GOING FOR CHOP: Having Something to Eat Ghana Style

GD and I are on our way to join a few friends for dinner at the Blue Gate, a fish place somewhere in Osu, the happening neighborhood of Accra, Ghana. We've not been there before, but as always we are eager for a new dining experience.

We find the eating establishment in a dark, narrow street crowded with people, goats and food stalls illuminated by kerosine lamps. Outside the restaurant's gates (blue), along the road, is the enormous charcoal grill with a number of good-looking fish sizzling away, tended by several bored-looking girls. Well, they’re young; they’d rather be dancing.

Inside the gates is the open-air terrace restaurant. We find the gang, already there, drinking beer and sharing a huge fish, eating with their fingers, the proper way. There is no silverware, but plastic bowls with water, a bit of tired soap, and small towels are available for the germ-conscious. The table is covered with a plastic cloth in garish colors with a fitting design of beer bottles. The lighting consists of a single fluorescent tube. All tables are occupied and the crowd is laughing and happy. This pleases me. I like happy people.

We are three Ghanaians, three Americans, one Canadian, one Swede and one Dutch person (me), in case this is of interest to you.

More beer is delivered to the table. If we want fish, the waitress informs us, we must go to the grill outside and choose one. So we do, selecting a big sucker of a swimmer, its exact identity unknown to us. In the mean time, we are invited to partake of the one already on the table. Also on the table is a plate with banku, pasty-white lumps of boiled, fermented corn mash, their squashed shapes resembling tennis balls tortured by misfortune. Banku has a slightly sour flavor, and is, let us say, an acquired taste.

We pick away at the fish while we listen to the entertainment, a Ghanaian songstress with a cheap guitar. She’s a Rasta Sistah, says Trish, who has recently seen her at a party. The Rasta Sistah has a Rasta hairdo, dread locks, wears jeans and a scarlet blouse with long sleeves. Her black purse dangles off her shoulder while she treats us to her music. Her pretty face sports laughing eyes and a big mouth full of beautiful white teeth. She sings with enthusiasm, vigor and no talent. Her thumb strums the guitar with force, in the key of C only. She’s unabashedly loud, belting out sixties’ tunes and reggae songs, taking occasional liberties with the lyrics. For the fun of it, we join in now and again. “Tell me you lo-o-ove me only...” we all wail and she rushes up to our table to give us the full benefit of her C chord.

We all agree the girl has no singing talent, (but then, neither do we), but we admire her profoundly for having the guts to demonstrate this so publicly. Segueing from guts to guts, this leads us into a conversation about Max's trying boyhood experience of carrying a bucket of blood and guts all across New York City. Said bucket came from a distant German butchery and had to be transported to his house, which required two subway trains and one bus and a certain amount of stoicism so as not to die of embarrassment. For what purpose, you ask? So his Lithuanian mother could make blood sausage for the nourishment of her family. Who says you have to go abroad to have interesting experiences?

In the mean time our mystery fish arrives, a monster fish, and we all dig in with our fingers and eat to the Rasta Sistah blaring Let’s send praise to the Lord and we will feel awlright, which is comforting to know when partaking of food in a place like this.

The fish, rest assured, is delicious--crispy on the outside and cooked just right. The hot sauce and the vegetables that accompany it are flavorful and we all enjoy, our fingers getting stickier and greasier, as they should.

Moving on from blood and guts, we end up discussing spiritualists, juju, witches, and other dark and mysterious affairs. This is West Africa, what do you expect?

Another dark and mysterious affair is the rest room. When at some point I inquire as to its location, some vague hand signals point me into a general direction. As I wander off, a waitress appears and, hoping for a more definitive answer, I ask her where the toilet is. When asking for bathrooms, lavatories, powder rooms or ladies' rooms, things can get complicated, and sometimes you have no time for this. The word toilet is clear. In some places twalet works better.

“Come with me,” says the waitress, and I follow her swaying hips into a gloomy building and down a long, dark corridor. It’s a good thing she’s wearing a white blouse--I follow the glow. She turns left, opens a door, walks in and points.

“Here,” she states confidently.

In the semi darkness, I see her standing right next to a toilet, indeed. I glance up and see a comatose light bulb on a wire dangling down into the middle of the small washroom. “What about the light?” I ask. It’s not one of my brighter moments, shall we say.

“It has spoiled,” she says.

“Okay, thank you. I’ll do without.” As if I have a choice. I should learn to carry a flashlight in my purse, along with my tissues, moist towelettes, duct tape, Valium, stun gun . . . . All right, I’m kidding. About the Valium.

The waitress disappears through the door. I close it, finding myself now enveloped in deep darkness, if not in deep silence. The voice of our irrepressible chanteuse penetrates even the bowels of this building, assuring me cheerily, for the second time this evening, that ev’ry little thing gonna be awlright. Let’s hope so. I feel for a key in the door, find one and turn it. The lock works, which is not something to be taken for granted.

I stand for a while, wondering how to proceed, until my eyes begin to adjust. The faintest bit of silvery moonlight is filtering in through a tiny window. After another minute or so, I see the barely perceptible contours of the white toilet taking shape in the darkness. Bingo, I am in business, be it carefully.

I can even find the flusher handle, and it works, it really does. Gingerly I trace my way back to the door, unlock it and move into the shadowy hall way, where I find a small sink, with running water, if no soap or towels.

You think this is bad? Clearly, you’ve led a sheltered life.

Back at the table, I find my friends looking over the bill, checking additions and making divisions. We have nourished our bodies with food and drink, our souls with song and laughter--all for the sum of three bucks a piece.

Ghana, what a wonderful country.