Gone Fishin'

I love people watching at the beach. In Ghana I’ve seen some odd couples, but none so oddly matched as at the beach. It’s normally the guy I want to rescue – the tourist who doesn’t know how the hell he got himself into the predicament. The predicament being a woman you might suspect is a hooker. Even when appropriately dressed she is identifiable by her demeanor, prancing around, expecting a certain type of Western gentlemanlike behavior she saw on Pretty Woman. The particular pair that captured my sunglass-hidden stare was a hairy, book-smart, older man, courting a younger Ghanaian. An evening gone very wrong. (or right… the next day was the hard part)

As they stepped into the sand she demanded he bend down and roll up her jeans. Then she jumped into his arms, hoping he would run to the shore and playfully splash around, threatening to drop her and instead lean down for a passionate kiss. I know because I often have the same wish.

I quickly bored of watching her frolic and him panic. My attention turned to three older Muslim women cavorting in the shallow tide. It’s more fun to watch people having fun rather than terrified. At least for me; I don’t like scary movies.

They were weighed down by the water pulling on their long skirts and constantly wrestling with their head wraps in the wind, but their joy beckoned me. As I strode to the shoreline they called out “Sistah, sistah – you teach us to swim!” Then they started pulling me deeper than I wanted to go, splashed me when I didn’t want to go any deeper, and frankly started to alarm me. I’ve hung out with some sketchy people before; never thought it would be the Muslim women I’d be most scared of.

I saw a fisherman pulling in his nets down the beach so I took the opportunity to escape. (I seriously ran)
His nets were empty, but he had a smile on his face. All of a sudden I had an incredible idea – I’ve always wanted to go out on one of those boats! (Since I saw it on Anthony Bourdain’s travel show in December)
His English wasn’t great, but I negotiated a ride. When he agreed I started to get a little nervous. The boat is a big wooden canoe – a little ragged, but the holes weren’t too big. I jumped (fell) in without another doubtful thought and looked towards the unending horizon. The bow hopped over the first wave and landed with a hard thud. If you’ve taken a ride with Captain Nelson (my dad) you know the feeling.
The second wave sent us violently sideways, prompting Michael to ask if I knew how to swim.

As we passed the break line he handed me a paddle and I excitedly joined the strenuous labor of my cruise. The men started a chant to guide their movements “YEBA-yeba, YEBA-yeba” they repeated like a deep drum. Seeing how thrilled I was, Michael invited me to join them in the morning for real fishing. Venturing out to the deep sea in a rickety wooden row boat with five seemingly harmless men who speak limited English - “Absolutely!” I squealed.
I e-mailed my mom that night:
You might think this is a bit sketch, but I have the most amazing opportunity in the morning…
As I thought more about the mechanics of the situation I decided to invite along a guy friend. Sometimes I feel shafted being a female traveler – I have to worry even when I’m not making obviously bad decisions (like accepting rides home from the bar with strangers).

We set out this morning at 5:00am. Michael met us on the beach with a huge smile. He was happy we were so captivated by his profession.
As the other fisherman approached the boat Michael began tearing strips of white cheesecloth and the men wrapped them around their foreheads. Handing us each a strip, he tried to explain the meaning – in broken English I understood it to be a symbol of a free spirit, humbled by God.
We laid our hands on the boat and began to pray for safety and success in the day’s work. The individual murmurs merged into a powerful prayer, an energizing chant and almost into hysteria. The young boy next to me caught me peeking around and smiled at our shared curiosity – his of me, and mine of the fisherman.

Using two cement cylinders and four wooden planks, we hoisted the front of the sturdy boat and heaved it towards the water. I was pretty useless, but still concerned about pulling my weight.
We jumped in and quickly grabbed paddles to fight the oncoming waves. Up and over the waves, “YEBA-yeba, YEBA-yeba,” they started. As we made our way to the depths other boats stopped their rowing, eyes fixed on the two obrunis rowing frantically.

The guys let out the nets and they checked again to see if I remembered how to swim. Still I thought it was precautionary.
I thought about how calm the water was – at that depth the waves don’t roll as much. I wondered how long we would relax and wait for fish to find their way into the nets before heading back to shore.
“Ok, now we swim,” they said.
Huh?
“All of us?” I asked.
A look of duh was the only response, and I jumped in. I don’t remember the temperature of the water, or if it occurred to me that we were swimming over the nets intended to catch all sorts of sea creatures. I just focused on swimming quickly, eyes on the far off shore.
Nearer to shore the power of the waves frightened me. Trying to pull myself along using the nets I was bowled over by enormous waves. Then I thought about the powerful undertow I’d been warned about. My strategy was to ride the top of the waves until forced ashore like a beached whale. Even as the men laughed and showed me it was shallow enough to walk, I stuck with my plan.

Along the stretch of beach other groups of fisherman were struggling to pull in their morning catch. We started the same arduous dance – a tug-of-war with the sea. Down the shore everyone was synced in rhythm, using the incoming waves to keep the beat. With each pull it seemed the fishermen were ripping the waves away from the sea and onto shore.

I was tired after five minutes. Forty minutes later I was falling apart. My hands rubbed raw, rope burn along my side, back, legs, abs, and biceps aching, and a smile on my face. I knew my effort wasn’t incredibly helpful, but I wouldn’t let myself back out to snap pictures of their toil.


Ohh yes, I cursed. Each piece of skin torn away before the blister could form brought another inaudible f-bomb. Michael’s smile made me feel ashamed.
“Big fish,” he grinned, always thankful for the opportunity.
I tossed aside my bad attitude and joined in the chanting and singing.

When the nets finally washed ashore I was dispirited by the catch. Hundreds of tiny fish, a handful market-worthy, two stingray (one surprisingly large), crabs, a lobster, a ginormous shelled creature and jellyfish (carelessly ripped apart for the fish tangled inside, tossed aside and stepped on).

Everyone who helped pull in the nets took their fair share of the catch. I was amazed by their absence of greed. That was hard work, no matter how little one could offer, but everyone took a proportion equal to their contribution rather than self-perceived effort. There was no bickering, haggling, or stealing and absolutely no mad rush for the best of the bunch.

Still smiling, Michael approached me, “This time we catch really big fish!”
His eyes shined.
He motioned that we had only completed trip one and for me to get back in the boat. I apologized and said I really just couldn’t. Showing him my ragged hands, he laughed and nodded – he understood.

I wore my cheesecloth headband all day as a sign of pride. Something I admire about Ghanaians in general is their positivism and belief in hope. It is apparent in speech and action that hope and faith are the way of life; truly anything is possible if the hope exists. Unfortunately in some cases, like fishing, even if the will is there hope won’t always bring in the big fish.
In the case of a Rastafarian I had a beer with, hope does not always make up for lack of will. Their happiness is in hope though, which can’t be taken away.

Paul Theroux, in his book Dark Star Safari (thank you, Danielle), mentions how hope and faith in life after death makes the unbearable acceptable.
“With that promise [Heaven] you were conditioned to brush off the years of drought, the poor harvests, the abandoned schoolhouse […]: They were mere blips in the vale of tears on the way to heaven.’

I actually need to buckle down and start school this week, so I my stories might wane a bit. I visited Cape Coast last weekend (where we stayed in a crocodile hotel!) and am going to Kumasi this weekend so maybe I can squeeze something entertaining out of that.