Dancing with the Chiefs and Queen Mothers
Last week was unforgettable for too many reasons to describe; obviously, reason has never stopped me from yammering on before, so I’ll persist. Last week, I was invited to attend the local tribal festival as an nkosowahemaa for my village, nkosowahemaa means development queen mother (in coas ah wah heem maa). I was thrown into a cultural blender set on HIGH. The contrasts most define what was unforgettable--from abject misery to breathless ecstasy and back again—whew! I’ll try to describe or explain.
But, first you’ll need a little context. Last week was the beginning of this area’s traditional festival, the Odwira, which of the various Akan festivals focuses on purification. Purification, in this sense, requires the “feeding” and honoring of the traditional gods and ancestors. And, yes, there were animals sacrificed. Besides the spiritual matters, the festival is also a time to socialize and play (pagans do have fun!). The festival is a two-week long celebration that is hosted by two towns in the Central Region—Jukwa (joe kwa) and Dunkwa (dune kwa). Jukwa is located near Abrafo, only 14 kilometers south and it is my bike path turn-around spot. Dunkwa is located approximately two hours north of here by bad roads. This area is defined by the culture, history and beliefs of the local tribe, the Denkyiras (dent’ traz) and I live in the middle of them. They represent one of the Akan tribes alongside the Ashantis and Fantis. Their history is both marvelous and ancient. The Denkyiras ruled what is now Ghana from the 15 -- 19 centuries and they wrote the first contract with the British in 1844. Later they were “conquerer” by the Ashantis, by virtue of insider information (what’s different now?). There’s so much to say about everything and I can barely scratch the surface….
So, I’ll begin this little tale with one of the contrasts—ok, a misery. On the first day that I danced before a 200+ audience of local African chiefs and queen mothers; I also urinated directly into one of my sandals—luckily not at the same time. Urinating (yes, that is what they say here), into one’s shoes happens here all the time because there are no proper toilets and that means squatting in a tight skirt which is impossible unless you take the whole kit-and-caboodle off—not advisable since you’re standing somewhere outdoors trying to go unnoticed to begin with. So, one must simply stand and attempt to miss anything important, all the while appearing nonchalant and not exposing the anything—yeah right! Ghanaian women can do this beautifully and they should since they have practiced since toddling began, but, for me, more often than not, some article of clothing or footwear and sometimes both becomes a casualty. (I do hope to acquire this useful skill before coming home!)
But back to the sandals! If urinating into the darn things was all to this tale, then there would be no story at all, so of course there is more. Imagine my horror when trying to look cool and walk like a Ghanaian queen mother, very slow and erect, my sandals began making a really loud squishy-squashy sound with each step. All that noise prompted great concern from my companions who thought my shoes were falling apart. Incidentally, my companions were ladies-in-waiting—I’m not kidding, they were assigned to schlep around for/with me all week and if my sandals were failing they would have to improvise something…. Soooo, without admitting to my folly, I did the only thing possible in polite circles, which seems like an atavistic trait that will disappear in some future generation, I feigned an undefined malaise and sat down long enough for my shoe to drain and the squishing to end. Then, the whole entourage merrily continued to the paramount chief’s palace.
At the palace after the sandal debacle, I made my dancing debut in Ghana, although like the shoes, it was also a bit of an embarrassment mixed with ecstasy. By dancing, I entered local history--first “white” woman to dance at the festival. (Let me briefly mention that “white,” or more often, “obruni,” which is the Twi word for white, and the word ‘black” are used here in ways that PC people in the US would find troublesome and I’ve come to accept in a benign manner. Ghanaians just don’t have the racial history to tiptoe around skin color, for them it’s white and black. I find myself cringing often. Nonetheless, tomes could and probably are being written about this, but for you dear readers, I only want to highlight the notion that color of skin could have an entirely different context and for me here in Ghana, people are either white or black.)
As per usual, there is a mountainous tangential back-story about dancing with and for the locals. For Ghanaians, dancing is both ordinary and mythical/mystical. I suspect entire kingdoms have fallen based on someone’s ability to dance (think Scherazade). Children, teenagers and adults, all spring to their feet for spontaneous dancing in the presence or absence of music. If there’s music, which there almost always is (remember my nemesis the radio??), well then there is serious dancing and it’s a lot like “dirty dancing,” crossed with the coolest, smoothest dancers you’ve ever imagined. If you know me at all, then you probably know that I love to dance: however, dancing here is a little odd because if I’m dancing the Ghanaians will stop me to discuss my apparent ability and ask if I learned to dance in Ghana? Most of the Ghanaians believe that dancing is an African phenomenon (actually, I told them that most white men can’t dance….). Last week I went to a little outdoor dance party in Abrafo (yup, you guessed it, the speakers on steroids) and I danced in a large group that included some of my junior-high English students. I nearly died of shock when the 15 year old boys danced with me like Patrick Swayze (sp?). For them it’s normal, I could only helplessly blush while continuing to dance!
Really, I’m still working up to the ecstasy part. During the festival, the “royals,” meaning the chiefs and queen mothers sit inside the Paramount chief’s palace grounds where they are entertained by various groups, mostly traditional drumming groups, but also some dance troupes and some vocal groups, the latter from nearby churches. The paramount chief’s palace is an oversized two-story house with a large grassy lawn enclosed by a six-foot fence. The royals sit on plastic chairs under large party awnings. The audience surrounds an open u-shaped area; say 30 x 30 feet for the dancing and entertainment.
Believe me, there is a pecking-order to who sits where. The order of status seems to be known to all (but me) and begins with the paramount chief surrounded by his most important sub-chiefs, their respective queen mothers, the staff/totem bearers and the chief’s linguists, which are the men you can talk to directly (you are not allowed to directly address a chief.) All the non-royals, stand on the outside of the fence and look in (ugh!!).
Fashion is different here, now that’s an understatement. All the royals are dressed in traditional garb: men in “sheets” and the queen mothers in a pair of sheets, usually their unmatched. All are wearing traditional sandals and copious beads—lots of cowrie shells. More on this later and even some pictures soon. Sadly, my digital camera has gone missing, oh course right before this event, so I couldn’t get photos, but my pal Kate appeared one day and has some.
The chiefs and queen mothers are famous for their dancing and most of their dances are associated with one kind of drum or another. In fact, many of the drums have names, such as “Moses” and “Methuselah,” both were at the festival. Moses has the biggest breasts I’ve ever seen on a drum. Dances are associated with particular types of drums, end of story. I was told that before the festival started the royal drums were ritually “fed” and cleaned. Drumming is a major activity of the festival and during the day entertainment, there are countless drums being played for the royals. I only wish I could adequately describe them. For the simplest drum description, some are standing drums, towering over 5 feet tall, and then there are sitting drums, they’re only played while seated. During some of the palace festivities, 30-40 drums were being played simultaneously. Recalling those palace drums and the accompanying horn blowers still raises my hair the same way it did during the festivities. By the way, the horns are modified elephant tusks, collected by permit, or so I was told!?
Regardless of the kind of entertainment, the chiefs and the queen mothers are free to dance. When they do, the audience shows their appreciation by giving a sort of horizontal peace sign, pointing the index and middle forward (remember the 3 stooges??). This gesture is both a sign of respect as well as a vote of appreciation. All dances are rather slow, but one in particular is slower than molasses and is generally danced as a series of three separate dances. I can only hope to know more. So this entertainment, sitting at the palace with drumming began on Monday (Nov. 20th) and continued for an entire week.
Ok, really, I’m back to the ecstasy and dancing. The Queen Mother of Abrafo had been teaching me a dance called the kete (kitty), which is danced to the kete drum. After four short lessons, I thought I could probably do something similar to her instructions, which is really more about hand movements than anything else. The feet simply shuffle forward to the beat. While at the palace grounds on Sunday and Monday, the Queen Mother looked over her shoulder a couple of times and said, “Go dance!” But, I was feeling shy, so I declined. Finally, on Tuesday afternoon, she stood and said, “Get up,” which I did and followed her onto the dance area. Once there, she beckoned me to dance behind her. I was proceeding nicely with my little kete dancing and getting lots of hand signals of appreciation, but after about ten minutes I suddenly reverted to some kind of dancing more appropriate for a drag bar. I was shaking and shimmiing some things that hadn’t been shaken or shimmied for awhile. The crowd went wild!! Then, I looked over at my Queen Mother and the horror on her face said it all. Quickly, I returned to my staid kete dancing. Despite the apparent faux pax, the rest of the week chiefs and Queen Mothers greeted me with smiles and pointed fingers. For those most in my village, who weren’t there, they have heard and I’ve heard over and over, “wo sa pa” (you dance very well). I can only laugh about it….
While my wild dance at the palace was herstoric, I continued dancing the rest of the week. Even as the chiefs and queen mothers were carried through the town, those walking, dance. I danced until my feet were sore and blistered. I danced beneath the hot African sun and remembered all the dancing that had come before. Nothing from the past holds a candle….
A million other scenes fade in and out of this wild two weeks, but I’ll remember most the pageantry and the solemnity. Some day soon, I’ll try to describe the adomfuo, the traditional executioners from my village, and their roles at the festival, never mind their outfits. They’re part history, menace, comedic relief and crowd control…. Ironically, their god doesn’t like noise (imagine that with the loudspeaker going day and night??). So many layers, so little time.
Well, I’ve been on a rant and haven’t really said much. Somehow the time continues to slide past. I don’t know how it could be December and here in the land of endless summer, it seems even more impossible, although the daily doses of Christmas music remind me otherwise.
Of course the radio continues and I vacillate between leaving and staying. The school children help me stay; I love teaching them (or is it vice versa?). The park is the same ol’ same ol’ nothing to do. I’m frustrated about it, but I have refocused on what I can actually do here, rather than stay stuck on the things I can’t change. The electricity connection at my new house is a close third place behind the NGO boys and the village radio for daily frustration levels. The electricity folks now claim that anyday the electricity estimate will be made and then they’ll hook me up (how much money do I want to throw at this??) More than anything else, I get to practice patience. Do you know what you get when you want patience? More patience! Really, I’m abysmal at patience.
My health has been ok, I’ve had two really miserable UTIs, bloody urine here isn’t fun. I’m always happy when I can buy antibiotics at my neighboring “chemical store” like we buy aspirin in the U.S. While on the topic of health, my darlin’ dog Adom, had puppies about a month ago. Sadly, she laid down on the first three and killed them, or at least that seems to explain their deaths, I wasn’t home, but I did manage to help her deliver the 4th pup. Yes, I cut the umbilical cord and helped massage the little guy to life. One of my favorite boys from the village dropped-by after the birth and suggested I name the puppy, “Wisdom,” so I did. Now, he’s a fat sausage on wobbly legs and he’s the source of endless laughing. Now, when I call the dogs, I’m either calling for grace or wisdom, fitting?? The cat just endures us all.
I’m going to Accra tomorrow to fetch my mail, etc. If you haven’t heard from me, it’s because I haven’t had mail for over a month. I’ll get caught-up soon. Also, since someone asked (Temple?), my address here is: c/o Peace Corps Ghana, P.O. Box 5796, Accra-North, Ghana, West Africa. For all those great correspondents, thanks for your words, they really make my days sweet and those who send goodies; well the dictionary doesn’t have enough words to express my gratitude.
Of course, I’ll think of everyone for the holidays (I think about you everyday anyway). I’ll wish you all happiness, love and peace. Tentatively, my pal Urji and I are planning a short vacation/tour of Ghana’s eastern region (the Volta) around Christmas and New Years.
Ms. JEB, yes-yes, our favorite day of the year is approaching, I’ll always think of you on winter solstice. Here there is no difference in the day lenghth year-round, we have light 12 hours a day, dark 12 hours a day. It’s weird…. Speaking of the reminds me to mention that the Southern Cross, a constellation, is now visible and yes, the night sky is totally different here at 5 degrees north of the equator. If I get up at 4 a.m., I can sometimes see the Big Dipper and that makes me miss North America.
At least my life is interesting; I hope the same for you.
Healing energy to Jen and anyone else.
Happy Birthday wishes belatedly to Becky W.,Laura J-R, Jen, Carole Edson, my dearest brother Tim, then soon for Esther and Miki.
Love to all…d
Last week was unforgettable for too many reasons to describe; obviously, reason has never stopped me from yammering on before, so I’ll persist. Last week, I was invited to attend the local tribal festival as an nkosowahemaa for my village, nkosowahemaa means development queen mother (in coas ah wah heem maa). I was thrown into a cultural blender set on HIGH. The contrasts most define what was unforgettable--from abject misery to breathless ecstasy and back again—whew! I’ll try to describe or explain.
But, first you’ll need a little context. Last week was the beginning of this area’s traditional festival, the Odwira, which of the various Akan festivals focuses on purification. Purification, in this sense, requires the “feeding” and honoring of the traditional gods and ancestors. And, yes, there were animals sacrificed. Besides the spiritual matters, the festival is also a time to socialize and play (pagans do have fun!). The festival is a two-week long celebration that is hosted by two towns in the Central Region—Jukwa (joe kwa) and Dunkwa (dune kwa). Jukwa is located near Abrafo, only 14 kilometers south and it is my bike path turn-around spot. Dunkwa is located approximately two hours north of here by bad roads. This area is defined by the culture, history and beliefs of the local tribe, the Denkyiras (dent’ traz) and I live in the middle of them. They represent one of the Akan tribes alongside the Ashantis and Fantis. Their history is both marvelous and ancient. The Denkyiras ruled what is now Ghana from the 15 -- 19 centuries and they wrote the first contract with the British in 1844. Later they were “conquerer” by the Ashantis, by virtue of insider information (what’s different now?). There’s so much to say about everything and I can barely scratch the surface….
So, I’ll begin this little tale with one of the contrasts—ok, a misery. On the first day that I danced before a 200+ audience of local African chiefs and queen mothers; I also urinated directly into one of my sandals—luckily not at the same time. Urinating (yes, that is what they say here), into one’s shoes happens here all the time because there are no proper toilets and that means squatting in a tight skirt which is impossible unless you take the whole kit-and-caboodle off—not advisable since you’re standing somewhere outdoors trying to go unnoticed to begin with. So, one must simply stand and attempt to miss anything important, all the while appearing nonchalant and not exposing the anything—yeah right! Ghanaian women can do this beautifully and they should since they have practiced since toddling began, but, for me, more often than not, some article of clothing or footwear and sometimes both becomes a casualty. (I do hope to acquire this useful skill before coming home!)
But back to the sandals! If urinating into the darn things was all to this tale, then there would be no story at all, so of course there is more. Imagine my horror when trying to look cool and walk like a Ghanaian queen mother, very slow and erect, my sandals began making a really loud squishy-squashy sound with each step. All that noise prompted great concern from my companions who thought my shoes were falling apart. Incidentally, my companions were ladies-in-waiting—I’m not kidding, they were assigned to schlep around for/with me all week and if my sandals were failing they would have to improvise something…. Soooo, without admitting to my folly, I did the only thing possible in polite circles, which seems like an atavistic trait that will disappear in some future generation, I feigned an undefined malaise and sat down long enough for my shoe to drain and the squishing to end. Then, the whole entourage merrily continued to the paramount chief’s palace.
At the palace after the sandal debacle, I made my dancing debut in Ghana, although like the shoes, it was also a bit of an embarrassment mixed with ecstasy. By dancing, I entered local history--first “white” woman to dance at the festival. (Let me briefly mention that “white,” or more often, “obruni,” which is the Twi word for white, and the word ‘black” are used here in ways that PC people in the US would find troublesome and I’ve come to accept in a benign manner. Ghanaians just don’t have the racial history to tiptoe around skin color, for them it’s white and black. I find myself cringing often. Nonetheless, tomes could and probably are being written about this, but for you dear readers, I only want to highlight the notion that color of skin could have an entirely different context and for me here in Ghana, people are either white or black.)
As per usual, there is a mountainous tangential back-story about dancing with and for the locals. For Ghanaians, dancing is both ordinary and mythical/mystical. I suspect entire kingdoms have fallen based on someone’s ability to dance (think Scherazade). Children, teenagers and adults, all spring to their feet for spontaneous dancing in the presence or absence of music. If there’s music, which there almost always is (remember my nemesis the radio??), well then there is serious dancing and it’s a lot like “dirty dancing,” crossed with the coolest, smoothest dancers you’ve ever imagined. If you know me at all, then you probably know that I love to dance: however, dancing here is a little odd because if I’m dancing the Ghanaians will stop me to discuss my apparent ability and ask if I learned to dance in Ghana? Most of the Ghanaians believe that dancing is an African phenomenon (actually, I told them that most white men can’t dance….). Last week I went to a little outdoor dance party in Abrafo (yup, you guessed it, the speakers on steroids) and I danced in a large group that included some of my junior-high English students. I nearly died of shock when the 15 year old boys danced with me like Patrick Swayze (sp?). For them it’s normal, I could only helplessly blush while continuing to dance!
Really, I’m still working up to the ecstasy part. During the festival, the “royals,” meaning the chiefs and queen mothers sit inside the Paramount chief’s palace grounds where they are entertained by various groups, mostly traditional drumming groups, but also some dance troupes and some vocal groups, the latter from nearby churches. The paramount chief’s palace is an oversized two-story house with a large grassy lawn enclosed by a six-foot fence. The royals sit on plastic chairs under large party awnings. The audience surrounds an open u-shaped area; say 30 x 30 feet for the dancing and entertainment.
Believe me, there is a pecking-order to who sits where. The order of status seems to be known to all (but me) and begins with the paramount chief surrounded by his most important sub-chiefs, their respective queen mothers, the staff/totem bearers and the chief’s linguists, which are the men you can talk to directly (you are not allowed to directly address a chief.) All the non-royals, stand on the outside of the fence and look in (ugh!!).
Fashion is different here, now that’s an understatement. All the royals are dressed in traditional garb: men in “sheets” and the queen mothers in a pair of sheets, usually their unmatched. All are wearing traditional sandals and copious beads—lots of cowrie shells. More on this later and even some pictures soon. Sadly, my digital camera has gone missing, oh course right before this event, so I couldn’t get photos, but my pal Kate appeared one day and has some.
The chiefs and queen mothers are famous for their dancing and most of their dances are associated with one kind of drum or another. In fact, many of the drums have names, such as “Moses” and “Methuselah,” both were at the festival. Moses has the biggest breasts I’ve ever seen on a drum. Dances are associated with particular types of drums, end of story. I was told that before the festival started the royal drums were ritually “fed” and cleaned. Drumming is a major activity of the festival and during the day entertainment, there are countless drums being played for the royals. I only wish I could adequately describe them. For the simplest drum description, some are standing drums, towering over 5 feet tall, and then there are sitting drums, they’re only played while seated. During some of the palace festivities, 30-40 drums were being played simultaneously. Recalling those palace drums and the accompanying horn blowers still raises my hair the same way it did during the festivities. By the way, the horns are modified elephant tusks, collected by permit, or so I was told!?
Regardless of the kind of entertainment, the chiefs and the queen mothers are free to dance. When they do, the audience shows their appreciation by giving a sort of horizontal peace sign, pointing the index and middle forward (remember the 3 stooges??). This gesture is both a sign of respect as well as a vote of appreciation. All dances are rather slow, but one in particular is slower than molasses and is generally danced as a series of three separate dances. I can only hope to know more. So this entertainment, sitting at the palace with drumming began on Monday (Nov. 20th) and continued for an entire week.
Ok, really, I’m back to the ecstasy and dancing. The Queen Mother of Abrafo had been teaching me a dance called the kete (kitty), which is danced to the kete drum. After four short lessons, I thought I could probably do something similar to her instructions, which is really more about hand movements than anything else. The feet simply shuffle forward to the beat. While at the palace grounds on Sunday and Monday, the Queen Mother looked over her shoulder a couple of times and said, “Go dance!” But, I was feeling shy, so I declined. Finally, on Tuesday afternoon, she stood and said, “Get up,” which I did and followed her onto the dance area. Once there, she beckoned me to dance behind her. I was proceeding nicely with my little kete dancing and getting lots of hand signals of appreciation, but after about ten minutes I suddenly reverted to some kind of dancing more appropriate for a drag bar. I was shaking and shimmiing some things that hadn’t been shaken or shimmied for awhile. The crowd went wild!! Then, I looked over at my Queen Mother and the horror on her face said it all. Quickly, I returned to my staid kete dancing. Despite the apparent faux pax, the rest of the week chiefs and Queen Mothers greeted me with smiles and pointed fingers. For those most in my village, who weren’t there, they have heard and I’ve heard over and over, “wo sa pa” (you dance very well). I can only laugh about it….
While my wild dance at the palace was herstoric, I continued dancing the rest of the week. Even as the chiefs and queen mothers were carried through the town, those walking, dance. I danced until my feet were sore and blistered. I danced beneath the hot African sun and remembered all the dancing that had come before. Nothing from the past holds a candle….
A million other scenes fade in and out of this wild two weeks, but I’ll remember most the pageantry and the solemnity. Some day soon, I’ll try to describe the adomfuo, the traditional executioners from my village, and their roles at the festival, never mind their outfits. They’re part history, menace, comedic relief and crowd control…. Ironically, their god doesn’t like noise (imagine that with the loudspeaker going day and night??). So many layers, so little time.
Well, I’ve been on a rant and haven’t really said much. Somehow the time continues to slide past. I don’t know how it could be December and here in the land of endless summer, it seems even more impossible, although the daily doses of Christmas music remind me otherwise.
Of course the radio continues and I vacillate between leaving and staying. The school children help me stay; I love teaching them (or is it vice versa?). The park is the same ol’ same ol’ nothing to do. I’m frustrated about it, but I have refocused on what I can actually do here, rather than stay stuck on the things I can’t change. The electricity connection at my new house is a close third place behind the NGO boys and the village radio for daily frustration levels. The electricity folks now claim that anyday the electricity estimate will be made and then they’ll hook me up (how much money do I want to throw at this??) More than anything else, I get to practice patience. Do you know what you get when you want patience? More patience! Really, I’m abysmal at patience.
My health has been ok, I’ve had two really miserable UTIs, bloody urine here isn’t fun. I’m always happy when I can buy antibiotics at my neighboring “chemical store” like we buy aspirin in the U.S. While on the topic of health, my darlin’ dog Adom, had puppies about a month ago. Sadly, she laid down on the first three and killed them, or at least that seems to explain their deaths, I wasn’t home, but I did manage to help her deliver the 4th pup. Yes, I cut the umbilical cord and helped massage the little guy to life. One of my favorite boys from the village dropped-by after the birth and suggested I name the puppy, “Wisdom,” so I did. Now, he’s a fat sausage on wobbly legs and he’s the source of endless laughing. Now, when I call the dogs, I’m either calling for grace or wisdom, fitting?? The cat just endures us all.
I’m going to Accra tomorrow to fetch my mail, etc. If you haven’t heard from me, it’s because I haven’t had mail for over a month. I’ll get caught-up soon. Also, since someone asked (Temple?), my address here is: c/o Peace Corps Ghana, P.O. Box 5796, Accra-North, Ghana, West Africa. For all those great correspondents, thanks for your words, they really make my days sweet and those who send goodies; well the dictionary doesn’t have enough words to express my gratitude.
Of course, I’ll think of everyone for the holidays (I think about you everyday anyway). I’ll wish you all happiness, love and peace. Tentatively, my pal Urji and I are planning a short vacation/tour of Ghana’s eastern region (the Volta) around Christmas and New Years.
Ms. JEB, yes-yes, our favorite day of the year is approaching, I’ll always think of you on winter solstice. Here there is no difference in the day lenghth year-round, we have light 12 hours a day, dark 12 hours a day. It’s weird…. Speaking of the reminds me to mention that the Southern Cross, a constellation, is now visible and yes, the night sky is totally different here at 5 degrees north of the equator. If I get up at 4 a.m., I can sometimes see the Big Dipper and that makes me miss North America.
At least my life is interesting; I hope the same for you.
Healing energy to Jen and anyone else.
Happy Birthday wishes belatedly to Becky W.,Laura J-R, Jen, Carole Edson, my dearest brother Tim, then soon for Esther and Miki.
Love to all…d
posted by Dixie | 12:01 PM
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