Sam's A Ghana
(Hiking in Hohoe)
I recently opened some documents from the journal I kept on my laptop while studying abroad in Ghana. Reading over entries, a knot started to form in my stomach. It was the same feeling I felt while overseas. Was I really getting homesick for a place I only lived in for 5 1/2 months? Remembering the food, the music, the people, the close friendships I made, and the close-calls (I'm really surprised I was never sick, injured, or thrown in jail) it became clear that I actually did have a wave of homesickness washing over me. It was such an influential and major part of my life that when compared to where I'm living now only seems like a dream or an alternate life I lived. I'm long overdue for another globetrotting...
And here I am alone sitting at the edge of a 100-foot drop-off. Mind over matter. Mind over matter. When I look up, my head goes light. When I look down, I hand my ticket over for a thrilling ride of vertigo. Mind over matter. Mind over matter. There's a bubbling in my stomach and I... well, before I go any further I should probably start at the beginning.
I: Getting There
It's the weekend of October 11-12. To be more precise, it's 3:30 on a Saturday morning, and I'm wondering why the hell I'm up so early to meet my friends at the reception desk at 6:00 AM to embark on an adventure to Hohoe (pronounced either ho-hey, ho-ho, or my personal fave, ho-hwey.) I shove a change of clothes into my pack for our overnight trip. I'm packing light in the fashion department for hiking purposes and loading up on the essentials. Food. Water. iPod. I slip on some socks and lace up my Vans (side note: these are not hiking shoes but skateboarding shoes... this is vital later on... p.s. there will be lots of side notes.). I check my camera bag to make sure batteries are charged, old photos are uploaded to Brutus (name of my Mac... PC's wouldn't understand), and equipment is shipshape. By the time I finish my pot of coffee, it's about time to leave. A knock on the door. Megan enters with this chocolate/peanut butter spread. We make banana/chocolate/peanut butter spread stuff sandwiches (side note: these and all other food items mentioned before Saturday evening will be revisited in this story.) After our breakfast, I head to the ATM so I can be financially comfortable during the trip and decide to meet the group at the tro-tro station right outside campus (a tro-tro is a box on wheels crammed with as many people as it can hold before buckling...many times it does. It's cheap transportation and puts roller-coasters, New York taxis, and derailed trains to shame.)
At the tro-tro station I meet up with my compadres. The Sinister Six as I will, at this instant, call us. Megan and Kristin representing the West Coast. Austrian Anne representing the Alpine. Martin and Vlasta the Czechmates. And your narrator, representing the American Midwest... holla. We board a tro-tro heading to Medina Market where we'll pick up another tro taking us all the way to Hohoe. We're dropped off in the market and do what Obruni (white man... you'll hear this shouted at you all the time. It's completely harmless and should be retorted with "bebini," which means "black man.") do best and weave as fast we can to our destination, dodging hawkers and gawkers. In our mad dash, Kristin spots a Ghanaian wearing a Branson, MO t-shirt. For a second I glance around and find Branson uncannily similar to Medina Market.
We reach our tro-tro bound for Hohoe, pay the six cedi (GH$ cedi is equivalent to $1... though it's actually stronger than the American dollar. Hooray for a faltering economy!), and wait to depart. I munch on a chocolate bar (which I'm certain has crack in it) and down a Coke (when they released the commercial declaring that they'd like to buy the world a Coke, I think they got the words switched around from the actual "I'd like Coke to buy the world."). As much as the three Americans bitch (mainly me) about the tro-tro ride to our final destination, it actually isn't as bad as the events that would follow. In an attempt to miss the billions of pot-holes on the road, I think the driver succeeds in nailing every one (side note: Ghana also has an abundance of unnecessary speed bumps they call rumble strips.) Megan, Kristin, and I were on the look-out for rattles (Megan), drums (Kristin and me), and machetes (me.) We passed several places on the side of the road and noted their location for a possible visit on the return flight. We pass through a small market where street vendors attack the car in an experience I can only compare to the American drive-through. It's actually pretty great. You can just about do all of your grocery shopping from the seat of your tro-tro. A woman selling hard-boiled eggs is standing next to my window and holds one in front of my face for roughly five minutes and final realizes that I don't want to buy one as the tro-tro pulls away. I make a peanut butter and banana sandwich.
We arrive in Hohoe unscathed and find a taxi which Kristin bargains down from GH$12 to 6. Obruni dickering is a skill acquired, not born with. After two months, we've excelled at it. Unfortunately, knowing what the price should be to get to a specific point doesn't come with the same knowledge of whether or not your cabby is a decent driver. We swerve pot holes, hit pot holes, careen around blind corners and bounce over hills. A man brandishing a machete down the road makes gestures to the driver, who slows down and pulls over. Oh great. Here I am riding shotgun, and a deranged man with a machete is approaching my window. He and the driver converse. The driver steps out of the car and opens the back hatch. Well, here go our possessions. The weapon-wielding wanderer turns out to be the cabby's friend and is hitching a ride via the trunk. The driver speeds off just as carefully as before, and we make our way closer to the abode that will house us overnight.
II: Wli Falls and So Does Sam
We pull into the drive of the Wli Falls Guesthouse (a German-run lodge) and are greeted by a German family staying there. I stand back and gaze in awe at the view we have of the waterfall from the back deck--we normally let Kristin do most of the talking anyway. Martin, Vlasta and I discuss prospects of hiking to the upper falls. It's decided that after hiking to the lower falls with the girls, the guys will branch off and hike upward. We're informed that the lodge is booked; however, we're welcome to sleep in tents out in the yard for a considerably cheaper price. We take it. A newly bought tent is brought out, and I decide to help construct it. The two Ghanaians helping look over the instructions while I blindly start putting pieces together and nearly have it finished when they decide to put the paper down and join. I change shirts from my button-down Western shirt, which is now soaked in sweat, to a lightweight t-shirt. We toss our bags into the tent and head out. I tote my camera bag along with all my equipment plus water and apples.
A guide is appointed to us at the information center where we pay and get our receipt. We stock up on a couple more items from a lady at a stall outside. I buy another Coke and down it on the hike. There are nine bridges we have to cross before finally reaching the falls. Kristin and I are counting them on the way, but I lose count around bridge three as the clouds start to darken and tiny drops of hydrogen two and oxygen fall from the sky. Luckily, I have a plastic bag stored in my camera bag and put the whole thing inside it. Unluckily, it's kind of hard to shoot in the pouring rain.
An hour into the hike, we reach the lower falls completely soaked. It's a pretty spectacular sight, powerful. The wind is so strong, it's blowing stinging pellets of water into our faces. We stare in reverence for a few minutes, and then the girls decide to jump in. I wait for the rain to die down and set my camera bag on the ground, taking the plastic bag and ripping a hole in the bottom for my camera. With my camera inside it's new plastic protection, I manage to snag a few shots of the waterfall before the lens is decorated with drops of water and starts to fog. There is a lady at the base of the fall selling various beverages and the famous palm wine. Our guide insists that we buy a couple bottles. For only a dollar a 500ml bottle, who could resist? Unbeknownst to me at the time, this bottle of palm wine was about to start the real adventure.
I'm half finished (or half started for you optimists) with the bottle when the Czechs and I say our goodbyes to the girls, and they wish us luck. Psh. Luck. Our guide starts us on the uphill (more like up-cliff) climb to the upper falls. Fifteen minutes into the hike, I start to feel a burning sensation in my abs. All I have to do is push through it. I've been in sports long enough to know that if I continue, I'll overcome the fire, and it'll be smooth sailing after that. However, I failed to remember that I haven't done any strenuous, physical activity since those days of sports. Out of nowhere, I start to realize how heavy my shoes are. Those damned skateboarding shoes are full of water. My shorts, shirt, socks, and shoes are soaked. The way gets steeper, and I'm suddenly lifting my legs more than a foot to take the next step. My camera bag gets heavy. My head gets lighter. We stop for a short water break, and I notice that I can't hear what the Czechs are saying to me because my breathing is drowning them out. I manage to gasp a "what?" and see that they've started back up the trail. I gracefully follow.
My heart starts to beat faster and harder. I can hear it in my temples. I'm pretty sure it's drumming up a death toll with one name on the list. Noises are emitting from me that I thought were reserved for the opposite gender and cause enough disturbance to make the guide stop and check to make sure I'm still alive. The Czechs offer to carry my camera bag, and in protection of my most valued possession (my pride), I say no. I'm fine. I just need to take a quick breather. I become extremely dizzy and grab a nearby tree to keep myself from falling backward and retracing our steps with spots of blood and body parts. I let them know that I don't feel well, and the guide asks me if I drank any of the palm wine. WHAT? You mean the palm wine you insisted I try before starting the hike? He explains that he's been doing this for years and can drink the palm wine while hiking, but it's not a good idea for anyone else. I look at my bottle of palm wine that's nearly empty and almost vomit. I probably would have vomited had my leg not cramped at that instant. The Czechs offer to go back down the mountain with me, and in keeping my most prized possession (which was quickly deteriorating) I tell them to go on without me. Just like the movies, it starts to rain for dramatic effect. I'm pretty sure the Verve's "Bittersweet Symphony" is playing somewhere in the jungle below. The guide informs me that he'll let another guide on his way back in on my situation and that I should head back down the mountain with him. They leave, and as they depart, the rain gets heavier.
I sit and stare out at the view below. The village our lodge is in looks like a small play-set, a tiny LEGO town. I smash the houses between my fingers and gain back a small portion of power. I chuckle inside, and my leg cramps again. Here I am, sitting on my ass on the side of a 100-foot drop-off and stretching my calf muscles. I'm continually burping and can taste everything I ate that morning. Dry peanut butter, bread, bananas, chocolate, Coke, palm wine. Sugar. I do something I probably wouldn't admit out loud because of the severe corniness and cliche nature. I start to chant. I came all the way up this expletive mountain, and I'll be damned if I don't get to my final destination. I can't turn back now. How could I go back and tell my friends that I didn't make it to the top, but instead sat there crying and waiting for rescue? Nope. I start to chant. Mind over matter. Mind over matter. I chant it until the cramp in my leg goes away. Mind over matter. I stand and my vision doubles. I stumble and sit back down. Mind over matter.
And here I am alone sitting at the edge of a 100-foot drop-off. Mind over matter. Mind over matter. When I look up, my head goes light. When I look down, I hand my ticket over for a thrilling ride of vertigo. Mind over matter. Mind over matter. There's a bubbling in my stomach, and I lean over the edge of the drop-off. Mind over matter. But before I know it, matter is coming out of my mind, and I'm dry-heaving in the middle of the jungle in the pouring rain (If you've never seen your vomit splatter onto rock from 100 feet up, it's kind of cool.) Well, screw the whole mind over matter thing. After I wipe my chin, I stand and look up the path. Mother Nature is not going to kicking my ass today. I step and take another step. I put one five-toed foot in front of the other and ascend. From time to time, I catch myself on a vine or tree when my mind topples and eyes go upside-down. I'm not going back down the mountain. Not until I conquer it. As I step over a fallen tree, my right leg cramps. I fall forward and catch myself on a rock, hoisting my right leg up and over a ledge to stretch it. I massage my muscle, and it feels harder than the rock I grip in my left hand. After a few minutes, the cramping subsides, and I haul myself over the ledge.
The rain continues. The path becomes muddy and slippery. Normally, this would have no effect, but when the only thing that separates you and an ill-prepped base-jump is a patch of grass, you take slight precaution. I do more sliding than Iceman on speed, catching myself on whatever will hold me. I've been successful in not falling. Twenty minutes into the hike, I pass the guide who is supposed to pick me up and take me back down the mountain. He and his followers are surprised to see me. One of the hikers enlightens me that the way is really muddy and slippery. He offers me a walking stick and guarding my most treasured possession, I decline. They take off and wish me luck. There isn't much trail left.
Not five seconds after they are out of sight, I slip in the mud and fall on my ass. This is punishment for my not taking the walking stick. Now that we have that out of the way. I get up and take a step forward. Once again, I slip and fall on my ass. Fool me once, shame on you. Fool me twice, shame on me. I get up, brush myself off and fall again. Fool me thrice? Whoever made the expression never contemplated this, but I'm sure it entails riding a smaller bus to school. I Mega Man it the rest of the way down.
The sound of the falls grows and grows, and soon I run smack dab into the Czechs and our guide. They're all surprised to see me. There are more high-fives exchanged than in an '80s Rat Pack movie. They're just on their way back from the falls and say they'll wait for me there. The falls are now within full view. I salute them and head down the path to the pool at the bottom of the cataract.
The wind is once again blowing water everywhere. Stick your head out the window of a car going 60 in a downpour and that's what it feels like. I don't care. I enter the pool and walk toward the upper half of Wli Falls. I have made it. One of the most beautiful and powerful implements of nature I've ever seen. I stand in the stinging rain for what seems an eternity and can't tell if the drops spreading across my face are water from the falls or from my eyes. As I turn and exit the pool, with Wli Falls behind me, I climb back to the landing the Czechs and our guide are standing on. I take a couple shots with my camera. The Czechs wave goodbye to the falls, and as I turn back to the trail, I do the most American thing possible and give one of the most beautiful, powerful spectacles of nature I've ever laid eyes on my middle finger. Wli Falls. Conquered.
The way down is hardly climactic. By now, our guide is completely drunk from his liter-and-a-half of palm wine. We spend a good deal of time laughing at him while he slides down the mountain. Another hiker from the falls has joined us and is for some reason not wearing his pants which are now wrapped around his head. It is comical watching the two of them descend. We have our share of slipping and falling, but nothing too noteworthy. We reach the bottom of the mountain with minor to no injuries (mine was slightly broken pride.) We cross back over the nine bridges of the path in reverse and are soon heading down the road to our lodge. The sun is setting, and my rain-soaked clothes are beginning to freeze. I hit the cold shower and then sit and chat with my comrades over a hot bowl of soup. I tell them of my near-death experiences and show off the blisters and cuts on my feet. They ask if I'd be up for hiking Mt Afadjato (the tallest mountain in Ghana) the next morning. Because I believe that deep down inside, all humans are masochists, I say yes.
III: Mt Afadjato
(Eye of the Tiger)
I wake up the next day feeling more sore than the day before. Overnight the blisters on the back of my heels have rubbed off and reveal raw pink and red flesh beneath. Good morning, Ghana! Our clothes from the day before are still soaked due to overnight rain, so I crawl back into the sweaty western shirt from the day before...still slightly damp. Yippee! Luckily, I had packed an extra pair of shorts and a pair of jeans. My shoes are still damp and heavy, covered in mud and dirt. We lay all our clothes out in the morning sun in hopes of dry fabric when we return from our hike. We go to the pavilion across the lawn and order breakfast, taking in the view of the waterfall and mountain we'd conquered the previous day. So alluring. But beauty is only skin deep. I still believe that deep down, that mountain is an ugly bitch.
I order coffee imported from Togo (the country that rests right on the other side of the mountain). Due to its close proximity to the resort, the coffee is actually very decently priced considering it is real coffee and not instant--$1.20 for a small thermos full. I can't wait to hit up the diners back in the states for coffee that'll give you a black eye and costs less than a dollar for the pain. I really can't and shouldn't be complaining, though. The coffee is amazing.
After breakfast, we lace up our shoes (me, my concrete blocks), wave goodbye to Anne who has decided to stay back, and take off down the road for Mt. Afadjato. In the village we spend a good (bad) hour looking for a taxi or tro-tro at a decent price. This is really hard to find in a tourist area where there aren't many people. No competition. A man who thinks he is helping us (and whom we told we didn't need help from... and might have told to go away) latches on to us and is determined to find us a ride. After having the price raised for us on several occasions because he is apparently worse at haggling than we Americans, we finally decide to take a tro-tro that charges us GH$15 to get to the mountain. They've definitely broken us, but after an hour of waiting in the hot sun and wanting to get to the mountain, we are pretty fragile. The road is not as bad as they had claimed it to be and not as far as they'd said it was. We've definitely been had. To top that, the guy that "tried" helping us stops me and wants me to give him a tip for helping. I hate it that people can find the weak one in the group. I tell him I don't have any ones, which is entirely true. I'm not going to give him the only ten I have in my wallet. I offer him my last food item in my camera bag, my precious Malt 'n' Crackers (they're like shortbread cookies.) He laughs in my face and tells me I should go ask my friends for money. The tro-tro driver's mate, however, says he'd love my cookies and snatches them from my hands before I can retract. Bastard. I walk away and blame myself for being stupid. I secretly wish for the crackers to be soggy or for him to choke on one after hitting one of the many potholes they said there will be on the way back.
We enter the information center to pay and hire a guide. While money is being exchanged and receipts written, I sneak out the back to relieve myself on the side of the road. When in Rome. By the time I get back, everyone and our guide is ready. I have an innate ability for skipping out on things I deem unimportant. So, we are all set and ready to climb the mountain. We bound off toward Afadjato which looks miniscule from the bottom (885m.) Maybe only as tall as the tallest hill back home in Ozark County. Technically, it's not even considered a mountain due to the height between the base and tip. However, we are determined to reach the top of Ghana come Hell or high water.
High water is never encountered. Hell, on the other hand ... It doesn't take long for exhaustion to set in for me. Conquering two mountains in one weekend is hard work. The Czechs seem to be unaffected and are soon out of sight as they race ahead, leaving the Americans behind. Had this been an Oreo or pie-eating competition, we would have taken them by storm. Though it doesn't rain, you couldn't tell by looking at us completely saturated. Heavy breathing once again ensues, and not long after that Megan and Kristin are far behind me. These mountains have a way of turning a group trip into a personal journey. A one-on-one with nature. I'm 100% sure these mountains live by the ruling "divided we fall," and that's exactly how they claims their victims. Americans. Soon, the trees begin to end, and the patches of sky grow larger. Stumps are replaced by boulders. The top is in sight.
Reaching the summit, with hands on my hips and gasping for air, I spot the Czechs who wave. I wave back and through a panting of air ask if this is it. I'm an American; I want fireworks and the whole shebang. I want to spot a tyrannosaurus in the valley devouring a village. I want to see Jesus sitting on a flying carpet and playing a flute next to the Mt. Afadjato sign. I get none of this. The view is spectacular, but it's not like anything I haven't seen before. It is pretty anti-climactic. Soon, Megan reaches the top to share the view with us, followed by our guide who had hung back to see that Kristin was okay. She'd stopped to rest and waited for us to come back down. I don't think we could have been more disappointed than when we look to our left, and towering over us is another peak. Megan and I, with a small hint of Manifest Destiny still pumping through our American veins, point to it and ask if that is still in Ghana. Our guide informs us that it is. We've come all this way to conquer the tallest mountain in Ghana, and just a hop, skip, and half-mile jump away is a taller one (I'm later informed by my roommate that this peak is actually in Togo. He'd gone on the hike a week or two before and had wondered the same thing. On the map, it's in Togo. Our guide either misunderstood us or had no idea what he was talking about. I'm going to go with the latter to make myself feel better.)
We sit defeated on a boulder until we hear our guide talking to the Czechs about seeing a tiger once in the forest below. I instantly perk up. A tigah, yah say eh? The remainder of our stay atop the highest point in Ghana, I scan the floor below like a U.S. satellite. Where's WiFi and Google Earth when you need it? We take the cliche tourist shots next to the sign and make poses that have been done millions of times over. I notice a Canadian pin stuck into the wood, which I can only now see as a huge coincidence and an allusion of events to come...Ay?
We agree to leave and begin our descent back into the jungle. We're soon reunited with Kristin who has been sitting on the path taking photos of butterflies. Martin and Vlasta once again race ahead and decide they're also going to visit the bat caves further north. Megan, Kristin, and I decide that it'll be a day trip later on during our stay. We hand over the trusty guidebook to our Czech counterparts and watch them disappear into the depths of the forest. The guide helps Kristin up and takes it upon himself to see her down the mountain. He takes her by the hand, and they disappear below. Megan is ahead of them and has already exited the scene. A pain in my knee starts to develop, and with each step it grows. Kristin yells back to make sure I'm still alive. I respond and say that everything is fine. A lie. It feels as if I've either pulled a muscle or torn one. I can't decide which. I sit on a rock and send a couple texts to friends back in the states (I get full signal on top of a mountain.) I think back to fifteen minutes ago when the guide was telling us about the tiger he spotted in the forest not long ago. Great. I WOULD be the one to go. Lame. Sitting on a rock. I am a target. I start to hum "Eye of the Tiger" and realize that with my luck, it isn't a good idea. I WOULD be the one to die, mauled by a tiger and singing a one-hit wonder. I let my imagination get the best of me, and though I never thought I would apply this word to me, I "trudge" down the path, stagger-stepping like a child who has to use both feet for one step.
I make it to the clearing at the bottom of the mountain and wonder if my knee injury is a result of flipping Mother Nature the bird previously. I have enough respect. I mean, I capitalize the name. I consider myself lucky, though, as a knee injury is slightly better than being eaten by a tiger (though not as epic a way to die.) I can hear Kristin and Megan's voices saying "oh, there he is" as I make my way to the information center. I feel like the kid who's just learned to use the toilet by himself... beaming with pride, but also feeling like shit. There aren't any taxis or tro-tro's around, so our guide offers to walk with us to the village down the road where we will wait for a car to pass by and hopefully take us in.
IV: A Few Games of Chicken
Our guide, Robert, walks us to the nearest village, which happens to be his own. We pull a few chairs out of a spot (bar) and sit underneath a tree waiting for taxi, tro-tro, any form of transportation. We wait. Wait. I need sugar and food, so I go to the nearest stall that looks promising. There's no food, but there is Coke and gum. I buy a bottle of Coke and two pieces of gum. When I get back to our chairs, my water is gone. While I was gone, a lady had walked up, grabbed my water and took a sip from it. Megan told her to keep it, to which she replied by finishing it off and walking away with my bottle. I'm now without water and without food. We wait another fifteen minutes and wonder how the Czechs are doing. With their luck, they probably found a ride as soon as they got to the bottom of the mountain.
Just then we hear a car coming down the road. We watch and wave as it passes, making the signal in Ghana of "come." "Bra, bra." Or as I like to say "bro, bra, braski." The car passes and for a split-second our hearts sink. We walk to the side of the road and see that the car has stopped. It's turning around. I think we literally jump and do a freeze frame with our heels clicking in the air. Cut to us landing and the car parked beside us. An obruni (white man) rides shotgun and asks us where we're going. We let Kristin do the talking. They agree to take us back to the lodge. One of the passengers hops out of the car and rides in the open trunk while we pile into the backseat. The obruni riding shotgun is Matthew and happens to be from Canada.
Matt is in Ghana on a government-sponsored project working on something that has to do with chiefs of tribes and governing. I'm not really sure. I zone out. I'm too busy turning my head back to see if the guy sitting in the trunk has fallen out when we hit a pothole, which is considerably more exciting to me. Kristin talks to Matt about government and politics. Not my forte. They talk about elections, American, Ghanaian, and Canadian, all of which are happening this year. The Canadian government is paying for his entire stay in Ghana, though. The Canadian government is paying for this ride back to our lodge. The Canadian government is saving some American asses, and in my head I conclude that this won't be the first time.
We arrive at the driveway of the lodge and are let out. Thanks are exchanged. I try to give the driver a five, but he declines. Thank you, Canada! The girls swap numbers with Matt, who will be on campus the following day for a presentation. Megan and I can both tell that Kristin is in love. Politics are thingamajigs I don't have the attention span to even begin thinking about taking an interest in; all I know is I have to vote or die thanks to P-Diddy. Simple as that.
Anne is still at the lodge in practically the same place we left her, only sprawled out on the floor napping. We ask if she's seen the Czechs, and she tells us that they were there about an hour ago. I don't know how they do it, but I wish they'd fill me in on their secret. I'm narrowing it down to lazy American intuition. We gather our belongings and trek off back to the village center where we'd had trouble finding a taxi/tro-tro before. We quickly find a taxi who is willing to take us in to the tro-tro station in Hohoe for GH$4. The tro-tro at the station will then take us all the way back to Accra. We pile in and speed off toward Hohoe.
When I say we speed off, I mean we put the gas pedal through the floor. In a shaky taxi barreling down the road at speeds unknown to us and the driver because the speedometer is finished (here when you say something is finished, it means it's broken or not in supply), I white-knuckle the door handle as we go around curves that I'm sure we're going to fish tail around. We hit an area that's gotten rain, and I wait for the inevitable hydro-plane action. If Mother Nature isn't going to take my life this weekend, it's going to be man and machine. This is only a warm-up to what awaits us, though. We make it to the tro-tro station in one (unbelievable) piece. To calm my nerves, I buy a Fan Ice (a 30-cent heavenly plastic wrapper containing ice cream.) We pay the seven cedi and are on our way.
It only takes a few kilometers before I realize that we've gotten on the wrong tro-tro. (It's always after you've forked over your money.) It's not that we're heading in the wrong direction; we're actually heading in the right direction, but at 120kmph. I have Megan pull out her phone and convert it to the correct U.S. measurement. We're going 85mph in a frame with wheels. We pass cars on blind curves and hills. I turn to the older lady sitting next to me and declare my objections for the driver. I tell her this driver is crazy. She only asks if I'm uncomfortable and chuckles. I hypothesize that Ghanaians must have a death wish. I turn to my fellow travelers for faces of agreement. They're there. Wide-eyed and ears plugged with headphones attached to iPods--listening to death soundtracks, I'm certain. I pull mine from my bag and search for the music I want to hear in my final moments.
Before we have the chance to speed into a wall or fly off a cliff in a ball of fire, we pull to the side of the road and fill the last open seat in the tro. The seat happens to be next to Kristin. She'd wanted me to fill the spot at the tro-tro station so she wouldn't be sandwiched between strange men, but having already taken my seat and settled in, I didn't want to move the two rows back. Too much of a hassle. We'd started the journey, and no one had claimed the open spot. She'd be fine. Now we are stopping and a younger man is boarding. His personal effects, a backpack and a moving black sack that contains ... a chicken. Yes, this Gonzo boarded the tro-tro with a live and kickin' chicken. What the cluck? I can't help but laugh at Kristin's current situation. (She later stated that it wasn't the clucking chicken that bothered her so much, but the annoying, concurrent coughing of the man.) With chicken on board, we once again take flight down the shoddy.
We swerve potholes, cars, and herds of cows and sheep. Every time I look around the person in front of me and at the speedometer, I record a new top speed at which we were going. 125kmph. 130kmph. 135kmph. 140kmph. We are going 140 kilometers per hour! At this instant our driver decides to pass a car around a blind curve. Another tro-tro comes hurtling at us traveling in the opposite direction. Our driver slams on the brakes and nearly rams into the back of the car in front of us. Finally the woman sitting next to me lets out a noise of discomfort. My eyes are unblinking as I grip the seat in front of me. I ask the driver for all to hear, "Do we get our money back if we die?" The ladies of the van laugh. I have a way of winning their hearts. The driver is saying something to me in Twi. I don't know what he's saying, but the laughs of the ladies only encourage me to go on. I ask if anyone in the car has a pen because I'd like to write my will now. The lady sitting next to me gets a kick out of this and finally admits that this guy's driving makes her uncomfortable. We make a considerable amount of brake-checks before finally arriving in Accra. We're let out, or more precisely, we get out at the stop in front of the shopping mall. Our feet hit land, and we're all happy to be alive. The only thing that separates us from our beds is a few miles. We're almost home. Almost.
V: The Last Leg, Legs
We've finally made it to Accra. We walk down the sidewalk away from the shopping mall and in the direction of the nearest tro-tro station. Anne and I both have to relieve ourselves. After that ride, it's no surprise. I find a tree with a sign for "Genius College." Anne finds two concrete blocks with Megan and Kristin to form the third and fourth walls. When in Rome. When in Ghana. At this point, our shyness of peeing in public is diminished. After shaking, we foot it to the tro-tro station. After several attempts we're able to get Megan onto a tro-tro. We try for the next fifteen to twenty minutes to get someone else from our party aboard. No luck. Anne suggests that we take a taxi. Kristin and I, being cheap, determined, and prideful Americans, refuse. We have to get on a tro-tro. We can't back down. We don't know where all the people are coming from, but it seems like there's a new wave with each approaching van. All concepts of a line are thrown in the nearest ditch. People push and shove to get on. No matter how long we've been waiting, no one really cares. Welcome back to Accra. We're actually turned away by the mate of a car with two open seats. He says it's full. We've seen these things packed to the brim.
As much as we hate to admit it, Kristin and I have been defeated. They've broken us again. We decide to take the taxi which Anne has decided to pay in full. It's only GH$3, but compared to the twenty cents it would have taken on a tro-tro, it's a lot. We climb into the taxi and decide it's better to just get home, shower, and go to bed. The taxi takes off, and we leave the tro-tro station behind.
We're cruising along, only a mile from the main gates of campus. I'm not sure what we're talking about at the moment, but the car starts to rattle. We've gone through this before. It has to happen now. It hasn't happened the whole trip, and we should have known it was bound to. Ever since our tro-tro caught on fire in Kumasi, every trip we've taken has involved the abandonment of some vehicle. On the Fetteh trip we had a gas line go out on a bus getting there and an empty gas tank in a taxi on the way back. Now, we're pulling over to the side of the road, and the engine is shut off. The driver climbs out and is checking vitals. We see him pull out reflectors from the trunk, and we know the taxi is finished. We climb out and adios the driver. On the bright side, we've gotten closer to the final checkpoint, and we don't have to pay. On the neg, we have to walk again. The last leg of our journey is spent, instead of in the luxury of a taxi, hiking the mile-and-a-half tramp on the side of the busy highway to campus. Luckily, the conclusion of our long two-day trip has transformed me into a mindless zombie wanting to devour only the flesh of his bed and soul of his pillow. This is what I concentrate on. The driving force. The finish line.
The walk is over in an instant, and I'm coming back to life in a cold shower. I don't even try to recollect the events that have happened over the weekend in fear that my brain will collapse from suffocation. Dying in a cold, community shower in Africa is not the way I want to go. Where in the hell is that tiger? I climb out of the shower, into my gym shorts, under my mosquito net, and into my bed. My head hits the pillow, and my Hohoe adventure comes to an end.
