First leg to Northern Ghana

Last weekend we took a group trip to Kumasi, the cultural center of Ghana and also the best place to buy ornaments of Africa.
As a collector of crap it was difficult to resist the curio, but I made it out with only a small drum and only one plastic sack of Kente cloth and small gifts. Oh, and two paintings.
At a Kente-weaving village we chose a strip to have stamped with our chosen symbols. I chose Sankofa & Aya – symbols for rebellion (loosely translated – also meaning without fear) and redemption, being able to recover from mistakes. Fitting?

I saw a woman grilling bats on the sidewalk and was startlingly tempted to bite into one. They were less than 50 cents, but my co-pay for a hospital visit is USD $25. That’s an expensive snack.
I took heed of Jack’s counsel – I am not made of iron.

I decided it would be a good week to miss class and headed north with a group of six others. I wasn’t exactly sure of the itinerary; I was just along for the ride.

“Yeah Mom it’s perfectly safe. I know I don’t know where we’re going, but they have everything planned out – reservations and everything. It sounds really fun doesn’t it? Monkeys, elephants, a hippo sanctuary…” I tried to get her excited.

“Aren’t hippos dangerous?” she asked.

“Maybe, but these are dead,” I responded without thinking. I hadn’t bothered to read the description of the sanctuary, I just looked at the picture of the hippopotamus skull and that was the first consolation I could think to offer. Plus it’s hot here; sometimes my mind shuts down to conserve energy.

We were happy to set out on our own – it’s hard to have adventure on a planned tour with 40 other students. Driving into northern Ghana is a drastic change from the developed cities. Much of the main road is not paved and the towns turn into clusters of mud huts.

When I told my mom we had a plan and reservations I meant a guidebook with suggestions.

We stayed the night in Tamale and caught an early bus to Larabanga. 4:00 AM at the bus station is not a comfortable place. It was still dark and we were quickly surrounded by curious males. I was particularly bothered by the young man scooting ever closer to my backpack. I was tempted to grab my pepper spray, but remembered that sometimes crime can be averted by creating common ground – a foundation of friendship.
“Hello. Why are you up so early?” I asked.
We slapped hands and did introductions. For the next hour he taught me some Arabic and asked me to take him to America.

The bus was hot, sweaty, and ripe. As it bounced painfully over the small potholes and swerved dangerously around the big ones I wondered if my neck pillow would keep my neck from snapping if we tipped. I knew this would be a good trip.

The guidebook warned that Larabanga is known for thieves. It suggests tightly holding your bag and walking directly to your destination – no lingering. We unloaded and were bombarded by overly helpful men. We found the guidebook-recommended guest house and while the group inquired about accommodations I stayed outside to talk with the supposed pickpockets – my so-far-so-good crime stopping technique.
They were nice and genuinely helpful. Ahmed & Abe explained that the town depends on tourism from nearby Mole National Park. They said they were listed in the Bradt guidebook which recommended their homestay accommodations. We only had the Lonely Planet guide, so I took their word. They told me a little about the town – 4,000 people, 100% Muslim. I think this was meant to make me feel safe but unfortunately it’s been ingrained to be fearful of this because of news of radical Muslim conflict with Westerners.
“Kefharik – hello,” I said, fingering my bracelet of Christian religious, thankful for the Arabic Jalil taught me earlier that morning.

We took a taxi into the Park where we stayed a night. The motel had a pool that overlooked a watering hole for the wild animals. I watched elephants go for a swim to cool off while I did the same. Guests comfortably read their books while warthogs feasted on the grass around their lounge chairs.

The boys from town came to the motel later that afternoon. My friend Berkeley spent the afternoon talking with one of them. I felt terrible for being skeptical. He is a student at the same University as us and was visiting his family in town. He said that many kids are kept from going to school because Christian missionaries develop them and their Muslim parents prohibit them from attending. They like to meet tourists because it is their only opportunity to practice English.

The next morning we took a walking safari and saw mostly antelope, a few alligators, some monkeys and a herd of six elephants! They didn’t do much – fanned themselves with their ears and splashed themselves with mud to stay cool. Hard to believe they are the second fastest animal, but I kept my distance anyway.

We stayed in Larabanga that evening because we needed to catch the bus to Wa the next morning. We were confused about who to trust in Larabanga. The Salia brothers who run the guest house warned us about the boys, but the boys had not given us reason to worry and warned us about the Salia brothers.

It sucks being in that position – not knowing who to trust and incessantly shuffling my valuables. Try deciding which of your things you would prefer to have stolen. I’ve learned that it’s so much easier to live free of material things. The inconveniences of material things meant to provide convenience (like digital cameras & cell phones) just aren’t worth the worry.

We spent the evening touring the town, pursued by the men in the town. Their friendly aggressiveness put me on edge, but I didn’t want to be an asshole American. Until one of the guys tried to reach into my bag… Then I opened my eyes and saw that these guys were dressed nicer than everyone else in the town – designer duds and sunglasses in a town of Muslim robes. They had the nicest cell phones I had seen in all of Ghana, and kept asking for donations since they were members of the tourism board- whatever our hearts urged us to give to help develop the school, upkeep for the oldest mosque in West Africa, and to expand the library. All we would’ve contributed to was their wardrobe. These were professionals.

We questioned them about each other and found the holes in their stories. None of them attended the University of Ghana, and the one who said he volunteers as a teacher in a local school undoubtedly plagiarized the story from someone else he tried to scheme.

We retreated to the safety of the Salia brothers’ guest house. All of our belongings were still safely locked away. As we settled in on the roof to sleep I talked with Hassad, one of the brothers, and thanked him from my heart for having a haven for passing travelers. He smiled knowing our dilemma, “No problem,” he smiled.

The few lights in the town cast eerie shadows in the alleyways surrounding the squatty mud hut we slept on top of. We were easily within reach of any of the boys still in pursuit of our iPods.

I was in Nowhere, Africa hoping I wouldn’t need to pee during the night (it’s hard to aim for a hole in the ground when it’s dark) and not distressed by my dirt-caked body. I wouldn’t have chosen to be anywhere else – the distant drumming and singing from the funeral rituals helped me sleep under the moon, dusted by the sands of the Sahara.

Earlier that evening we discussed how incredible it was to be in such a terrible place. We will want to share our stories but it will be hard for friends at home to appreciate them as we do. My mom called that night. I left out the thieves and told her about sleeping under the stars and the festivities in the distance. She asked if we had been passing the peace pipe. I wish… I could’ve relaxed at least.
Maybe I was awesomely struck by my surroundings because of the distress of dodging pick pockets all afternoon. The comment didn’t bother me – I felt like I was in a Twilight Zone all day and I can’t expect others to be as enthusiastic about my adventures.
“The roof is totally secure,” I said while watching a figure disappear into a shadows.
At least she wasn’t worried about me.

I didn’t sleep much that night, but not out of fright - I had my pepper spray ready by my head. I woke up wheezing and shivering in the unexpected cold. I took my bandana off my head and tried to wrap it around my feet for warmth; that was the longest night ever.
Longer than the longest nights I’ve had here, sleepless from Mefloquine nightmares (my malaria meds).

The call to prayer before dawn gave me something to focus on besides the dropping temperature. My body temperature rose with the sun and I napped soundly for an hour, until it was too hot to sleep.

We were ready to get the h-e-double hockey sticks out of Larabanga. You can imagine our disappointment that the only bus headed out was full. Again, the boys surrounded us offering solutions. They would take us, at an inflated price and rob us again on the road. “No thanks,” I responded bitchily. No problem being an asshole American today.

The Salia brothers came to our rescue again and arranged for a friend in a nearby town to provide transport. The price ended up being ten times what it would’ve been had we waited for another vehicle to pass through, but we didn’t want to leave anything to chance. Besides, it was less than USD$20 per person.

I started my list of ’25 random things’ for Facebook while waiting for the truck. I couldn’t think of anything else to do in a town without running water or alcohol.