Sefwi Wiawso: the only place in Ghana where people can pronounce my name.
Judaica in situ, originally uploaded by la vrai nomade.
This was the biggest adventure I’d undertaken in quite a while, so the telling of it is more labor intensive, and has therefore become a Task i.e. something to be avoided. But I’m stuck out here in Agyumako without facebook or skype to distract me, so I may as well.
I had mentioned the Jews in Sefwi (I remember posting two years ago on my previous adventure with the lost tribe, but I can't find it now...) to R over drinks some weeks back; she was, as any good linguistic anthrokid ought to be, thoroughly intrigued. We decided to give it a shot the very next shabbis. I had conveniently forgotten the logistical nightmare that getting there actually entails. The usual mishegos of getting to any rural area was compounded by the fact that the number I had for the layleader of the community was two years old, unsurprisingly, out of service; some investigation revealed that there had been a community-wide falling out and the folks I had stayed with last time were on the questionable side of the argument, and now hold their own services separately from the rest of the group. (Apparently, two Jews, three shuls is universal.) R was able to get in touch with someone late Thursday, and early Friday morning we were off!
Transportation here is always something of a fly-by-the-seat-of-your-pants type venture; this was no exception. Having foolishly tried our luck at getting STC tickets same-day (all sold out, no surprise), we hopped a taxi to the main lorry station near Nkrumah Circle - and from there on out, it was all an exercise in serendipity. Someone ran up alongside our cab before we even got out - whereyougoing, Kumasi? Actually…yeah! So from taxi to express tro-tro to Kumasi, to cab, to express tro-tro to Sefwi (whereyougoing - Sefwi Wiawso? - what luck! And we got to ride up front with the driver), to cab (Hey driver, do you know Joseph’s house? Hm, I don’t know the place but my brother will know, we will ask him. Yep, it’s a pretty small town)…and as we pulled up to the compound, there was Joseph himself smiling and saying, Shabbat Shalom! We have been expecting you. What a world.
The rest of the weekend was a beautiful series of impressions - Joseph’s spectacles reflecting gold candlelight while he spoke ancient Semitic words with a Ghanaian accent; jasmine on the night air and a sea of stars above the green outhouse; a pregnant woman singing prayers in Twi (onyame, medase) over the shabbis candles, everything in darkness save her upturned hands, the swell of her belly and her eyes; goats (everything is better with goats - Megs, when we start out commune we are getting a goat and naming it Sylvia); soft smiles from shy children and laughter from bold ones; Kiddush over coca cola; the realization that the words If you do not heed these words, I will turn the heavens against you and hold back the rain and the earth will not yield its produce; you will soon disappear from the land that the lord has given you are a lot more immediate and startling when you’re actually living the sort of pastoral existence to which those words initially applied, and that religion serves a far more immediate purpose in such circumstances. The house was full of books and all the children spoke perfect English and want to become doctors. They invited us for pesach; if we go back, we’re bringing school fee money and Spiderman movies for Joshua, a new soccer ball for the older kids, a sweater for Sarah, playing cards for sassy little Rahel (Three Rs in one house!), wine for the Kiddush.
Oh and then there’s the Joshua’s uncle. He died recently, he informed us. Oh, how sad, we said. Yeah, he replied. He’s in the fridge.
(!)
We couldn’t help it. It’s so inappropriate, but we burst out laughing and couldn’t stop. We felt like such jerks, but my god! In the fridge!
Most of the time was spent eating (AMAZING fish stew and rice), sleeping, and wandering lazily around town with Rahel and her cousin Bright - a Shabbat well spent. Services were much different from the last time I was there - much more relaxed, much more participatory, far less English, and no glaringly overt nods to evangelical rhetorical styles. That clearly had a lot to do with who was in charge two years ago. The oldest boy read the Torah portion out of a Twi bible, sentence by sentence, which Alex, the rabbi, then elaborated on, with occasional added insight from Joseph, our host and Alex’s uncle. From the nods and thoughtful looks around us (from the adults, anyway, the kids were fidgety and fell asleep), it sounded like a good drash. People were wore draped cloth to services, and sang prayers in Twi - it definitely felt far more like they had claimed it as their own. Last time there was a consistent underlying desire to approximate what American Jews do - which after all is only one way of being Jewish, tribal commonalities notwithstanding - instead of doing their own thing and figuring out what it means to be a Ghanaian Jew. The emphasis has clearly shifted, and for the better I think.
R and I were bonding nicely over shared conservative Ashkenazi upbringings and yiddishisms until she starting going on about seniority and making me feel like an awkward uncool camp counselor instead of her friend, so things got a little strained. Not sure what to think about that. Regardless, it was so, so good to get out of Accra and remind myself that I’m capable of picking up and disappearing on down the road for a while. It’s a good feeling. I’ve gotten complacent.