A well-thumbed Lonely Planet led me to believe that history in Accra was next to non-existent. They were wrong, if they ventured off the beaten track, they would've seen the remnants of Europe's shameful history.
I remember telling a friend before I flew out here, that I was going to go on an organised tour. Unheard of for me, as I'm normally self-sufficient and loathe those gaggles of tourists who fidget while listening to a guide, like apathetic school children.
I came to this conclusion as I thought the Lonely Planet would be selective about what it told you with regards to slavery. Especially since the Ghana section was only about 20 pages long in a book dedicated to the whole of West Africa.
This was prophetic as I ventured into Jamestown with a guide (Daniel) and driver (Emmanuel). Here they are, Daniel is on the left.
Jamestown, by the Korle Lagoon, was named after the 17th Century British James Fort, making it, and neighbouring Ussher, the oldest districts in Accra.
Ussher (built in 1649 and formally known as Fort Crèvecœur) was run by the Dutch and further west from there is Osu Castle (built in the 1660s by a Norwegian-Danish alliance and formally known as Fort Christiansborg), the former Danish colony, which changed hands between the Portuguese, British and Akwamu before finally becoming Ghana's seat of government until it moved to the newly built Jubilee House in 2008.
To look around Jamestown, now a slum, you don't see the grand neo-classical colonnades of British India or the manicured lawns of British Malay. There are no regency thoroughfares like The Bund, Shanghai. There's a Spartan Methodist church and wooden shacks that weakly nod to their European counterparts.
Even the British palace, now home to the town's chief, Oblempong Nii Wetse Kojo II, leaves a lot to be desired. There's better architecture in Reading's Friar Street.
No money was invested here, but a lot of money was reaped (and raped) from Ghana. James Fort was formally a trading post. The trade was people.
Just like its Dutch and Danish neighbours, they used this part of Accra, conveniently positioned on the Atlantic coast to take people from their families and homes to sell to the tobacco and sugar plantations of America and the West Indies.
These slave markets are dotted along the coast of the Gulf of Guinea and bring shame to any white person visiting.
After the abolition of slavery by the British in 1833 (it was one of the first and the abolition movement was one the biggest, but let's not congratulate ourselves on an atrocity that should never have happened), James Fort became James Fort Prison, where the aforementioned chief's predecessor, Oblempong Nii Kojo Ababio V, was jailed during his 39-year reign (I don't remember why, but my guess it had something to do with the British).
However, Jamestown's bloody, glory days are over. It's now one of the city's poorer areas. There's nothing left but beautifully derelict wooden houses and a simple lighthouse lifted from a child's drawing. And as with all poor neighbourhoods, it's where all the life and creativity is.
I was taken from the lighthouse to the fishing village, at its base. My guide, Daniel, told me how he works for a Canadian NGO to run schools in the area. My dread-locked companion was clearly the don of the community, they all approached, chatted and greeted him with such warmth.
Daniel took me to the ocean's edge, through the maze of wooden fishing boats, with a myriad of people; young, old, male, female, woven through, carting baskets of crabs, snapper, mackerel, sole and barracuda.
He showed me the smoke shacks where the day's catch was preserved. And where they hollowed out tree trunks to build new boats. This area was teeming with life. Rotund women animatedly shouted at her neighbours, groups were gathered in circles to gut and descale fish, children darted from boat to boat, playing gleefully among the workers.
From the community hall (one of the few building built out of bricks), I could hear singing. Loud singing and chanting. I was told that there was a fishing ban and this was a protest, as it would destroy the livelihoods of all the people in the community.
I make this sound idyllic, but you can't get away from the poverty. There were dead rats in the middle of scorched walkways, channels of open sewers and clapboard shacks. At times, the smell was overwhelming - a mixture of smoked fish stew and banku with human excrement and rotting refuse.
The children and the people didn't look unhealthy or unhappy, the levels of poverty are in no way close to those I've seen in India. These people had food to eat and there was a strong sense of community. There was music and laughter, these people were just poor.
I was led to a concrete jetty at the opposite side to the lighthouse, creating a man-made cove around the fishing village. Daniel showed me what was left of railway lines, built by the British to transport goods from all over Africa, straight onto boats headed to all corners of the world.
It was there he introduced me to the cutest little girl, no older than 5 years old. At first glance, she looked no different to her other playmates, until Daniel point out her blue eyes. She is a decedent of a slaver, he told me.
He walked me through the community, took me into several schools that looked exactly how you'd expect them. I watched as he used a toddler's dress to wipe her streaming nose as he walked passed.
The uniformed primary school-aged children politely waved but maintained a respectful distance.
I was shown a wall with a picture and message to a western lady (Katherine something), who was clearly a patron of this school. She looked like a typical, conservative, middle-class English girl in her 30s and it reminded me of an earlier blog.
I was invited to take pictures of all the children I encountered, I refused. I wouldn't dream of taking pictures of kids in Europe for fear of their helicopter parents and a visit from the police. I don't why people think it's ok to take pictures of poor, black or brown kids and upload them on social media, not only showing the world (paedos, traffickers, etc.) what they look like, but also where they are. And I'm guessing the police here and the parents would be powerless if any of these kids went missing.
Climbing up the stairs, towards Ussher, I was greeted by groups of young men (everyone says hello but maintain a respectful "meh" over my presence) and it struck me how, once again, no one gave a shit I was there. Clearly, I'm a richer, white woman, but no one approached me to buy anything or beg for money. They said hello and went about their business. That was it.
Walking up the on the main road of John Evans Atta Mills High Street, the sewers were now mostly closed and roads were paved, but the poverty was still visible. I was shown James Town Prison and a sun-beaten yellow building with a plaque paying homage to its former Dutch slave merchants, an old woman was sitting outside, who is a decedent of theirs. We couldn't go inside, instead, I was taken to Ussher Fort.
On the side of former slave posts, were the most colourful and intricate street art. I was told there's an annual street art festival in Jamestown, so wonderful murals can be found everywhere.
A truck slowed down and waved the rest of the traffic to allow us to pass Cleland Road. We entered into a marketplace, which I was told was a Dutch slave market. It was now a hive of activity with people selling all manner of goods and food. I was being a proper obruni, taking photos and looking nervously at the array of bubbling cauldrons.
The dark red coloured dusty floor and white walls of a small yard, you could see tiny slits of the cell windows and menacing metal poles poking from the walls. These buildings are abandoned, there's nothing here that indicates what went on here - no reenactments, tours or plaques - its gruesome history passed down from generation to generation, like unofficial Griots.
I was led past Customs House (which is still in use today) and another slaver's house, now transformed into The Methodist Book Depot before landing at the British Palace.
As mentioned earlier, this isn't a place to write home about. I felt bad for it, as it was no Buckingham, Winter or Versailles. The blue building barely looked English... It had dusty red grounds where children played football and it was adorned with traditional African art to depict the teachings of Jesus - all about helping your brothers, the person who protects the egg and that the new chief is moving.
I paid the "curator" of the British Palace and Daniel 50 cedis (£4) each and bid them farewell.
The thing that struck me most about Jamestown, was not that it's a must-see for any traveller coming to Accra nor that I wasn't treated like a novelty or a cash machine, nor the locals' matter-of-fact attitude to slavery. It was that people can happily get on with life regardless of their means, that community is so important and not all impoverished children are abandoned or forced to work... all the children played happily, keeping themselves to themselves, never venturing far from their parents.
They never followed me around, begged me for money or did a little dance for money. No one tried to sell me anything and they all looked pretty healthy. These children were loved and looked after.
I'm still digesting their attitude to slavery. There seemed to be a sense of pride about the decedents of slavers. All the roads have British names and Dutch signage could be seen all over Ussher. Everyone could speak English and they still refer to Jamestown as British Accra. I might come back to this topic...
Big shout out to Mary, the lady at my hotel who organised today, I didn't think she was paying attention, taking me seriously or cared, but she was, she did and... er, she did, again.
