Ghana has a smell. It's familiar and distant, like plants, humidity, smoke and burning wood. It's an earthy comforting aroma. As comforting as the dusty red road that leaves it's  residue on my bare feet and ankles. I came to Ghana to take in all the sights and sounds of its Cape Coast region. Today I would take in the Cape Coast Castle, a beautiful white colonial structure adorned with fading black cannons overlooking a beach. I purchased a guided tour. I wanted the full experience.
I had a 20-minute wait before my tour began and took that time to browse the artisan shops near the entrance. There is a wonderful variety of shops selling carvings, kente cloth, drums, music, art and jewellry. I weave quickly in and out of the shops, taking in their colours and textures.
Once a small crowd of tourists has formed, our tour begins. Our guide is a young Ghanaian man whose English is soft and unwavering. We assemble on the veranda and get a brief history lesson.
The Swedish Africa Company erected the Cape Coast Castle in 1653. The Castle underwent many changes as it grew with the slave trade. Most of the slaves that came to the Americas exited through this site. We learned how slaves were shackled and held in dark, cold dungeons until there were enough slaves for a voyage.
I wondered how difficult it was for our guide to speak so eloquently about this dark moment in history. How many tours had this young man given to be able to speak in such a matter of fact manner as tourists wept touched by his words. Our history lesson complete, we headed onto what would be the most haunting leg of our tour. We were led into the dark dingy brick dungeons that once centuries ago held 100s of frightened shackled slaves.
 We were taken into the women's dungeons first. Our only light was a flashlight. It was a cold dark room. We were silent. Outside, the sound of waves hitting the shore echoed throughout the small room. Inside it was cold, dark, and haunting. Our guide pointed out a faint line on the brick about a foot high. The line indicated that stagnant water was inside as well. Slaves were herded into these rooms for days, weeks, with no food, fresh air or light, they were forced to urinate and defecate in the water that surrounded their ankles, which ultimately left the markings that spoke of their misery.
Slowly we went into the male dungeons. They were almost identical. The same water markings existed. Shining his flashlight, our guide also pointed out markings on the brick that were made by the shackles of the slaves, slaves who had rubbed their shackles on the brick in an attempt to escape or slaves who wrote warnings to others in their tribal languages. A place like this, takes your breath away slowly. There is no way to fully process the horrors that went on in this space. Many on the tour wept openly.
After the dungeons, we were guided through winding corridors, into rooms that would have housed governors and other officers. We were led outside, up to the balcony where it was hard to adjust to the activity below of fishermen casting out colourful nets, blue water crashing against boulders and sand and laughter.
We examined the canons and were shown the space, a rectangular opening, where unruly slaves were thrown to their deaths from the castle onto the jagged wet rocks below.
Finally we were taken back inside through our final corridor that led to the "door of no return". This was the last door that slaves had to pass through before they were boarded onto ships, never to return. A shrine had been made in a room before the door. A simple structure in 2 tiers draped in white cloth. Offerings were placed on and around it.
I was struck by the desire to do something but I had nothing to leave at the shrine as some of the others in my group did. I felt overwhelmed with the need to honour this site, but how? I was at a loss. I wanted to scream out, cry, bathe the space with peace. After standing in silence, I approached our guide with a favour. I asked him to permit me to exit through the door of no return. To my surprise he agreed to open it to me, but on one condition, the condition that I, unlike so many who went through before, walked back through. |
