Whose shadows are on the wall?

span style="font-weight:bold;">>Being the voyeur and being the subject of voyeurs – this is something you have to become accustomed to if you travel over this vast continent.

Apart from everybody in every town and village and small mud hut in West Africa knows exactly where we are at which time and where we spent the night before and where we will spend the next night (before we know it, they do) and how long we waited for which visa and which visas we still need - and probably what we had for breakfast this morning.....

Whenever we set up our bush camp in random spots next to the major highway from North to South, you find yourself in the middle of nowhere. Our bush camps can never be pinpointed; they are not in a specific place with a specific name; they are always 'somewhere between such and such', ' about ten kilometres or so after ---', 'not long before we got to ---'. In other words, we overnight in places that cannot be marked on the map on land that does not belong to any one person, in a piece of bush that has not been earmarked for any specific purpose other than grazing for this scattered herd of goats or that unattended herd of cows. Usually – not always, but usually, we are a reasonable distance from the nearest small mud village or sign of habitation – not always an easy feat in Africa, but still possible. We tend to find a place where it is safe to drive off the sealed road or the dirt track we are one, drive a short distance into the bush or scrub or desert over a surface where we will hopefully not get bogged down or sink into to get stuck, where we can park the truck in such a way that it would give us some protection from the wind and its constant and faithful companions, the dust and sand of the African landscape, and of course, importantly, where there is a flattish area on high ground (in case of a thunderstorm during the night) for us to pitch our tents. Most of the time Mark also makes the added effort to find a spot that has the added feature of a lovely setting, a good view, beautiful trees -- or some other feature that makes each bush camp memorable for its aesthetics rather than only its comfort. The trick is also to get far away from the main road not to be too visible – for security reasons more than anything else, or where it will not be too noisy with the traffic on the road – remembering that we are, in the main, on the single one highway for all large transport trucks down the West Coast of Africa, from Tangierdown to OOuagadougou, down to Accra, continuing to Lome and Yaounde, round the bend through Cameroon, DRC, Angola, Swakopmund and finally reaching Cape Town. (Also known as Mainline AIDS...) These huge monsters speed down the highway, sometimes, in the middle of the night, sounding like a far-off scream that gets louder and louder and then, suddenly, tapers off in the distance. They are lit up like Christmas trees and I often lie in my tent watching the bright light on the horizon shooting past us and leaving complete darkness in its wake and wonder whether someone in a space lab up there amongst the stars sometimes looks down on the earth and watches these fast moving lights shooting down Africa the same way we lie in the desert and look up at the black sky and watch the satellites moving across the heavens.

But is it closer to the earth that the real voyeurism takes place. So often, while we are getting the paraphernalia out for our evening meal, making the fire, chopping the vegetables, we become aware of some watching us – and there, just on the edge of the life of our little camp, there where later will be the edge of the light of our cooking fire, stands a man -- or a woman, nonchalantly leaning on one hip or against a walking stick, or erect and elegant under the weight of a huge basin filled with water balanced on her head, or gently rocking a sleeping baby on her back, or slowly chewing on a piece of tobacco and gazing at us through rheumy eyes. Just standing there, watching. Still. Quiet. Unhurried. Just watching. More often if a group of children. Starting with one or two little ones that appear as if from nowhere. The next time you look up there are four or five. You turn your back for a moment and look again, and now there is another child leaning on a bicycle, then another one with a bucket of water. The children are not quiet like the adults. They chatter – like a flock of babblers sitting in wild fig tree, they chatter non-stop. They point to us and you wonder what they are saying. They invariable point to me and very obviously discuss my white hair (my white hair is definitely the topic of conversation in many a spot, often the cause of screams from little children and frequently the bemused frowns from the older people). They stand in awe of Elisa chopping wood with the axe (as we all do!) or Ben digging the hole for the fire. They gasp in wonder as Jesco starts his shisha pipe charcoal fire with the help of a bit of diesel. They point through the open sides of the truck at the books in our library. They shriek with laughter at the surf boards tied to the back and they admire with lots of oohs and ahs the big supply of fire wood in the wood cage on the truck. They count the wheels and they discuss the many kitchen utensils that come out of the sides of the truck. They sound their appreciation at the smells that waft up from our cooking pots and inch a little closer – a little closer – a little closer still – when everyone comes up to wash hands in the bowls that are put out for that purpose and start dishing up their evening meal.

And us? We continue with all our little task and actions as if they are not there. For, even if they are almost right upon us, and we practically have to step over them to do what we have to do, somehow – perhaps by pretending that the other group does not really exist, perhaps by means of some invisible membrane between them and us, there is a strange kind of respect for each others' privacy and space. In a way, I sometimes think, it is almost like each group is on the opposite sides of a fire screen, only seeing the shadows reflected on that screen. Neither is real to the other.

It is only when we have finished eating and we start clearing up, washing dishes and flapping them dry, when the two people in the cook group will scrape together the left overs – and amazingly there are always leftovers when we have a group of children in our audience – and step over to where they are and offer the pot to them. Big while smiles will light up the dark, the chattering will reach an even higher pitch and like a swarm of bees they will descend over the pot, everyone getting his or her fair share, everyone licking their fingers, laughing in sheer joy at the unexpected pleasure of a bountiful meal.

On occasion there won't be anyone coming to look in the evening, but you will wake up in the morning, well before dawn, with two or three or more children sitting right in the middle of the circle of tents, looking, discussing, marvelling at this apparition that has appeared one night near their village in the middle of nowhere – and no doubt, in many many years to come, there will be a wrinkled old man sitting at a fire somewhere in an African mud village telling wondrous and magic stories about the giant truck that came to their land one night and stayed there – all night, sleeping soundlessly and how, out of this truck came even stranger white people – one with white white hair, one young girl, also with white hair who wielded an axe like the strongest of men, one man who made fire with magic – and who knows, these stories might appear in the carvings on their doors, Elisa and Jesco might become characters in their folklore, I might even be made into a mask with white turkey feathers to depict my white hair!

But this feeling of watching people and being watched is pretty much what life on a large truck driving through Africa is all about. We are gazing out the windows all day long, watching the people below, looking over mud walls and glimpsing the comings and goings in inner courtyards of village life. We see the women washing over big tin bowls and bathing their children – lithe little black bodies gleaming in the early morning sun, white soap suds running over their drum bellies and down their long lanky legs; we see them laughing as the chickens run over their feet and the goats come to nudge their little buttocks; we see the women stamping their corn, making their fires, preparing the daily meal; we watch the old men sitting under the tree in the middle of the village discussing their world's affairs; we watch the young shepherd boys chase the cows and the goats out of the centre of the village and into the fields, we lean out and try to take photographs of the brightly coloured washing flapping in the breeze and the fruit stalls displaying yams and coconuts and bags of sugar and over ripe tomatoes and fat pink onions and green-green bunches of fufu leaves and monstrously long thick cassava roots and big round tin bowls filled with bags of water. We become quite adept at taking photographs with such speed so that it is a fait accompli by the time the vendor looks up and sees the camera and starts shouting at us for taking photographs. But who are the monkeys in the zoo? Are they the people alongside the road who are continuing with their daily lives and are being scrutinised by us who move past their individual habitats? Or are we the monkeys in the cage with the world out there watching and studying us as we pass their world? For they do look – the truck is very big and very noticeable and quite unique in this part of Africa. On the East Coast there are dozens of this kind of truck on the roads, dozens of groups of white people who lean out the sides and watch the passing world below. But here in West Africa it is still an anomaly. Many people have never seen such a truck: a home on wheels that moves very fast, which is designed and built to house a group of people and transport them, that opens up on the sides and reveals a kitchen and tents and sleeping gear and chairs and gas cylinders and big plastic boxes full of flour and salt and milk powder and rice! Many children here in more remote parts of West Africa seem to have never seen white people and gaze at us as if we are from outer space; in fact, often even the old people give the impression that a white person is quite a strange creature that merits closer inspection and serious discussion.

When we stop in a town or village to buy provisions for our evening meal or something for lunch or just to stretch our legs, the whole voyeur dynamics change again. Now we are on the same level as them, up close and in each other's space. Now we are the same – well, almost the same. But we are still worlds apart. Now we are face to face with them and we have questions from both sides. What is this? How do you eat it? How much does it cost? Where do you come from? Where are you going? How long are you on the truck? Hau! Long time! We still look and they still look, but the 'looking' mutates with the added aspect of the verbal contact and the voyeurism takes on a whole new dimension. Somehow it is more penetrating and yet it does not seem as intrusive – from either side, and it makes you wonder about the effect that verbal communication has – is it a bridge or is it a barrier?

The one thing that have all noticed is how, from the moment we passed over the border from Mali into Ghana, the attitude of the people changed drastically. In Mali people seem to find us strange. The truck most certainly was a strange apparition the likes of which they had obviously not seen before. But us, the inhabitants of this strange vehicle were equally strange, and as we drive through the countryside and pass through the villages, the general reaction was one of surprise, puzzlement or sheer big-smiled joy. Waves and smiles and greetings of welcome and laughter and warmth were the general reactions. And we, in turn, tended to hang out the sides and wave to them and smile back and shout greetings to them. “Where are you from!”, they would shout and we would shout back “from all over the world!” And if we were moving slow enough, over the speed bumps and around the potholes, we would add “England! Australia! America! Germany! Sweden! Finland! Canada!............” continuing the list to their delight for as far as the sound would travel.

The moment we arrived in Ghana this friendliness and warmth did a complete turn-around. Instead of waves and smiles, we now started hearing loud deep-bass male shouts from the roadside – sounds that seem rude and offensive and abusive – (Hey you! White man! Go away!) and often come accompanied with clenched fists and waving arms. We are almost reluctant to look out our windows for what we encounter is enough to make you feel very uncormfortable. And descending from the truck makes it no better. Surly, unfriendly, unhlepful is the general attitude of the people. When I walked down to the bustling fishing port in Cape Coast where the massive fishing boats had all come in and been emptied of their meagre loads and the milling crowds of people were walking amongst them to look for fresh fish to buy, women sitting with a few silver shiny fish in their big tin bowls, children shrieking with joy as they run into the waves breaking on the edge of the beach, their little black bodies shiny and glistening with sand and salt and water. A joyous scene. Until I came along. Abusive “Go away white woman!” “Hey old woman, we don't want you here!” My first reaction was to be completely dumbstruck. We have had these insults shouted at us from the side of the road as our truck passed through, but getting it face to face is a completely different experience. But my second reaction was to turn around to the woman – half my age – and ask her why she was being so rude. “What have I done to you that you speak to me in such a way?” Her response was to wave her arms at me as if she was flapping at pesky flies:”Go away! You are not welcome here!” and then a second woman came to join her tirade. “We don't want you here!”, she reiterated. I stood my ground – and, having just travelled the length of the country where there is a large colourful billboard at least every 500 metres advertising yet another Christian Church, yet another Christian school, yet another Christian Training Centre, and where almost every business enterprise is called “In God we Trust Unisex Hairstylist” or “Blood of Jesus Beauty Salon” or “Holyghost Iron Works”, where every fishing boat right there in the port where we were standing was called “Jesus the King” or “Man proposes God disposes” or "God the Saviour”, I did not have to go far for weapons to take into this battle!

“You are a Christian. You call yourself a Christian. But you don't sound like a Christian. You don't act like one. I don't believe you can possibly be a Christian! Or is this the way they teach you in church to treat your fellow humans? Is this what the minister tells you to do when you have a visitor in your home or in your country? Does your church teach you to shout at visitors and insult them and abuse them?”

Well – who would have thought. I believe I could see her blush as she turned her head away and lowered her chin to her chest and remained like that. The second women slunk off. Another one smiled and nodded her head. As I walked off a pathway opened up in front of me as the crowd stood back to let me pass and continue on my visit to their world – and was that respect I saw in their faces as I walked past them? I believe it was.