Ze Ghana

I wrote this post for the CMC Forum, who knows when it will actually be posted. So here it is, a review, adding to Kai's words, with some pics.

I am in Africa, Ghana to be exact, somewhere around Kumasi to be more exact. Though I feel like I feel like Africa sums it up. I am currently sitting at the back of a disgustingly hot bus, sweating profusely, cramped behind a woman's seat that must be broken - she's nearly in my lap. My companions, the miserable men sitting to the right of me are Moose Halpern, Aleksis Psychas, and Kai Moreb. This summer we set out on an adventure that began in Accra and will end in South Africa, at the world cup. If you aren't jealous then stop reading. I only wish to provoke titillating hatred by those sitting at their desks in DC, or New York, enter whatever 9-5 internship you snagged. At least it will look good on the resume, right? I hope Riggio’s leadership book is enthralling. Are you there yet? Sufficiently pissed? Me too, see, it’s this fucking bus.

We’re on the way to Accra, the capital of Ghana, from Tamale. It is hour five of our thirteen hour trip. Tamale is one of the most Northern cities in Ghana, a calm region that is a bit different than the rest of the nation. Our local homie Razak told us it is about 55 percent Muslims, a statement echoed by the prayers booming from the mosques 5 times daily. The market at the center of the city is similar to the ones we’ve seen thus far: full of second hand American apparel (not your $35 sparkly unitard - instead it's the 1998 Hall and Oates revival tank top your dad gave away 7 years ago) and more fresh fruit than your salivary glands can handle. However it is the same in the sense that as white travelers (Obrunis as Ghanians say), we are perpetually being hustled. Which is fair enough, I could probably start a successful business here with a dollar amount equivalent to last year’s 16 meal plan. My Nikes shout, “I am governed to pay twice as much for this taxi ride.” Luckily we’re traveling with Big Leks, the ultimate bargainer. Cold hearted some would say, but he’s used to it. See the whole reason we are even in Ghana is because his family lives in Accra. They’ve graciously let us destroy the contents of their cupboards and spoil their toilets with ample amounts of travelers diarrhea – an unfortunate inevitability. I knew the fish looked funky.

But this bus… this is just one bus, the last bus. Our first bus took us comfortably to Cape Coast, home of an interesting yet disturbing attraction: the Cape Coast Slave Castle. This place was built sometime in the 1400’s I think, maybe earlier, or later, I’m not really sure when but I don't care it is a slave castle and it is spooky. We walked into the slave dungeons and stood among the stones of unforgiving humanity, imagining the horror of which time has still not redeemed. Though I would say the Door of No Return affected me the most. It is where the slaves were slung into American and European ships, never to see their home or families again. Goodbye Momma Africa, freedom, hello cotton plantation. Forget a textbook, send a sixth grader to a slave castle and they'll never forget the sensation of heartbreak.

When we were adequately freaked out and sad, we left the spirits of the castle and jumped in a taxi headed for the jungle. Yes the jungle, like panthers and fat spiders, and so much humidity my glasses fogged up like your Saturday night memory. Our purpose was to accomplish the canopy walk: A series of swaying bridges connected to the treetops. Yeah, “what the shit” is what I was thinking too, but when we got up there, along with an elementary school full of screaming children, I found it to be pretty amazing. Caught in the fog, we swayed our way across rope bridges like Indiana Jones. Maybe less swiftly, especially Leks, dude is top heavy with a feet the width of the bridge itself.

In the three days following our deep jungle excursion we hit up the Green Turtle, an environmentally friendly beach resort that is just a Corona commercial away from paradise. Actually it was soap and mosquito repelent away from paradise. If malaria has ever entered my bloodstream it was at the Green Turtle. Thank the holy lord for Doxycycline, my Malaria / Chlamydia / Syphilis / any-infection-you-might-ever-get pill. Despite the itching bites, we found happiness in a five cedi ($3.50) liter of gin, and the unexpected entertainment of a Jenga set. Pull, assign drink, pull, assign drink, make it fall- take a shot. Egyptians had it down, architecture is fun.

We left the Green Turtle just in time to catch our 12pm bus to Kumasi - the land of entertainment. Just kidding, Kumasi is lame. We ate fake Chinese food and hung in a parking lot with this chief Jamal trying to sell us Kumasi Kush. We may or may not have been convinced. I don't know, Kumasi more or less evades my memory.

The next morning we hopped another bus, this one 7 hours to Tamale. Leks’ pops is working on a campaign to fight malaria in more rural areas of Ghana, and that’s where we were heading, to one of those rural villages outside of Tamale. We had to change transportation to get to the village - you’ve never seen more people crammed in one rickety van (a tro-tro). I counted 24, including the nipple-latched infant feeding next to Kai. We were fine until the hood flew up and gave the windshield a proper spider-web look. Leks was in the front and I thank science his face wasn’t shredded with the harsh shards of automotive oversight. Though in spite of the scare, we made it to the village unscathed, wet from the shoulder sweat of our neighbors, a consequence of doubling the recommended number of passengers.

The village was like every African charity commercial you see on TV, minus the cleft pallets and ballooned bellies. So it wasn't really, I guess just the mud huts and nearly naked children, chilling out maxing, relaxing all cool.The kids were ecstatic to see a camera and posed for us while we got our fill of culture to show the rest of the world what awesome travelers we are. I was there! For the malaria spray, the huts were emptied and shot with a pesticide which supposedly lasts a year. When mosquitoes land on the walls they die immediately, like they deserve. Naughty disease spreaders. The spray was interesting, but the village culture was by far the best part. Upon our departure we were given a guinea fowl by the chief linguist, a lovely offering we kindly accepted, though we later gave it away to more adequately trained fowl chefs.

The trip north was incredible. Yet now I am cursing my life, minutes away from going mad. It is dark and the shine of my book light on the flow of my pen is the only thing keeping me sane, just barely. The potholes in the dirt road are not assisting my legibility and I may stab this lady in front of me screaming, "I am six foot three, you are four eleven, do you realize how little space I have!" I won't though. I'll sit here with my noise canceling headphones relaying silence from the dead iPod in my pocket, thinking of all the amazing aspects of this trip I didn't touch on. There's more to come though, on South Africa, the cup and such. I mean, if you care, the eight dollars Carl pays me per article isn't quite a driving force. Just saying.


Created with Admarket's flickrSLiDR.