Funerals, Libations and High Priestessess

I have just recently rediscovered this past week that school work cannot be put off forever. Thus, this week I have been exploring very unfamiliar territory, the library! Yes, believe it or not, my adventures each week are now being interrupted by actual research, for my deadline for my research project is quickly approaching, and like usual, I am putting it off. However, my past weekend must be discussed.

Have I mentioned my drumming instructor? Well, if not, here I go. I adore the man. He is a musical genius, according to me, who didn't even know I was capable of liking, much less ever playing any sort of instrument. Now, don't misinterpret me, I am no Ringo when it comes to the drums and I have no rhythm, but hey, I love hearing the drums, playing them and watching others play them. And Johnson, my teacher, is both an amazing drummer and an amazing teacher. Tim, if you were not so convinced that you will die of malaria when visiting Africa, the music here would be worth the trip! Well, anyways, Johnson organized a trip for the students in his drumming class to go with him to his village, Dzodze, in the Volta region for the weekend to attend a funeral. Yes, a funeral. Of course, all I thought when funerals come to mind, was lots of black, awkward small talk with distant relatives and basically an all around somber affair. Well, I was very mistaken.

We left Friday morning for Dzodze, and the drive was amazing. I had never been to this region of Ghana, the Eastern region. We passed over the Volta River, right along the coast, near a popular destination of Ada, where I am heading this upcoming weekend. Then, later we drove through Keta, which is this small coastal town that has the Atlantic ocean on one side, and this MASSIVE lagoon on the other side. It was literally a strip of land, that according to my guidebook, is slowly eroding away, considering it's below sea level. The book mentioned that one day, that strip of land may no longer be there. I guess you could call it the Venice of Africa? The views were amazing. However, not so amazing was the road. It was an "I hope I can walk after this" moment, as the roads were unpaved and scattered with pot-holes the size of Utah. We survived of course and arrived in Dzodze, which was only about 20 minutes from the boarder of Togo.
After getting out of the car and stretching, I heard giggles from above. Looking up, there were a couple of kids hanging out of a tree watching me. That's how I was greeted. No one yelling "oburoni," just people happy to see us there, a trend that I felt lasted the whole weekend. I didn't feel like a tourist or an outsider, just a welcomed guest. Johnson had made arrangements for us to stay with his junior sister (his youngest sister). However, before we settled in, he had us lined up on some benches, so he could properly welcome us...with libations. Libations. according to Johnson, is giving thanks to God for, well, anything, like for a safe journey. Thus, he passed around a shot glass and we all took a swig of a local liquor, dumping some on the ground for praise. What a way to start off the day, with gin shots.
After a lunch/dinner of banku and very chemically flavored water, we headed off to the first rounds of celebration. We walked up to the main road where people dressed in red and black were parading through the streets. Some of them were wailing and others were rejoicing, an ever present antithesis. We followed behind the procession, behind the last taxi. I noticed that the person sitting between two younger men was all cloaked in traditional fabrics. I asked Johnson who that person was, and he simply replied "that's the dead body, that why we are here." SO, yeah, dead body, wrapped in the back of a taxi. Needless to say, ever the anthropologist, I was very curious how the rest of the weekend would pan out.
The precession ended where the music began. Dozens upon dozens were crowded into a courtyard in the town. I was instantly overwhelmed because this was unlike any funeral I have ever been to. When I think of funerals in the US, instantly I imagine a crowded rooms, with people all dressed in black, somber and forced to make painful small talk with long lost relatives and friends. In Dzodze, the funeral was a community affair. Appropriately, the family was sitting of to the side, mourning, and when I say mourning I mean wailing. I thought I would not be able to sleep after seeing and hearing the cries of one woman in particular, you would have thought she was being brutally murdered. On the other hand, those outside the family were congregated in the center and having a good old fashioned dance party. We were standing on the outside, trying to take everything in and understand our purpose at the funeral, because obviously we were totally out of place. And then, one older, somewhat crazy, woman grabbed each one of us and dragged us into the crowd to join in on the dancing. So it my function became apparent, I was to celebrate, and celebrate I did. After a bit of dancing, and watching them carry the body into it's temporary resting place, we returned to Johnson's sisters compound to rest up. Of course, considering that we are a drumming class, Johnson gathered drums from all around, and we sat in the pitch black and began a drumming circle.
Later, way past my bed time and after many went to sleep, Johnson energetically retrieved us all and informed us that we must return to the celebration. Although exhausted, we were not going to miss out on a single cultural experience. It was around 10 pm, and when we arrived, they were having a religious service for the deceased. We all sat politely in silence, listening to a Christian sermon that was in a language totally foreign to us. We continued to sit politely as people surrounding us began to pray in tongues. But, then out of no where, the music began and we were on our feet again, dragged out into the dancing circle, where we danced until it was time for bed. Oh, bed. 20 of us slept on the concrete floor of what appeared to be a living room with furniture pushed to the side. It made for one HOT and sleepless night, but that is perfectly okay, it gave me reflection time. One thing I have noticed about myself and most of the people I have traveled with is that we go with the flow and we are totally up for any sort of arraignments. I mean, I have slept under a mosquito net on the beach or in a bus station, so a concrete floor next to twenty other bodies was a piece of cake and I would do it all over again. I am beginning to believe that I can handle most any form of travel at this point, and look forward to challenging myself even more.
Okay, so day two. After waking up, eating some bread, and getting into our red and black get-up (the actual day of the funeral required you to ware such colors), we were of to visit Johnson's senior sister. Brace yourself, don't get to jealous, Johnson's senior sister is a high priestess. Yes, a high priestess. So, now my life is content. I have been to Africa and I have met a high priestess. The whole visit was fascinating and I wish I had listened better and asked more question, but there was just such a big group of us for Anthro Ali. We entered from the side, because otherwise we would have to remove our shoes passing through the front by the compounds resident Deity. We sat in a half circle facing the high priestess and what I assume were lower priestesses. We watched her eagerly as she began to pray and pour libations to the earth. My favorite moment of the visit was when someones phone began to ring during her prayers, all of us looking around wondering who was not considerate enough to turn their phone on silent for the occasion, only to realize that it was the high priestess's phone. I feel like I could write a book about the moment in time. This high priestess in a small town in Ghana had a cell phone, and thus a reason for ownership of such a phone.Talk about globalization. After she finished on the phone, she passed around shots of gin for us to give libations. Of course I could not refuse, it would be culturally offensive. This time, it hit me pretty strongly and when Johnson announced that it was time to head off to the funeral, I was paranoid that I would be stumbling around drunk at a funeral, in Ghana! Don't worry, with this kind of heat, I sweat it out just in time for the funeral. I loved the contradiction I experienced within the same hour. We went from witnessing a "traditional" religious practice to a Christian ceremony. It is so fascinating that the two coexist like they do within Dzodze. Also, traditional considerations never seem to be abandoned at the Christian celebrations, considering everyone was still dressed in traditional Ghanaian attire. It was just so fascinating bouncing form one form of celebration to the next. AT this particular ceremony, the preacher turned to us and thanked his "white brothers and sisters" for being there to celebrate with the community. I really appreciated that moment, feeling so welcomed yet again. After the preaching and prayers concluded, we followed the precession from the courtyard, to the compound of the family of the deceased, on to the burial site. I hope you don't get the wrong impression of my description, it was not all enjoyment for me, this was a legitimate funeral, and that really hit home as I watched them pushing dirt over the casket. I was sad, but it made sense. Those who needed to weep, wept. And those who needed to celebrate, celebrated. I felt very fortunate that I could be along for the ride and included for a weekend in this towns life.
Before we departed, Johnson had us stop by his senior brothers compound, where we had to offer his brother gifts, of beer and more gin. So, we had more, in the name of culture of course, before we hit the road. As I was leaving, Johnson's brother, who had to be in his 60s at least asked if we could be pen pals. So, now my life is really really complete, I can be pen pals with an sweet old man from Dzodze.