Castle by the sea - October 2014

The road leading to Elmina Castle has been blocked by an overflow of mud and sea water. We are forced to park the truck and continue on foot up an adjacent street. It’s the rainy season in the southern part of Ghana, so this is a common occurrence on many roads. My group struggles to stay together amidst the throngs of local merchants and residents who are going about their daily business, crafting and selling products to tourists who are visiting the castle. The sky reflects a deep gloomy gray and raindrops pepper us as the ocean gets louder, slamming waves onto the shore with the kind of force that can only be produced by nature. We’ve come to the Cape Coast region as student-volunteers, a role which involves academic study of African history, communal labor through maintenance of the village school and cultural interactions with locals. Our host family lives in a small rural community of Kobina Ansa, situated in the hills about a 20 minute drive away from the seaside town of Elmina. As we drove along the coastal highway towards town, the castle can be seen from miles away. The previous day we spent our morning discussing the numerous former slave castles that still litter the coast of Western Africa. In particular, we talked about Elmina Castle because of our close proximity and its status as one of the oldest and largest European built structures on the continent. The name ‘Elmina’ is a Portuguese word for “mine” which is exactly what colonizers did upon discovering multitudes of gold deposits, also giving name to the Gold Coast region. Tourism accounts for a large part of the economic revenue in the area, but we learn that tourists are a blessing and curse. We have read and discussed many local accounts of American and European obrunis (the word for foreigners in Ghana) who regularly offend by being loud and belligerent, urinating on the historic castle, stealing pieces of it for souvenirs or taking pictures of the locals without asking permission. It is particularly a problem because many photos tend to perpetuate misconceptions and stereotypes of Africans, such as solely focusing on implications of poverty like deteriorated roads and buildings or sanitation issues. Photos of people bathing or washing clothes are especially upsetting because of the invasion of personal privacy. The castle looms up ahead as a young man who seems to be roughly my age falls into step next to me. “Hello! How are you? What is your name? Where are you from?” he bombards me with questions in a jovial manner, taking my hand in his as if we are old friends. “I am Tim Williams. What can I do for you today?” Having been in the country for several weeks, I have encountered many men like Tim: kind and welcoming, but mostly desiring money or marriage. Tim, unlike some others, does not initially inquire about having “beautiful white babies” with me, so I feel inclined to reply. “Oh Gina Gina, from America. What a nice name. How do I spell that I wonder?” I find this to be an odd question, but I tell him anyway as he quickly scribbles it down in beat up looking notebook. Looking around at the rest of my group, they seem to have also been separated by various young men, engaged in conversation. We approach the front entrance and I bid Tim Williams a good day, to which he replies with a cheeky “See you soon Gina my friend!” We arrive at a narrow bridge crossing to enter the castle. The massive stone walls are a faded pale white with chipped paint covering the exterior. Originally built by the Portuguese as a trading outpost in 1482, it would eventually become one of the main holding areas and launching points for the Trans-Atlantic slave trade. Later seized by the Dutch in the 1600s, they would continue the business of human trafficking until the castle fell into the hands of the British in the 1800s. The British would ultimately turn it over to the Ghanaian government following their independence in 1957. Once across the bridge, we are immediately charged an entry fee, along with 30 cedi (Ghanaian currency, the equivalent of ten US dollars) for the right to take photos. We are then ushered into the main courtyard to await our tour guide and invited to look around the only structure there, a small museum dedicated to the history of Elmina and the slave trade. Formerly, the building was a Portuguese church, and a slave auction room under the Dutch. Upon crossing the bridge I had developed a strange sensation in my head, a fogginess that I couldn’t explain, so I stayed silent about it as we roamed the museum and courtyard even though it was extending to affect the rest of my body, giving me chills all over. Was I becoming ill? Malaria is prevalent in the region but I’d been taking the preventative medicine daily, so that couldn’t be it. Perhaps it was something in the atmosphere; a spectral energy exuding from the walls and floors of the castle. Our guide arrives and in an equally friendly and somber manner he begins showing us around the property. “Hundreds of Africans were taken from the interior of the country. They marched for miles, weeks, sometimes months to this castle. Here, they were held in these cells for more weeks until the ships would come to take them away to the Americas.” The male and female slave dungeons still somehow hold an unpleasant smell which we’re informed is a mixture of the blood, sweat, vomit and human excrement from the countless people who were chained together with only one bucket in the room for all of them to use as a toilet. We are brought to a room with gated windows and a door. “This is where they would hold European officers. It was common from them to get drunk in town, come back to the castle and rape female slaves. This is where they were kept for a few hours as punishment. Do you notice the room has some air and light?” We step to the room directly next to this, which bare a skull and crossbones over the doorway. It has no windows and the door has only a small slit to see outside. Trinkets from visitors align the floor, a mesh of bouquets, signs and wreaths for the souls of departed slaves. My body shivers although I’m not particularly cold, the phantom feeling from before crawling along my spine. There is an obvious discomfort from the group as our guide swings the door closed and in the darkness he says, “This is where the slaves who behaved badly were held. Not feed and sometimes forgotten about for days or weeks. Many people died in this room.” After hastily exiting that room, we are taken to the second story and shown the living area for the colonials who ran the castle during the height of its operation. The rooms which are painted lovely shades of yellow and light blue betray the knowledge of the atrocities that happened just below. “Now I will show you the door of no return.” We crouch down to traverse a darkened tunnel, the walls get closer together and the ceilings lower. We each hang onto the person in front of us, to not get lost or trip and fall. When finally able to stand upright again, we are in a tiny area with a narrow doorway looking out onto the beach where some local fishermen can be seen preparing their canoes for work. “Once a slave came through here, they were lowered into the row boats below and taken to the bigger ship which would take them to the colonies. They would never see their homeland again.” The muscles in my body coil tighter and I lean on a nearby wall for support as knots that have formed in my stomach grow, pulsing and kicking at my insides. I glance over at my companions and see several of them are hugging themselves, with tears quietly running down their faces. No words pass between any of us. Collectively, our group of ten students and two chaperones probably speak less than 25 words throughout the two and a half hour tour. We reach the end of our journey and the guide deposits us in the castle gift shop where there are books, clothes, jewelry and various other items for foreigners to commemorate their experience. I purchase a book on the native Fante language, which is a commonly spoken dialect in the area. As we exit the castle and begin the walk back to our vehicle, Tim Williams suddenly appears. “Gina my friend! Look here what I have made for you.” It is a sea shell and written in marker it reads: “To my American friend Gina. Hope you have enjoyed your time in Elmina. Your friend Tim.” On the back is his email address. I am touched by the gesture, but also slightly suspicious having gained a general understanding of the way things work in Ghana and I insist that it was not necessary. “Oh no” Tim replies “You are my friend, this is for you. But, will you consider to make a donation for my soccer team? 400 cedi or anything you can offer.” He says this with a sly smile. I give him 10 cedi for the shell that I did not ask for and bid him farewell as my travel companions, who seem to have made similar friendships, barter with other young men who also hold seashells and bracelets, engraved with names. That peculiar feeling would stick to me for the remainder of the day, but ultimately wasn’t caused by malaria or any other illness. That same feeling creeps up every time I recount my experience and the overwhelming energy that emanated throughout Elmina Castle.