Justice Revisited

Saturday, June 22, 13

            I’m writing from the infamous “Justice Hotel” in Kumasi, the capital of the Ashanti region.  The prices have risen here; it now costs about fifteen American dollars  a night here.  To my left, a bare light bulb is precariously hung inches away from the wall, with the cord lazily looping just above the scope of the fan blades.  In the oddly shaped bathroom, I was pleased to find that my clogged spigot now emits a clumsy stream of water (much better for showers than the filled bucket that sits in the basin of the shower area).  Previous adventurers here at the justice have kindly shoved the curtain into the cracks in the wall to prevent mosquitoes in.  And everything has this pretty seal on it to warn thieves that items like the quality bedding or broken phone with lonely hanging cord are not for the taking.  But before I go on, let’s back up.

            This morning (which seems like forever ago) was quite pleasant.  My friend Keith and I got up at 6:30 and took a nice full breakfast – eggs, toast, tea, Vitamilk, and mango. 

 Me Pe Paaa.  We then hailed a trotro and headed to Kumasi station.  Trotro stations are notoriously dirty – certainly some of the foulest places in Ghana.  While walking through, one can spot piles of trash and feces overshadowed by a thick cloud of flies, plentiful public urinators (I had an interesting run in with a guy in front of me, urinating and looking straight at me until I passed by), and of course a thick wet sludge that is quite difficult to remove from my clothes, let alone the lorry park.

            After securing a ride in a bus, I kicked back and watched the movie shown on the makeshift overhead TV.  The system was like one in a 747, but totally jury-rigged with exposed wires, and even more shoddily produced movies.  We picked up the rest of the group at Fise junction and headed for Kumasi.  Again, preachers came to talk about Jesus and The Bible - this one was a professional, he even managed to get 3 hymns going from the bus.  The ride took about 5 hours, the highlight being the stop at The Linda Door and seeing that prices had risen at the public toilet – It costs 50 pesewas to relieve yourself now.  Saaa!

            Upon reaching Kumasi and the Justice Hotel, I headed off to do some interviews.  I was turned away from the Kumasi Metropolitan Assembaly (KMA) Waste Management Department, had an unrecorded interview with a used refrigerator salesman, and a wonderful, lengthy interview with a filter salesman.  Nice one!  I then walked for a few miles up to Chopsticks, had a cold beer and fried rice, and returned to the justice for the cold shower that I wanted so badly.

            The Justice is certainly the shoddiest, most unkempt, pest infested establishment I’ve ever spent the night at.  This is my….fourth visit here?  Yikes.  It’s quite a trip being here, but like everything else in Ghana, there’s a silver lining.  Back in high school, I had to apply to visit Ghana for a second trip and wrote about my experience at the Justice Hotel for my main application.  Below is an excerpt from that essay – It aptly captures why I don’t mind staying here at the Justice for a fourth time.   It’s a fond memory of mine; I apologize for the abundance of clichés.

“If I may sidetrack from the question, I would like to share one of my most favorite memories from the Ghana trip.  It wasn’t getting robbed by the baboon or eating mangoes in Tamale, but much more simple - one of those “life lessons” that parents attempt to teach their kids but inevitably it is the kids who have to learn it from their own experiences. The memory begins in Kumasi.  I think it was our second day in the town, and frankly, I wasn’t having fun.  The rooms were sketchy, the food was beginning to wear my body down, and I was certainly homesick for clean sheets and a calm bedroom.  It was near noon, so Keith, Jeff, Daniel, Jack, Bryan and I set out to find food.  The stretch next to the Justice Hotel was rather barren in terms of restaurants, so we decided to buy some food on the street.  Keith bought some rice (in one bag) and beans (in another,) I bought a pineapple (earlier that day), and we had some box-juice to split.  We returned to the Justice Hotel, walked up the cement steps to the third floor balcony, and sat on the cool stone tiles.  We had no plates, no chairs, no table or silverware.  I was neither comfortable nor used to this sort of dining.  Keith opened up the two bags, I borrowed Jack’s kid-sized pocketknife and began to carve the pineapple.  How would we share our food? With our hands of course, on that cool tile.  I grabbed some beans and rice in my hands in between bites of pineapple and box juice.  “What a way to eat.  This is ridiculous,” I thought.  It was then, in the worst hotel I’d ever stayed at, the dirtiest city, the most bizarre country, that I realized that nothing else mattered.  I was enjoying lunch, just eating for the sake of eating, with friends.  We shared, we suffered, and we laughed, because in the end, this was life, and we were really living it.”