Guilt Trip - February 20
Posted by Bruce Norris on 3/02/2006So this was the day my true nature emerged and the guilt kicked in.
After a truly rotten day in Togo… well, what happened is this: I had read about a place near Lome called the Marche du Feticheurs; in theory, a place that still provides the necessary ingredients for calling in protective spirits for animistic magic (in short, voodoo). After several confused looks from cab drivers I found one who picked up his two knowledgeable “friends”and we were shortly on our way to what turned out to be, basically a dusty, smelly dirt lot with wrecked cars and about ten tables of, yes, dried severed animal heads, specifically, monkey heads, cat heads, hyena heads, horse, buffalo, vulture… you name it, as well as other dessicated animal parts. The smell was not pleasant. The purpose of these things, I was told, is to be turned into powder that one ingests (!) in order to achieve certain effects.
This was all fine, and then I was led into a small shed to the side and introduced to a muscular man who was called the “son of the king”. I was already somewhat dubious and after some chanting and murmuring and questioning me as to what I wanted (answer being that I want my “new play to go well”) I was presented, with great ceremony, with a STICK, a ROCK, something hanging off of a piece of string, and another STICK and then I was informed that I now owed these gentlemen THREE HUNDRED DOLLARS. Further, they said, the “magic” would be more powerful if I gave them more, and vice versa.
You know, there’s just something so dispiriting about people trying to rip you off. They could just come out and say, “can I have three hundred dollars”? You’d say no, but at least dignity would be preserved. As it was, much shouting and anger followed and I left having finally bought my way out for about thirty bucks. And to top it off, the cabbie and his friends had their own little scheme worked out for the trip back. I suppose you can’t blame people who live in poverty from assuming that I have a fortune to give away and comparatively, I suppose I do. But I returned to my pitiful little hotel truly soured on the nation of Togo and looked forward to Ghana.
So, after an extremely hot and sweaty four-hour bush taxi ride to Accra (imagine driving through bayou country in August with no AC) I arrived at another splendid hotel in Accra (which is a very nice city) to find no AC, no running water in the shower, a sink falling off the wall and dirt everywhere. I had finally had my fill and decamped straightaway… and here comes my horrible bourgeois guilt kicking in full force… to the Novotel Accra for the night. I’m almost too ashamed to report this, but as I sit here typing, there is a man playing a piano in the hotel lobby. I may have, with this, lost all credibility. But god, to have a working shower. I suppose this means I’ve given up, in a sense. Africa has defeated me, or at least my optimism that I didn’t have to throw my Western cash around to feel at home. I suppose I’m an addict to my comfortable sense of luxury. I… Oh, what the hell am I talking about? It’s only for the night and they kick me out tomorrow. I’ll suck it up and go to the cocktail bar.