Note: Africa Days is a series of posts based on journals and letters from my years living in Kinshasa and traveling across Africa, beginning in 1974. You can read previous and following posts (for free) below

We had expected a lot of Ghana. It delivered even more, beginning with Accra, which I described in my journal as “a compelling city with verve and strength among its people, whose city it most definitely is — this capital of the first black African country to gain independence from colonialism.”

3 September, 1976, letter to my father: “I’m battling the sea wind to keep my paper on the table here at this small bar with its fine view of the huge and yet romantic castle that has such a tragically unromantic past. I had had no idea of the size and number of these European forts and castles dotted along this coast of Ghana.

“Elmina Castle, which we just toured, was begun in 1482 by the Portuguese and is said to be the oldest building in the tropics. It was built for the gold trade, then taken over by the Dutch for use as a slaving post. It’s now deserted and owned by the Ministry of Monuments, but it has none of the trappings of a tourist attraction. As a matter of fact, even the sole guide was sick today, and we were simply permitted to wander as we wished, alone. This added immeasurably to the power and mystery of the place. Even Mike and I had split up, because he went back to the car for our camera. So I walked silently and alone through the huge, upside down U-shaped corridor dungeons where the men were kept, the punishment cells, the female slave yard with a balcony where the Dutch officials looking for pretty bedmates stood to make their choices, the negotiation room where ship captains chose their cargo, the tiny prison cells for those who attempted to buck the system and finally the fateful tunnel to the sea.

“In the silence, the awfulness was everything.

“The museums in West Africa are interesting both from historical and artistic viewpoints. This region has been so rich in both areas, and its peoples and crafts are still so varied and compelling to see. It’s interesting as well to note the differences in colonial influences from Belgium to France to England. Nigeria and Ghana are both so advanced in terms of development and education, and both are so bustling and frantic compared to France’s more colorful and charming former colonies. But these are generalizations to which a score of objections jump up immediately, even in my own mind, so I’ll end that kind of talk by saying one more generalized thing which is virtually unassailable: The Belgians bombed all the way around.”

4 September, Cape Coast, adding to the same letter: “We saw an astonishing festival today. It marked the end of a three-week ban on fishing from the lagoon of this fishing city, followed by ceremonies to ask the gods for a profitable upcoming year for what everyone here calls ‘the fisherfolk.’ We watched the festival with a local man, the likable and well-informed head of the Cape Coast University Fire Brigade. We met him last night when we parked our bus on university grounds for the night, and he was pleased to show us the grand event, which in turn pleased us so obviously.

“The festival procession began at the lagoon and wound for several hours through the town. It consisted of what our host termed ‘Asafo companies’ — seemingly clan-like groups. About a dozen of these units came along, followed by the main officials of the district, and finally the principal chief.

“Each Asafo company boasted a flag carrier, frequently a young boy. He would jump and jerk and swirl the flag about, and if he was exceptionally good, bystanders would put money in his mouth. Then came a knot of people in all their finery, the men bearing fur-covered chests on their heads containing the clans’ holy items, then fetish priests and priestesses in white robes with whitewashed faces and white shell necklaces. Next came a carved wooden stool carried by a maiden on her head. On the stool was a lacy white pillow. The maiden would curl and swoon as if a great weight had come down upon her head. The stool is intended for a god, our friend Clement pointed out, and the maiden, in her movements, was signifying the god’s arrival or presence.

“Shortly thereafter would come the chief and his wife, surrounded by women waving pieces of wondrous fabric like fans, other women laying fabric before their feet, and a man carrying and twirling a huge fringed parasol over the chief’s head. Drummers followed the chief, who was invariably dressed in the grandest imaginable robes. The final chief’s entourage was virtually the same, though even grander and larger, and he was arrayed in genuine splendor — a robe of legendary Kente cloth woven by hand in strips, with genuine gold threads. He was carried on a couch on the head of four men and followed by two drums longer than a man and three times as big around. Occasionally, this segment of the procession would pause and the chief would raise his arms and dance with the people in graceful, sensual hula-like gestures while everyone waved the beautiful materials at him.

“The festival procession culminated at an oceanside park, where all the minor chiefs paid tribute to the highest chief, and he, interestingly enough, went to greet the regional commissioner, clad in his stark military uniform and carried about by Mercedes. Shows where the power is now, I guess, but the years haven’t cut into the pageantry. What we saw today was reminiscent of drawings of festivals we’ve seen in various museums, attended by bewigged Britishers instead of spellbound Americans.

“We have thought to ourselves again and again how close the past and present seem in Africa.”

After the festival we visited Cape Coast Castle, even more horrifying than Elmina in its dreadful dungeons. Later, in Kumasi, we watched the region’s craftsmen (and women) at work. After trading some items we weren’t often using for beautiful Adinkra and Kente fabrics, we said goodbye to this memorable country and headed to Ivory Coast.

12 September Abidjan: “Abidjan is very different from anywhere we’ve been. It seems like a colony, still. It’s beautiful physically — a true pearl, set on lagoons — and very modern and well-built. There’s an unbelievable Disney World-like hotel complex here and fantastically stocked supermarkets. We’ve spent a mint, but we’re pleased just to be able to find things.

“We will leave here in great shape. Miles is running better than ever after a $75 servicing, which took all day and failed, followed by our return and then their work on him all the next afternoon and evening ‘for free.’ Now he’s running smooth and powerful. All our clothes and our bedding are machine-washed-clean. We have 25 liters of boiled water, a cabinet stuffed with canned goods and fantastic fresh food as well, thanks to Ivory Coast, the land of plenty.”

Now we were bound for Mali, where we’d decide whether to attempt the Sahara crossing — or give up that piece of the dream. With all our preparation and the seemingly sound repairs on Miles, our prospects seemed good.

GENEVA OVERHOLSER

MAR 19, 2025

Note: Africa Days is a series of posts based on journals and letters from my years living in Kinshasa and traveling across Africa, beginning in 1974. You can read previous and following posts on Substack and below.

As the rainy season approached once again, I thought back to The Fight the previous year, and how astonishing it was that the torrent had held off until moments after Ali’s victory. Had it started before the fight (as feared) it would have been disastrous, for a rainstorm in Zaire is like nothing you’ve ever seen. In a letter home, I seem bent on rhapsodizing about it:

“In Zaire, everything loves a rainstorm. Things that elsewhere would go under cover, here come out. Color, for example. Rainstorms are usually gray. Not in Zaire. Just before they come, in late afternoon toward evening, the sky turns a vivid yellow, so that everything is shot through with it. The usual lush green is charged with yellow. As soon as the rain comes, the yellow clears. The sun sets pink in one part of the city, a pink that spreads wider than any dry sunset. And then the sky turns silver. A luminous silver behind shining dark-wet green trees.

“The lightning, too, is brighter than any I’ve seen — even against the silver sky — and it flashes a blinding white. The white flashes in complete silence, broken eight or 10 seconds later by awesome gurgles and groans, turning into jagged boulders of sound, rolling from one horizon to another, reverberating like a base speaker that can’t handle the volume.

“Everything moves and sways. The trees — so heavy and hot in the blanketing heat — are released into movement. For the big old mango trees, this means slow swaying of heavy limbs, each branch softly muting the next on its swing back and forth. For the bamboo, which grows so high that its normal position is diagonal, the winds bring low balletic dips and slow, smooth lifting, then a low dip to the other side. Their papery leaves — in tiny millions — seem to stretch and stroke the breeze.

“It’s the palms, though, that seem made for these storms. Each frond meets the wind and rides it in its own way — ostrich plumes blown by invisible fans, lifting and curling, dropping and flinging straight — until the wind is finished playing and comes on powerfully strong. Then the palm is like a little girl whose long hair is blown straight sideways, baring her tiny head. The birds, too, love the rain in Zaire. They sing loudly in their trees as it begins. They’re followed by bats, who swoop dark, high and low against the silver sky.

“As the storm exhausts itself, the sky turns a bruised lavender gray like an old film. The lightning now looks gold against the darkening sky, and it’s hard to tell bats from the wind-borne bamboo leaves.”

That Thanksgiving of 1975, we took a wonderful multi-day trip into “the bush” to the east of Kinshasa with friends with Land Rovers. We drove through stately forests wreathed in vines and lush with butterflies. We crossed rivers and streams on rusty old ferries and makeshift bridges, and plowed through mud and waterholes on the roads in between.

We stayed in Catholic missions and with Peace Corps volunteers. We saw arts and crafts being made throughout the region — masks, tapis, dolls representing Pende dancers. And we saw a beautiful waterfall that, were it in the United States, would have been a major attraction. Here, it seemed to go utterly unnoticed.

What consumed most of our free time during this second school was planning for the big trip we intended to take once the term ended. As I wrote in a letter to friends:

“We had intended (and still hope) to buy some kind of van (such as a VW combi) and outfit it here with the help of school carpenters and friends. Then we would head north to the Central African Republic (we would probably have to put our vehicle on a riverboat to get out of Zaire, given road conditions), then throughout West Africa and (if possible) across the Sahara. Then we’d travel throughout North Africa and continue on to Europe, where we’d spend several more months traveling and living out of our van. We‘d’ then return to the States in late spring of 1977. (As it turned out, we moved to Paris for a couple of years instead. But that’s another story).

“We began attempting to implement this plan in early September upon our return from our summer adventures and found — to our great dismay — that no new vehicles are coming into the country. Zaire is in the midst of an economic crisis. It has little or no foreign reserves and, consequently, is defaulting on its loans and not paying its bills. In an attempt to straighten out this mess, the government is not permitting the importation of any vehicles. The used-car market is almost non-existent, and the few who are selling are getting astronomical prices for their cars.

“So we have been having a helluva time finding anything. We have recently come upon a used Peugeot van for sale. It is quite roomy and so would surpass the VW in livability. But it is lower to the ground, and whether or not it can be sufficiently raised by new wheels, larger tires, spring adjustment or whatever, we are now in the process of determining. If it cannot, we may consider going by boat to Bangui, driving to Dakar and then shipping it to Casablanca, as crossing the desert would not be feasible.”

Then, in a February letter, this development: “We’ve decided on a used ’72 VW bus, which we found for sale for $2,500. We’ll have to pay duty, as well, and buy new tires and all the spare parts. The way things go around here, who knows what we’ll really end up having to pay?

“We’ve also decided to collaborate with a couple of fellow teachers to run a month-long summer school, which should net us at least $1,000 per person. Since the VW won’t be available to us until 1 July anyway, the timing will be perfect.”

On our spring break we flew to Johannesburg to buy backup car parts and tools, material to build sand ladders, English-language books and other necessities unavailable in Kinshasa.

But there would be one last grand adventure in Zaire before that. Over Christmas break, we hiked up to the snowy 10-mile massif of the Ruwenzori Mountains and hitched rides through the Ituri Rainforest, home to the nomadic hunter-gatherers called Pygmies and to the rare and lovely okapi, the only living relative of the giraffe.