Backtracking - Kumasi

I went to Kumasi a few weeks ago for the world cup qualifying match – Ghana/Benin. I’m getting sloppy, but here are the highlights:

During the bus ride there – a few altercations in Twi, most of which we didn’t understand, but were somehow the cause of and also defended for. I’d like to explain what it feels like to sit cramped at the back of an old bus, literally on top of the motor, without air conditioning or open windows. I thought my flip flops were melting, but couldn’t check because my feet were buried under luggage. It’s hard to relate to because most people try to avoid that level of discomfort.

Kumasi market – sounds of chopping bones (not like the expected ‘snap’ – more like chopping through an apple) smells of cow hooves & fish in the sun, selling yams for the entertainment of market women, chaos.

The game was fun – Ghana won.

After the game – to say I was nearly trampled would be an exaggeration. To say it was a possibility, an understatement. I had clear visions of being face down in gravel.
I kept one hand on Natalie’s backpack and the other tightly cradling my bag. Ignoring the hands in all of my pockets and attempts to overwhelm and rob me I kept my elbows tight at my sides. When out of the danger zone I realized Natalie’s bag was slashed just under where my hand provided false security.
Still shaking from the anger of being robbed and possibly trampled, Natalie was ready to throw ‘bows (elbows). She challenged anyone to mess with her in a rage.
Then we heard a gunshot. Thankfully as a group of three it was easy to stay together in the scramble. Backs pressed against a wall, straining to see what was happening, everyone froze for a few long seconds, time kept by heartbeats pumping fresh adrenaline. I decided it was just a car backfiring and started to cross the street, laughing at my moment of cowardice. Then a man ran into the street swinging a machete.

What’s the deal with machetes here? They’re used for cutting grass, not bodies. The blades are rusty and dull, not the shiny Arabian swords conceived by imagination and adrenaline.

I took a step back and paused. Another gun shot and I turned, pushing my friends down a dark side street. Whatever happened was not directed at us, but our skin glows in the dark making us easy targets. Thinking I was overreacting I stopped to gather my thoughts, but passing crowds screamed at us to run. We dodged into an alleyway and crouched behind a pile of tin scrap from the shacks surrounding us. More commotion sent crowds in motion again, and I visualized a madman chasing them and seeing us poorly hidden. Whatever was down the dark alleyway was better than my premonition, which my friends must have been shared. In sync like N*Sync, we took off in a sprint. I lost my flip-flop, but didn’t feel the jagged rocks slicing my foot. Young boys and fluffy women directed us between the shacks, inviting us to sit out of sight in their makeshift cul-de-sac. Those that spoke English translated our account to the group. Most stared at us in disbelief, embarrassed that the foreigners they warmly welcome were now shaking and scared. The fluffiest of women held Natalie and me in her bosom. The best comfort. A man named Samuel directed police officers to our hideout and they gave us a ride to the hotel, lights flashing and all.

I still think I overreacted with the tears and weak knees. Whatever happened, it wasn’t directed at us, we were just caught in the chaos. I snuck away from the concerned group and dramatic revelations to grab water up the street. Walking back I came face-to-face with the man who just 30 minutes before held a machete above his head, face frozen in my mind with wild eyes and mouth stretched in a raging soundless oval.
My breathing stopped; I hoped it would make me invisible. He passed without a glance.

After that I decided trekking West Africa over land alone doesn’t sound like much fun.
(Adventure with no one to share it with is wasted.)