The waves of euphoria
and sheer horror that swept over me as I surged through unknown territories
were just as apparent in Cape Coast as during any other part of my travels. One
moment I could be filled with joy and wanting to sing from the palm tree tops,
and the next I could be totally paralysed by revulsion.
The Cape Coast Castle was
the source my dread. Wide, foreboding ramparts confronted the ocean: the
tyrannical canons defying passing ships to even blink at its impenetrable
walls. The castle had to both contain the hundreds of slaves caged within, and
stave off other greedy slave merchants. Nations squabbled over human life like
hyenas ripping the flesh off a dying animal.
The waiting cells’
suffocating blackness struck me: two hundred men would be cramped in this
squalid darkness for months; clinging to life as they waited for ships named Liberation, Jesus, or the Virgin Mary to drag them to the
unknown. The punishment chambers for the women who resisted rape felt hideously
simple. However, ice burned up from my stomach; billowed into my lungs and
petrified my brain as I entered the cell for the prisoners who had attempted to
escape. The circular gouges in the floor betrayed the slaves’ futile flights
for freedom as the continuously ground their chains into the rock face during
their slow, laborious starvation. I noticed in passing that there was an ante-chamber
for disobedient prison guards at the entrance to the cell. Clearly a sharing a
few hours of slaves’ torment was enough to scar them once more into obedience.
Thankfully, the cloak
of dread only remained within the prison walls: outside, Cape Coast simmered
with life. I sat on the seashore and imagined surfboards licking the wave
crests as they laughed amongst the swathes of swimmers: this was one of the
coastlines where it was safe to bathe, and would be a surfer’s paradise.
Cape Coast was also a
nest for other travellers. I met a fellow German adventurer; we scoured the
town during that day, dodging through the kaleidoscope of colours, pungent
smells and blaring gospel songs as thousands of evangelical Ghanaians danced
for hours in an indefatigable frenzy of joy.
In the bar that
evening, we met some local Ghanaians, who introduced us to Sodabi. Taking a shot felt more like being clobbered
over the head with the tree trunk than drinking distilled tree sap. I declined
another. As the night wore on and the Sodabi flowed, the guy I was talking to
became more and more convinced that we were destined for one another, that I
should really be staying at his, and that marriage was the only logical option.
Tragically it was not meant to be. Feeling grateful that my legs were indeed still
functioning, I blundered my way back across the beach, ignoring the cries of
other revellers draped around their dwindling fires, and found my nest for the
night.
I discovered that the Rastafarian bamboo hut that I had booked was an
acquired taste. The laid-back owner seemed vaguely offended as I turned down
his spliff, but I realised afterwards that daubing a hazy lacquer over the powerful
smell of rot, lack of electricity and running water would have been a welcome
advantage. Shivering in my bamboo cot that night, I reminded myself that
falling asleep to the sound of breakers seeping through the bamboo walls, with Bob
Marley’s reincarnation in the hut next to me floating somewhere up in the
stratosphere with his dog One Love (who was probably equally woozy from all the
fumes) were adventures were all about.
