wonderful hosts from Episcopal Relief and Development were
negotiating for a larger bus. They succeeded, much to our comfort.
The people here are kind and pleasant. Despite what I hear
and know about poverty conditions, I sense a peace, an ability to live steadily
without undue anxiety or despair. The church people are especially steady.
The streets are crowded and busy. A random sort of
efficiency somehow orders the walkers, bicycles, motorcycles, trucks, and buses
along our road. I do not see many cars at all.
I see road signs that delight me. The titles of the tiny
business are often handwritten above the small stalls, roofs covered with tin,
that line the dirt road. Establishments of all sorts engage in commerce and
conversation. Often, the titles of the businesses indicate some personal faith,
maybe some personal revelation that inspired the business, names like, “God’s
Grace Hair Clinic,” and “God is Able Enterprises,” “”Springs of Living Water
Enterprises.” Maybe the very names of
their businesses are prayers. Then there is “No Food For Lazy Man Craft,” and
“Give and Take Enterprises.”
We drove about two and a half hours to Bolgatanga, along a
road that should never have been paved, for the plain worn dirt might have been
easier to manage than the pot-holed pavement. Indeed, drivers have created
another lane in the dirt, beside the paved road, in all their attempts to avoid
the pounding pits. Our driver is quite good, and he honks his horn a lot. Though
it makes our trip seem as bouncy and obnoxious as a New York cab ride, the horn
is meant here as a courtesy, warning many bicyclists of what is right behind
them. At other times, however, he really is honking at oncoming traffic –and
the occasional goat and cattle—to get out of the way.
I was fascinated with the color of the dirt my first few
days here, a rich soft chocolate brown, and everywhere. When I mentioned that I
admired its color, one of my companions replied, “Well, you are from Georgia,
aren’t you?” Okay, right.
After checking in and having lunch at the Ex-Tee Crystal
Hotel, in Bolgatanga, we ride over to visit the Anglican Diocesan Development
and Relief Organization. “ADDRO.” The Bishop of Tamale, Bishop Jacob Ayeebo, is
its Director, and what a lively and impressive man he is. I will come to call
him, Jacob the Jolly. He is generous and effusive, and open and truthful. In
fact, I am impressed with all the workers here; we hear of what we will see
tomorrow: farms, micro-credit operations, and such.
We get back in the bus and drive further north, all the way
to the border with Burkina-Faso, in fact. We are at Pago, and we stop to
support the local economy by paying to visit the sacred crocodile pond. The
legend is that a crocodile saved one of their ancestors, and, thus, they have
never harmed crocodiles there. In turn, the crocodiles have become rather tame,
and they never attack human beings. We pay to hear the story and have the
keepers let us inside the fences, where the sacred pond of crocodiles is.
But we don’t get to the pond, and we see very few
crocodiles. The one we want, says the guide, the largest one, has moved down a
little to another pasture area. We exit the gate again, and our wonderful ERD
worker, Vesta Oduro-Kwarteng, badgers the guide about our having to walk too
far. Vesta is a treasure, taking care of us, engaging her neighbors about deals
and agreements, and caring for an eleven-month old child, all at the same time.
(The child does not come on our daily trips, but he appears in the evenings)
After a few minutes, the see the creature. Indeed, the
docile crocodile that we encounter lets us touch his back and pick up his tail.
He knows that he will soon be devouring the guinea hen that another guide keeps
hidden behind his back. One by one, we have our photographs made.
Back on the bus, we drive a few minutes to the Pikworo Slave
Camp. This area, too, seems run by a local family. Our guide wants us to know
the story, as told to him by his grandfather, about how three men from nearby
regions engaged captured slaves and gathered them here at Pikworo.
The word, “Pikworo” means “rocks of fear.” There are no
structures here at all, just rocks, trees, and fields. The place is eerily
empty and forlorn and quiet, but what stories those rocks and trees and fields
might tell. We see the water spring in the rock and then we see bowls, pits,
that were hollowed out in the rocks from which the captured people would eat.
We hear stories of chaining and punishment.
The local family, for they all seem related, also gives us a
drum show, using one of the truly beautiful rock formations as a drum. This
rock sits atop another slab, but with lots of space between the two, thus
forming an area for sound and reverberation. The old men pound, while four boys
do a make-shift dance.
Then, we walk to the watch tower rock and we see the
punishment rock. We hear the torturous details of disobedient slaves being
forced to face the sun all day, being whipped, and sometimes going blind. This
place is a gathering spot, a transit camp, from which the slaves walked to the
Salaga market, then to the coast.
I am struck by the simple telling of these ancient slave
stories, from a young man who seems to bear no anger – nor possibly any sense
of what the slave economy did to the descendants of Africans who made it to
America. Slavery is entangled with race in the United States, and race is a
sensitive and challenging subject for most of us; we are nowhere near
concluding that conversation.
My experience at Pikworo is brief and not critically deep;
but I sense here a rather unencumbered way of describing events. That is, the
young man telling us this story seems unencumbered by the way race and slavery
have been experienced in the United States for the last one hundred
seventy-five years. The baggage just is not here, or, at least, it didn't seem to be today. I know it's a long journey, perhaps a pilgrimage itself.
Thanks so much for taking us along with you.
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