The Trip That Was: Part 3 Busua

For the next leg of my Easter travel, my colleagues and I travelled to Busua beach, what is described as a beach that is widely regarded as among the best and safest in Ghana. Just what I wanted and needed; the perfect environment to spread out on my whicker sand-mat and read Great Expectations while bronzing in the heat of the sun (aided in part by my increased photosensitivity as a result of my long-term use of a prophylaxis to prevent malaria).

We settled on a place to stay for our time in Busua – Peter’s Place – named after Peter, the owner. The shoestring accommodation fit within our budget, and with its beachfront location, it was difficult to turn down. So we dropped our luggage in the room and began to enjoy the beach and its surrounding community.

A series of unfortunate events made me seriously question the superlatives donned upon Busua beach by the travel guide. First, the Easter holidays had just passed, and it is seemingly customary for all locals to flock to what I’ve dubbed beer by the Beach. The biggest problem with this form of entertainment is that the local drinking culture is almost non-existent, and few non-beach-natives are adroit swimmers. This intersection of beer and beach apparently led to the tragic drowning of two locals, with one missing person. During our first day in Busua, the number of drownings was revised to three, since the final missing person washed ashore.

I wish I could say that witnessing this tragedy was what kept me awake all night, but it was a calamity of a different color that prohibited my peaceful slumber. That evening, in what turned out to be the calm before a huge storm the following day, the confluence of soaring temperature, sultry humidity, and a stagnant heaven created an unbearably hot atmosphere. Of course, air conditioning was not an amenity we could afford within our budget. So I crawled into bed thinking I could sheep-count myself to sleep, but I was soon drenched in sweat and falling victim to dehydration. Soaking through the fitted sheet and pillow case, I found myself laying in the fetid odor of my bodily excrement, praying for even a hint of air circulation. If I had the chance to select torture method, I think I would have hastily sided with waterboarding. At least there was water and the prospect of rehydration involved.

When it comes to torturous nights in Ghana, the only possible contender for most torturous was my overnight bus ride. And on the subject of superlatives, I’m not sure best and safest are in my cards for Busua.

The Trip That Was: Part 2 Amedzofe

After spending the better part of a day playing a friendly game of Slip n’ Slide with Mount Adaklu, Kyle and I continued onward to a peaceful and self-described heavenly getaway known as Mountain Paradise Lodge nestled in the Avatime Hills. And our first evening did prove to be a nice piece of paradise; I enjoyed the hillside breeze, the savory and well prepared meal, and the scenic outlook.

After a pleasant night’s rest, Kyle and I had agreed to suspend the frantic tourist hustle and enjoy the day in relaxation like a normal vacationer might. Both wearing our Rainbow sandals, we set off on a casual walk to the town of Amedzofe.

After a short fifteen minute stroll to the first town, alive with activity, we stopped some friends to ask for directions. They pointed us down the path to Amedzofe but not before first inviting us to the local treasure hunt. Tempting. The hunt was to begin any minute. Foregoing the quest, we began down the footpath towards Amedzofe, which as it turns out, was a quest in and of itself. The shortcut trail to Amedzofe turned out to be a two hour moderate ascent through the canyon, perfect terrain for our sandals.

But it was well worth it, as we arrived in Amedzofe to boisterous and cultural Easter activities. It seemed as though the entire town had congregated around the village square for drumming and dancing. Kyle and I did a remarkable job blending into the celebrations until one of the participating hams decided to grandstand. Grasping a live chicken around the ankles, and perhaps psychically aware of my aversion for live poultry, he proceeded to slap the chicken against my body; right arm, left arm, forehead, right ear, left ear, chest, foreface. His policy of Don’t Ask Do Touch had me obsecrating God to keep any avian influenza away.

Well, deciding I had seen (and felt) enough of the cultural festivities, Kyle and I spent the rest of the day doing exactly what we promised we wouldn’t do; hiking, hiking to another mountain summit, hiking to local waterfalls, hiking to avoid and numb my emotions to the traumatic event of the day. Maybe I should have stayed back to search for the treasure trove instead.

The Trip that Was: Part 1 Mount Adaklu

Easter arrived, and with my original plans of parading my friend Bowman around to all of the tourist hot spots (and believe me, Sub-Saharan Africa is hot) unraveling, I embarked on a week of relaxation and time away from Accra. Setting off in an eastwardly direction, my colleagues and I were off to explore some of the more remote portions of Ghana.

One of the first activities we decided to tackle was climbing Mount Adaklu. My trusty guidebook indicated that there were guided hikes to the mountain summit, a reasonably demanding 2-4 hour round trip, which I interpreted to mean an easy 1-2 hour trip. Why I’ve irrationally concluded that I am entitled to revise the difficulty level and time estimates is beyond me, since I am far from 50% more efficient than the average backpacker. Perhaps overconfident from our successful mountain trek, we woke up well hydrated from the beers consumed the night before and began our pursuit of the Adaklu summit.

The first step was to get a private taxi to the base of the mountain. Before you negotiate price, it’s essential to communicate your destination, which can be a workout all by itself. This particular encounter went as follows, and is a pretty good proxy for the rest. -Where are you going? -Adaklu. -Where? -Adaklu. -Adaklu? -Yes, Adaklu. -Oh…Adaklu. (Yes that’s exactly what I said.)

Well, our particular chauffer politely dropped us at the base of the mountain and pointed upward along the path that would lead us to the mountain summit. Believing him, we started navigating our way through the poorly marked trail. After thirty minutes of hiking, we finally came to a dead end. Feeling as though we had been duped, we retraced our steps back to the base of the mountain. Come to find out, the driver dropped us at the house of an obruni family, and we had spent the previous thirty minutes meandering through the family farm. I’m not certain they were expecting visitors during their Easter breakfast, but their cordiality masked any resentment.

So after correcting our driver’s wrong, and being redirected forty-five minutes to the actual base of the mountain, we finally began our guided ascent. Reasonably demanding might have been an understatement. As I was belaying myself up the mountain, my unstable and trembling legs were fighting to keep my body upright. I guess I should have been more concerned about the descent. On the way down, my buddies were concernedly asking Are you alright? Almost echoing as I continued to lose footing and slide down the mountainside. Maybe that’s how I concluded that the hike would only take me 1-2 hours. After all, falling off the side of the mountain is definitely more expedient than the slow descent.

The Trip that Wasn't

It’s always been a goal of mine to ensure that people feel that they are not imposing. And for the most part, I believe I’ve been rather successful. Perhaps too successful. In college, all of my friends, many of my acquaintances, and some strangers, knew that my room was open to anyone for any purpose. (And people took some liberties with the definition of purpose here – anything from watching television and grabbing a soda from the refrigerator to taking a nap in my bed and holding an Easter egg hunt in my room. The contents of the Easter eggs – my personal belongings, such as iPod ear buds, cuff links, etc.). This trend continued as I progressed through my early twenties, hosting countless friends at my apartment throughout the holidays. (One New Years I barely had enough space for all the guests – most illustrious of this was the sight of my friend Andrew slumbered beneath the Christmas tree).

So I made it royally clear (not Kate Middleton royal) to all my friends back home that they were welcome to visit me in Ghana at any point in time. I would be happy to show them around my new home. Unfortunately, the $1500 plane ticket put my friendship a little out of everyone’s price range. The only person committed to visit was one of my best friends, Bowman, whose residence in Jordan made friendship more affordable.

Bowman was going to spend Easter break in Ghana and, making it clear that there would be no Easter egg hunts in my room, I was thrilled to have a visitor. In the weeks leading up to the visit, I provided an itinerary and packing advice, and was strategizing on how best to give a real Ghanaian cultural and culinary treat. Two days before his arrival, I received an email. Subject: visa? Contents: I can get a visa at the airport right!?!?!?!?!?!? AH!!!! freakout! The answer, as we soon discovered, is no. Whoops. We seemingly both overlooked this major step.

As with everything in my life, I began to cause a scene. We were brainstorming elaborate workarounds, like flying into neighboring Togo and sneaking across the border. All in all, we called it off because there were too many unknowns. But not before I involved a consortium of Ghanaians to help solve our problem. Unfortunately, hindsight told us that the real solution here was foresight.

So with under a day before my Easter vacation began, I went groveling to my colleagues, begging to be a last minute add-on to their Easter adventure. Thankfully they didn’t mind. Ironically, I am often the one who spearheads the planning effort for our staff outings. Perhaps it’s time to pull me from the starting line-up and bring in the relief planner.

Meals on Wheels

A few years back, I remember seeing a news clip highlighting the grocery store of the American future, Japanese present. The general concept behind this alternative grocer was that a shopper arrives and sits down in a private unit that automatically navigates the patron along the fixed track through the aisles of delight. My initial thought was that the concept was heaven for the lazy consumer, hell for the spontaneous shopper who, upon seeing the hot dogs, decided to have a cookout only to realize the hot dog buns were in Aisle 1, ketchup and mustard in Aisle 2. History will note that the slow-motion-roller-coaster-shopping phenomenon failed to gain traction in the United States, as Americans opted instead for the Flight of the Hippogriff at the Wizarding World of Harry Potter Theme Park.

Well, it turns out that Japan wasn’t the first to adopt this cloud-cuckoo-land behavior. I’m convinced that the concept was simply trying to commercialize the Ghanaian shopping experience. Every major (and most minor) artery in Accra is clogged with street vendors. And any time a vehicle comes to a stop, transit-goers are immediately propositioned by the plethora of hawkers. Over time, my perception has changed far along the inefficiency-efficiency continuum; from thinking these street-clogging hawkers were the cause of traffic to realizing they were actually enabling me to multitask and complete all shopping needs without ever having to leave my taxi.

I’ve been amazed at the amount of roadworthy merchandise. From fresh fruit to pure water; toilet paper to DVDs; hammers to livestock. The street vendors have more than a WalMart Supercenter. But what might be more spectacular than the smorgasbord of obtainables is that the vendors are able to withstand the chronic open-sauna. If I stand outside, I’m usually perspiring within one minute; after one-minute and I’m a water fountain.

Recently, the convenient backseat shopping experience has been called into question by the Accra Metropolitan Authority. This authority just passed legislation making it illegal to purchase from a street vendor unless the street has been designated for that purpose. How these vendors will adapt to the new regulation and how I shop in the future is all in question. I guess if I want to shop while sitting, I’ll have to travel to Japan…Oh, who am I kidding. I’ll probably be at Filch’s Emporium of Confiscated Goods.

Why Did the Chicken Cross the Road?

After living in Accra for nearly eight months, I finally received some answers. Why did the chicken cross the road? And this time I wasn’t looking for a punny answer to a trite riddle.

I’ve always been rather fascinated by the logistics and mystery of the livestock industry in Ghana. Walking around the streets of Accra, it’s very common to see an abundance of poultry and livestock living out their day-to-day lives. With so many chickens and goats promenading about, any pedestrian is bound to stumble upon them.

After discussing with some of my local friends, I have determined that the system works quite efficiently. Let’s hypothetically say I have some chickens. I’m comfortable letting my chickens roam free snatching up scraps along the streets because it minimizes my biddy maintenance. I am also confident that my chickens will come home to roost each night, as the saying goes. Let's run through some additional scenarios. So how do I know if one of those roadside chicks is mine? Actually, this is quite simple. Apparently, somewhere in the Bible (Matthew 23:37), Jesus uses the reference as a hen gathers her chicks under her wings. Dating back at least to Biblical times, newborn chicks have been led home by the mother. But how does the new chick know that this is its roost? Also simple. When a chick arrives, you just tie it up for one week until it’s conditioned to its new surroundings.

What happens if the chicken doesn’t come home? Again, simple. Tragic death by motor vehicle. But how do you know that nobody stole the chicken? Enter honor code (or the law). It is illegal to steal a chicken from the roadside, punishable by six months in prison. The consequences are even worse for goats. Pilfer a goat, and you’re looking at two years.

To the best of my knowledge, there is no legal consequence for snatching a pig. Mission Bacon: Accepted.

Friends from Ivory Coast

For the past week, Didier Drogba and the rest of the Ivory Coast national soccer team have been practicing at the athletic facilities across from my office. Their arrival caused quite a stir, and hundreds of locals flocked to the soccer field to catch a glimpse of the team practicing. From my perch on the treadmill at Pippa’s, my local gym, I appreciated the change in talent. Drogba & Co. was far superior to the usual peewees.

The following afternoon, I returned to the gym, only to find out that this time, instead of practicing on the field, the team was actually working out in the gym. I was originally rhapsodized by the team’s presence, but I became very self-conscious when I realized I was working out among men of Sparta (not literally, just physically). Having the jimjams (also the gymjams) I rushed through my normal routine, thinking that no matter where in the gym I was, I was definitely in one of the Ivorian’s way. From palavering with the gym staff, I soon found out the reason they were in town was because of an upcoming Africa Cup qualifying match against West African rival Benin.

Despite my unhinged nerves and inferior physique, I was trying to find an opening line to strike up conversation with one of team members. So what brings you to Ghana? Oh the reason you’re here is because your home match is being played in Ghana this weekend. And the reason your home match is being played in Ghana is because your native land is amid civil disruption on account of two men believing they are the rightful president. Unable to find a clear conversation starter, I trudged my portly figure to the locker room and called it a day.

Figuring it courteous to support our new acquaintances, my colleagues and I decided to attend the qualifying cup match. In the course of investigating how to get to the Accra Sports Stadium, my German colleague, Seb, discovered that the stadium happened to be home to the worst stadium disaster to ever happen in Africa, resulting in 127 deaths. Overall, I would classify the game as a success. Nobody died and Drogba scoring two goals to lead the Ivory Coast in a 2-1 victory.

Stadium fare: 5 cedis. Vuvuzelas: 8 cedis. Risking our lives to support our new Ivorian friends: Priceless.