Rest In Pieces, Pizza

So here we are week 6 – half way through. Work continues apace, we have hosted our first Bolgatanga International Craft & Arts Fair (BICAF) Steering Committee meeting, and the ticks on our to-do-list are increasing. I’m still flabbergasted that we are half way through already; it barely feels like we’ve arrived! Still we’re all into the swing of things and the rhythm of life in Bolga, and some have even (slightly) adjusted to the heat. Our Fra-fra still needs work judging from the merriment that ensues when we use it. Some words you pick up quicker than others “Solmia” was one we got quickly – when a kid sees you, there is a chorus of “Helloaa Solmia!” accompanied with rapid waving – it means you’re white, which is useful in case you forget.

The Bolga Brigade

Work wise we divided into Marketing, Research, and Admin subgroups and are rotating between them, divide and conquer and all that. Some of the highlights so far: we’ve contacted a shedload of sponsors, renewed the connection with the marketing department at Bolgatanga polytechnic, conducted needs assessments with different basket weaving groups, organised purse making training, sourced international suppliers for basket dyes, and we’ve contacted all the previous exhibitors of BICAF to encourage them to sign up.

Now we’ve covered our progress I thought I could regale you with one of our adventures:

Mamoon the Triumphant - All that the light touches... is not his

The area around Bolga is mostly a flat dusty plain, interrupted by abrupt greenery, except for a long low ridge of hills on the edge of the horizon – the Tongo Hills. So of course we decided to go there, and what an experience. Our truck wound, well, more accurately bounced, its way up the steep winding rutted track to the stony plateau on top of the hills. We paid for a tour guide to show us the secrets of the hills; 10GHC for Ghanaians; from the UK? – Bad luck, 20cedis for you. He guided us towards the Lion King rock, except smaller and less dramatic (Mamoon inevitably pulled a heroic pose on the top); the first primary school in the area was actually taught underneath it. We went towards what looked like a smallish sized village, but was actually the Chief’s palace where we met the man himself – no marriage proposals this time, but with a mere 22 wives he probably already had enough. Even with 22 wives it came as a surprise that 307 people lived in his humble abode – that’s an enormous amount of people in one house. After exploring the labyrinthine complex, we headed towards the shrines.

The Chief of the Shrines in the Tongo Hills

The guide led us on, pausing occasionally as we tried to capture the sweeping vista of the plateau tumbling away to the valley below, and the plain rolling inexorably to the horizon, but it was futile because a camera could not encapsulate the depth of the view. We then walked to the “Donkey Cave” where skulls lined up in rows and rows filling the rocks, staring blindly into the abyss. I was struck with a morbid curiosity, repelled but captivated and unable to tear my eyes away. Perfectly juxtaposed to the macabre was a chap dozing by his bright blue plastic bucket. It was there we decided to hit up the big-daddy shrine, but to do this there are certain, ahem, ‘conditions’ to which you must adhere, to be allowed entrance. The group of old men in the shrine wanted you to take your shoes and socks off, no biggie… oh and your top and your bra.

Sweeping Vista from the plateau #photocreds

We clambered up the steep rocky slope towards the shrine, with a mixture of trepidation and scepticism but also curiosity and excitement. The chaps were the first ones in; we pulled off our socks and our tops and (oopa) Gollum style we scrambled up the incline. The shrine was a cave wedged into the top of the hill with a view over the world below, the roof was low, forcing you to bend over or squat to fit, and the back of the cave just fell away to a shallow crevice. It was in this narrow gap that a whole assortment of offerings had been made, from bows and arrows, pottery, to a load of chicken feathers (you could see birdy feet too) that had amassed into an enormous pile and was definitely the source of the musty unidentifiable smell. There were four men in the cave, one a guardian of the shrine crouched between the mountain of dead chicken and the calabashes. Obviously in a situation like that the first question you can expect to receive is “What football team do you support?” – It amounted to a very surreal experience. Then it was the girls turn to visit the shrine – when they returned I sensed that they hadn’t enjoyed it as much, probably because they all lay down with their chests firmly on the floor, but who knows it’s a mystery.

Pizza (I am drooling) and yes it is as good as it looks

Now for the bit you’ve all been waiting for, and in fact long awaited by us too – we had a pizza night. And yes it’s even better than it sounds. Rachael, an expat, organised the event with different expats in Bolga; a mixture of Americans, a Canadian contingent and us (big up Britain). Now that we have had pizza, we definitely need it again, crippling addicts that we are. So on that happy bombshell, with cheesy pizza in your minds eye (actually in your minds mouth) thanks for reading. Sorry for the cheesy ending.

Written by: Matthew Edwards
Photos by: Oliver Sage and Matthew Edwards