It is Sunday and I want to go to the beach. The sky looks fine in the morning but when I meet two other volunteers, clouds have gathered. Especially in the direction of the beach it is very dark and we hear thunder. It is probably better not to go to a beach in this weather. As I walk back to the house, the first drops fall. I wait until the storm is over but I can’t stay at the house all day so I just pick a taxi to town and start walking. A guy I pass on the streets turns around to tell me that he likes my hairstyle. I stroll through the small streets where the fishermen live. Allow me to get lost and just follow random streets. Next to the castle I sit down on the stairs overlooking the fisher boats. I like this place. A young boy starts talking to me. He doesn’t believe me when I tell him I am German. “You are lying.” He is a rugby player and he knows Germans because he had German coaches. They are always serious about time, he says. They wouldn’t just sit somewhere waiting for the time to pass. However, he doesn’t believe me when I tell him I am Ghanaian and my name is Adwoa, either. He has to except my German nationality despite the time problem. I go to buy a postcard at the castle and meet a man there who is maybe around fifty years old. Irritatingly, he talks to me like these young guys and asks for my number. Sometimes, this is too much. Three small boys offer me plantain chips and I buy a packet. One of them gives me a big shell as a thank you. Normally, tourists would pay for them. One of the Rasta-men who have their shops at the castle walks up to me to show me what he sells. Maybe he realizes that I am not interested because he doesn’t really pay attention. Just goes through his questions mechanically, even asking them twice, while he is looking for more profitable customers. From the castle, I want to walk along the beach. A big group of men is pulling huge fishing nets in. They are chanting while they are pulling. Some men stand in the water, holding the nets. They must be standing there for hours. The haul is smaller than I expected and the rubbish hanging in the nets is much more than I expected. When the whole net is pulled in, the men and some kids wait around it until the fish are dead. They caught some small snakes as well which are sorted out later, thrown back into the water. They can’t be dangerous because the men just take them with their hands but most of the kids still back away from them and throw sand at them. While the men are sorting the fish, the kids pick up small fish that fall in the sand because nobody else is interested in them. I wonder, how they distribute their haul, but somehow the men seem to know who gets what without too much fighting. I take pictures of the kids, who want to pose in front of the camera. Suddenly one of the young man waves and laughs at me. He asks whether I remember him. I don’t, ask for his name and still don’t remember. Apparently, I danced with him last Friday. I assume he must be right. With my hair I am now more distinguishable from other obronis and I didn’t try hard to remember the faces of the boys we danced with. It was too dark. The women come with their bowls and the fish, now separated from rubbish is sorted according to size or kind. A man talks to me in Fantse, I understand that he wants me to take a picture of the fish he carries in an old, spoiled ball. Then, he wants me to give him money. That moment, a man in a long white shirt and dark trousers arrives. He notices the issue and helps me settle it. I don’t want to buy this fish and I didn’t ask for the picture so I don’t have to pay anything. This man is buying fish. Literally directly from the ocean. Can’t get any fish that is more fresh. It still looks strange as a man in wet and sandy clothes lies the fish down in front of the business man and then commands one of the small boys, also in wet and sandy clothes, to carry the fish for the man as there are no plastic bags or spare bowls.
