Have you ever wondered…

Have you ever wondered what it would be like to stay in a hippie village overlooking the sea in a community of Rastafarians?

You have?

Well, I’ll tell you.

It’s called Rising Phoenix Magic Beach Resort and it’s run by a man who renamed himself Phoenix. A short, balding man with knowing blue eyes and a bit of a lisp, who cocks his head when he speaks and who speaks irrhythmically.

When you wake up in the morning, it’s to the sound of waves. Tie-dyed curtains flutter in the breeze.

 

You feel sticky, because it’s hot. There’s a faint drumming. Always drumming. Ghanaians love music. It’s always happy-sounding music.

You open the door to a view of the Gulf of Guinea, with fishing boats as far as the eye can see. You walk past the signs talking about not littering

 

and peace and love. 

 

You order breakfast from the vegetarian restaurant.

Maybe you, like Jacob, prefer plantains (sweet fried bananas) with nuts, called keleweli, served with fresh pineapple juice mixed with ginger (heavy on the ginger). Or maybe, like me, you’ll think the drink tastes like soap.

When breakfast arrives, you go out and sit in a private booth to look out at the sea. It may seem private, but it’s not really, because soon people will come up to talk to you. Most of them will be Rasta.

This means they will have dreadlocks and will be smoking pot. They’ll also probably be dressed in red, green, and black and wear knit caps. They’ll talk about “One Love” and they won’t drink alcohol or eat meat, but they will swear marijuana is good for your health. They’ll sit around all day and play on the drum and smoke. It doesn’t smell bad, actually.

Some evenings, the Rastas gather to sell their wares. Maybe someone will approach you like someone approached me, telling you that not everyone can be a Rasta, you have to be called.

“And you have been called,” he says. “Get dreadlocks, read our holy book, and become one of us.”

I notice a white girl with dreadlocks at that point and I don’t think they look very good.

I ask one of them, “Could I become Rasta without having to smoke marijuana?”

His eyes grow big.

“Why do you have to put down marijuana? Would you tell me not to eat an orange? This is natural. Just try it, once. Then you will be able to see Jah (God). These days, governments are trying to tell people it’s bad for the health. It’s not true. It will heal your womb. It will heal your mind. It will heal everything. It will help you to see Jah.”

Late at night, there will be reggae parties. People will gather round, drinking Guiness and doing the reggae dance. The bass will thud in your head until 4 am when the party finally stops. You’ll go to sleep to the sound of the fan above your head, and the waves from the Gulf of Guinea.

And that’s what it’s like to live in a hippie village overlooking the sea in a community of Rastafarians.