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Saturday, April 25, 2009
Friday, April 24, 2009
Monday, April 20, 2009
Larabanga/Trotting to Tamale
Back in Accra. I am sitting at Champs sports bar, the most westernised place I have found. Home of the $15 dollar hamburger and soccer on the big screen, it is part of The Paloma Hotel. When I was last here, I berated myself for wasting my time in a place that was little different from home. Now, weary and beaten down from the road, this place is like Mom bringing you chicken soup in bed.
The toll of a lot of traveling finally caught up with me in Tamale. I blame it all on Toufic and his damn hospitality. Toufic is a young guy who came with me to Mole, and given the awfulness of the journey from Tamale to Mole and back, I was thankful for the company. As it happens, he is from Larabanga, a village near Mole national park that I had read about in my research, so I was able to accompany him as he went home for a few hours. Larabanga is a 100% Muslim village and home to the oldest Mosque in West Africa, circa 1421. I was able to meet his friends and members of his family and he took me to the mosque, where custom compelled that I meet the Imam and request permission to go to (not in) the Mosque. The Imam was an elderly man who was laying out in the searing sun, and thankfully permission was granted for me to proceed. As Toufic led me to the mosque we came upon some men coming from the mosque who knew Toufic. A heated argument ensued in the local dialect that somehow related to my presence. I kept my head bowed, while I wondered what the problem was. It seems that Toufic was supposed to register at the office and I was supposed to pay two cedi. He had informed me that I would have to pay and there was some office we needed to go to, but he was now trying to tell the men that we had stopped by the office and no one was there. Having not specifically recalled this on our meanderings through the village, I nodded inconclusively as he tried to enlist my help in the argument. More heated words and finally I coughed up the two bucks, no problem, and at that point the argument ended in robust laughter and smiles. I've noticed many arguments in Ghana end this way.
Anyway, Toufic took me round the mosque, then we walked with his friends to “The Sacred Stone”, a mystical stone intertwined with the Muslim history of Larabanga, then he showed me an awesome project he is involved in with the local school. Only a few years ago most of the people of Larabanga rejected the notion of school and Toufic , now 22, was among the first to attend school from his village, though he had to walk about eight kilometres to Mole to go to school. He told me stories about he and his friends being chased by elephants on their journey to school. He showed me a project he is involved with, in conjuction with an NGO, building schools in Larabanga so kids may receive full schooling without having to leave the village until they seek post secondary education. I was very impressed by Toufic, who is now at college in Tamale.
After we left the school, we went to the soccer field to watch the locals play. It was then that Toufics cellphone rang and my downfall began. It was his sister on the phone, saying that she had prepared some food for us and we should stop by for a bite. I had been so good up to this point, but I knew that this was probably high risk dining for an Obruni. Nonetheless, I rolled the dice and came up snakeyes. The food itself was delicious. Two pots, one consisting of a sort of very glutinous mashed potato made with corn and plantain I think, the other a pot of sauce like a beef gravy with a few chunks of meat. The idea is you grab a handful of the glutinous mash and dip it in the sauce. As I said it was delicious, but its legacy was not. It is not that there was anything wrong with the food, it simply contains microorganisms that I haven't been exposed to. So the Obruni pays, while others enjoy. Throw in a 4:00 am bus departure on a journey of epic awfulness back to Tamale and depleted defenses from so much travel and you have the perfect recipe for a crash. By the time I got to Tamale, I was done. All hopes of getting to Kumasi or Accra were dashed when I saw that the next buses were not leaving for seven and a half hours, I threw in the towel and decided I needed a bed now. I limped back to the very crappy and overpriced Heritage Hotel and spent the better part of the next 27 hours in bed.
http://goyestoeverything.com
The toll of a lot of traveling finally caught up with me in Tamale. I blame it all on Toufic and his damn hospitality. Toufic is a young guy who came with me to Mole, and given the awfulness of the journey from Tamale to Mole and back, I was thankful for the company. As it happens, he is from Larabanga, a village near Mole national park that I had read about in my research, so I was able to accompany him as he went home for a few hours. Larabanga is a 100% Muslim village and home to the oldest Mosque in West Africa, circa 1421. I was able to meet his friends and members of his family and he took me to the mosque, where custom compelled that I meet the Imam and request permission to go to (not in) the Mosque. The Imam was an elderly man who was laying out in the searing sun, and thankfully permission was granted for me to proceed. As Toufic led me to the mosque we came upon some men coming from the mosque who knew Toufic. A heated argument ensued in the local dialect that somehow related to my presence. I kept my head bowed, while I wondered what the problem was. It seems that Toufic was supposed to register at the office and I was supposed to pay two cedi. He had informed me that I would have to pay and there was some office we needed to go to, but he was now trying to tell the men that we had stopped by the office and no one was there. Having not specifically recalled this on our meanderings through the village, I nodded inconclusively as he tried to enlist my help in the argument. More heated words and finally I coughed up the two bucks, no problem, and at that point the argument ended in robust laughter and smiles. I've noticed many arguments in Ghana end this way.
Anyway, Toufic took me round the mosque, then we walked with his friends to “The Sacred Stone”, a mystical stone intertwined with the Muslim history of Larabanga, then he showed me an awesome project he is involved in with the local school. Only a few years ago most of the people of Larabanga rejected the notion of school and Toufic , now 22, was among the first to attend school from his village, though he had to walk about eight kilometres to Mole to go to school. He told me stories about he and his friends being chased by elephants on their journey to school. He showed me a project he is involved with, in conjuction with an NGO, building schools in Larabanga so kids may receive full schooling without having to leave the village until they seek post secondary education. I was very impressed by Toufic, who is now at college in Tamale.
After we left the school, we went to the soccer field to watch the locals play. It was then that Toufics cellphone rang and my downfall began. It was his sister on the phone, saying that she had prepared some food for us and we should stop by for a bite. I had been so good up to this point, but I knew that this was probably high risk dining for an Obruni. Nonetheless, I rolled the dice and came up snakeyes. The food itself was delicious. Two pots, one consisting of a sort of very glutinous mashed potato made with corn and plantain I think, the other a pot of sauce like a beef gravy with a few chunks of meat. The idea is you grab a handful of the glutinous mash and dip it in the sauce. As I said it was delicious, but its legacy was not. It is not that there was anything wrong with the food, it simply contains microorganisms that I haven't been exposed to. So the Obruni pays, while others enjoy. Throw in a 4:00 am bus departure on a journey of epic awfulness back to Tamale and depleted defenses from so much travel and you have the perfect recipe for a crash. By the time I got to Tamale, I was done. All hopes of getting to Kumasi or Accra were dashed when I saw that the next buses were not leaving for seven and a half hours, I threw in the towel and decided I needed a bed now. I limped back to the very crappy and overpriced Heritage Hotel and spent the better part of the next 27 hours in bed.
http://goyestoeverything.com
Mole National Park
I Guess It Rains Down in Africa
After arriving late to Mole, I check in, crank up the AC and scope the scene. The hotel is in a spectacular location, overlooking the savannah and elephant ponds in the valley below. Very, very beautiful and spectacular. I dine poolside, gazing at the awesome expanse before me. After dinner, I wander over to the staff canteen to find a crowd gathered around a television, watching a soccer game, and I suddenly feel like I am in some FIFA promo about how soccer unites us all as the screen glows in the dwindling twilight of the African outback, while the men argue about the game in a tribal language. As darkness falls a spectacular lightning show rises. Every second or so the distant sky lights up. This goes on for two hours, until finally the deluge arrives. The lightning lights up the valley below me, and a deluge of water pours forth. I sit for another two hours mesmerized and in awe.
Elephants, man.
So today is the big day. Will I see elephants on my safari walk? I wake up at 6:30, thinking I had missed it and cursing myself. I calmed down after being assured that the walk did not begin until 7am. Sigh of relief I arrive at the meeting place to find two very stiff and angry German women complaining because they thought that the tour was to begin at 6:30 am. After some arguing, they did not join the tour because it started late. I could not believe it. People like this will not be very happy in Ghana. Anyway, they missed a great tour, despite the mud from the downpour of the previous night. Elephants, antelope and African boar were present in multitude, and I did say hi for you, Cayelle.
Ketchup? Hmmmm, that does sound good!
So, I'm sitting on the patio/perch overlooking the elephant pond, when a voice behind me yells down to us “hey, guys!” I turn from around and not five feet away a male baboon strolls by and climbs a tree, just to my right. I begin snapping pictures. After a couple of minutes another voice says “turn around”. It is a mother and baby baboon. The mother then moves with baby on back towards the pool area, where a few people were enjoying lunch. Toufic leans into me and says “you watch, the mother is going to take the ketchup, or she is going to try and do something with the food. She will scare them and take something”. He then recounts to me a story of his school days and how a baboon once ripped up his school books. Laughing my head off, I realise this is the African version of “the dog ate my homework”, though it is not so funny when you don't have the money to replace the schoolbooks It took about five minutes, and I actually thought Mom was gone so I went back to snapping Dad sitting in the nearby tree. Suddenly, a great kerfuffle poolside. I looked over to see three young ladies fleeing their lunch and Mom perched on the table with baby on back. She grabs the ketchup and and races into the woods, where she will smash the bottle on a rock and feed herself, baby and I'm sure Dad found his way there, as he disappeared shortly after the ketchup did. They totally played us and it was awesome . “Yeah, they're tricky bastards”, Toufic confided, and I sensed he was still holding a grudge from his long ago destroyed schoolbooks.
http://goyestoeverything.com
After arriving late to Mole, I check in, crank up the AC and scope the scene. The hotel is in a spectacular location, overlooking the savannah and elephant ponds in the valley below. Very, very beautiful and spectacular. I dine poolside, gazing at the awesome expanse before me. After dinner, I wander over to the staff canteen to find a crowd gathered around a television, watching a soccer game, and I suddenly feel like I am in some FIFA promo about how soccer unites us all as the screen glows in the dwindling twilight of the African outback, while the men argue about the game in a tribal language. As darkness falls a spectacular lightning show rises. Every second or so the distant sky lights up. This goes on for two hours, until finally the deluge arrives. The lightning lights up the valley below me, and a deluge of water pours forth. I sit for another two hours mesmerized and in awe.
Elephants, man.
So today is the big day. Will I see elephants on my safari walk? I wake up at 6:30, thinking I had missed it and cursing myself. I calmed down after being assured that the walk did not begin until 7am. Sigh of relief I arrive at the meeting place to find two very stiff and angry German women complaining because they thought that the tour was to begin at 6:30 am. After some arguing, they did not join the tour because it started late. I could not believe it. People like this will not be very happy in Ghana. Anyway, they missed a great tour, despite the mud from the downpour of the previous night. Elephants, antelope and African boar were present in multitude, and I did say hi for you, Cayelle.
Ketchup? Hmmmm, that does sound good!
So, I'm sitting on the patio/perch overlooking the elephant pond, when a voice behind me yells down to us “hey, guys!” I turn from around and not five feet away a male baboon strolls by and climbs a tree, just to my right. I begin snapping pictures. After a couple of minutes another voice says “turn around”. It is a mother and baby baboon. The mother then moves with baby on back towards the pool area, where a few people were enjoying lunch. Toufic leans into me and says “you watch, the mother is going to take the ketchup, or she is going to try and do something with the food. She will scare them and take something”. He then recounts to me a story of his school days and how a baboon once ripped up his school books. Laughing my head off, I realise this is the African version of “the dog ate my homework”, though it is not so funny when you don't have the money to replace the schoolbooks It took about five minutes, and I actually thought Mom was gone so I went back to snapping Dad sitting in the nearby tree. Suddenly, a great kerfuffle poolside. I looked over to see three young ladies fleeing their lunch and Mom perched on the table with baby on back. She grabs the ketchup and and races into the woods, where she will smash the bottle on a rock and feed herself, baby and I'm sure Dad found his way there, as he disappeared shortly after the ketchup did. They totally played us and it was awesome . “Yeah, they're tricky bastards”, Toufic confided, and I sensed he was still holding a grudge from his long ago destroyed schoolbooks.
http://goyestoeverything.com
Ride to Mole National Park
Mole National Park
Worst. Busride. Ever. Nonetheless, it was all worth it. Am travelling with Toufic, who is from nearby Larabanga, and thank god, cos there is no way in hell I would have gotten on that bus without him. The adequate state owned transit does not travel here which meant private transit and a visit to the Tamale tro tro station in searing heat that would make lead curdle. Just getting to the bus, yet alone on it was a an epic quest. While waiting ,I was witness to Tro Tro cuisine being prepared in front of me, and I'm pretty sure the health board does not pass by too often. One lady who was making and selling fufu in light soup plunked herself down beside me and graciously offered to share. I respectfully declined. When the bus arrived and we jostled our way over to where it was waiting, I was beginning to feel like I was at a Who concert gone wrong. We had to wait outside the bus to ensure that my luggage was stored. Living in Africa is like always being in a really hot and loud bar. Anyway, we finally board the bus. After sitting and roasting for about 25 minutes the bus finally rolls. About ten feet. People are standing in the aisles, it is not physically possible to put another soul on this bus. It seems a fare dispute has erupted, and we are delayed another twenty minutes while things are sorted. I am really starting to lose it. Crammed in the heat and the noise I seriously consider bailing. Problem is that I could not get out even if I wanted to. Finally the bus moves onto the road. And pulls over. At this point, the only thing for it is to retreat within, take a few deep breaths and and try not to completely flip out. The four hour ride was like bing in a heated cement mixer while someone beats your lower back with a lead pipe. Awful, but totally worth it at the end of the day.
http://www.goyestoeverything.com
Worst. Busride. Ever. Nonetheless, it was all worth it. Am travelling with Toufic, who is from nearby Larabanga, and thank god, cos there is no way in hell I would have gotten on that bus without him. The adequate state owned transit does not travel here which meant private transit and a visit to the Tamale tro tro station in searing heat that would make lead curdle. Just getting to the bus, yet alone on it was a an epic quest. While waiting ,I was witness to Tro Tro cuisine being prepared in front of me, and I'm pretty sure the health board does not pass by too often. One lady who was making and selling fufu in light soup plunked herself down beside me and graciously offered to share. I respectfully declined. When the bus arrived and we jostled our way over to where it was waiting, I was beginning to feel like I was at a Who concert gone wrong. We had to wait outside the bus to ensure that my luggage was stored. Living in Africa is like always being in a really hot and loud bar. Anyway, we finally board the bus. After sitting and roasting for about 25 minutes the bus finally rolls. About ten feet. People are standing in the aisles, it is not physically possible to put another soul on this bus. It seems a fare dispute has erupted, and we are delayed another twenty minutes while things are sorted. I am really starting to lose it. Crammed in the heat and the noise I seriously consider bailing. Problem is that I could not get out even if I wanted to. Finally the bus moves onto the road. And pulls over. At this point, the only thing for it is to retreat within, take a few deep breaths and and try not to completely flip out. The four hour ride was like bing in a heated cement mixer while someone beats your lower back with a lead pipe. Awful, but totally worth it at the end of the day.
http://www.goyestoeverything.com
Kumasi to Tamale
Image via Wikipedia
http://goyestoeverything.com
Monday, April 13, 2009
Kumasi
Obruni, relax
So I wake up Saturday of the Easter weekend with the goal being to get to Kumasi by nightfall. The problem is Easter is a huge event in Ghana and the STC (government) buses will be full. Compunding the problem, the bus originates in Takoridi and may be full before it arrives in Cape Coast. On top of that, I am unable to book a room without knowing if I can get on the bus, and the rooms may be filling up for Easter. I was starting to get a little anxious about the uncertainty ahead. I show up at the depot early in the morning to get a ticket for the noon bus to Kumasi. Seems I cannot buy a ticket yet because there may be no tickets because the bus may be full upon arrival. “Come back at noon , Obruni” I come back at noon. I see the same lady and ask her about the Kumasi bus. “Obruni, relax. Sit down and I will sell you a ticket, when its time”. Ten minutes pass. “Obruni, come here and get your ticket.”. I thank her and go down to a little outdoor cafe to wait in the blistering heat the two and a half hours for the 2:30pm departure of the 12:00pm bus. As I head to the cafe I notice a guy selling beef kabobs afro style, dusted with a dried pepper powder. Delicious! And no side affects. So if you're ever at the Cape Coast STC depot, try the kabob guy. I narrowly make it on the bus, with two empty seats. I am ordered to the back of the bus, and I briefly consider making a Rosa Parks like act of defiance, but decide
instead that I would prefer to spend the night in Kumasi, as opposed to a Ghanian jail. The ride up was interesting to say the least. Huge parts of the road were much, much worse than I had been led to believe, and for great swaths of the journey the bus careened from side to side including the shoulder of both sides of the road to avoid crater like axle busting potholes. The surfing effect was compounded by the fact that I was sitting at the back of the bus. I can see why they have handles attached to the back of the seat in front of me.
Kumasi
Kumasi is the second largest city in Ghana, known as “The Garden City”, and I can see why. Lush greenery abounds and the hotel I am staying at, The Kumasi Catering Guesthouse makes one feel as if I am staying in a lush tropical paradise, yet I can walk to downtown in a few minutes.Like Cape Coast, downtown Kumasi is very manageable in size for walking around. Given that I arrived on Saturday night, I did not get out and about until Easter Sunday. While the streets were far from empty, it was kind of nice that the place had a more subdued than usual atmosphere, so it felt about as quiet as say Taste of the Danforth.
Obama!Obruni!White Guy!
The Ketejia Market in Kumasi is truly something to behold. It is one stinky, yet delicious cauldron of wonderful chaos. It is the largest market in West Africa, and is a regional trading centre for neighbouring countries. Remarkably, it is divided into sections with different areas for different items. The shoe area just outside the market takes up about three city blocks of nothing but shoes. I venture in guideless, and I am fortunate that it is Easter Sunday, as the market is calmer due to the holiday. Instead of being constantly jostled by the crowd , I am able to stroll at a more leisurely pace. Wisely, I have worn my Obama shirt, which leads to shouts of “Obama!” as I stroll about the market. I also get a lot of “Obruni” and the odd “White Guy”. All of this is meant in the friendliest way possible, and I feel very welcomed. No one is bothering me. One guy who had meat for sale asks if I am from America. “No, Canada”, I reply. He yells back “Canada, America, it is same”. I yell back “No, Canada is better!” which sends a bunch of people into uproarious laughter. The market itself is stunning in its sheer magnitude. The size is easily many, many, many, square blocks in the city of Toronto. Imagine Yonge to Spadina, and Bloor to King. It is that big.
Die, Bankerman
Crap. Crud. Are you kidding me? So I thought that maybe I should get some cash here in Kumasi before heading to the more sparse northern region. It is Easter Monday. and the banks are closed.. No problem. We live in a global society, and given that I have already successfully used my bank card at Barclay's bank in both Accra and Cape Coast I am confident that things will continue trouble free. Its Africa, after all, what could possibly go wrong? So my rather relaxed mission on this sunny morning is to find a Barclays and get some cash, mosey over to the STC depot to get some info about the bus sked to Tamale, and to generally wander the streets and soak up the joyful madness. The first bank machine I see is a Standard Bank. I try my card there, but the machine spits it back out. No worries, this has happened before. My card does not work at all banks. Turning around, I see good old Barclay's right across the street and I react with the anticipated warmth of a moneyhug from my good friend. I put in the card and wait for instructions. And wait. And wait. It slowly dawns that not only are instructions not forthcoming, neither is my bank card. I begin cursing Barclay, and the good folks at TD Canada Trust who were well informed of my travel plans. I begin hitting the keys angrily, which draws a response from the bank machine guard over at the Standard Bank across the street. I yell back that the machine ate my card! Tomorrow, he yells back. Thank you, I yell back.
In addition another thing happened today that I have been in denial about from the get go. The rainy season is here, and for the first time in many months it poured and poured and poured and may continue to pour throughout the remainder of the journey. I am ill prepared for this, and am seriously reconsidering my options as far as my itinerary goes. But first, I'd really like to get my bank card back.
So I wake up Saturday of the Easter weekend with the goal being to get to Kumasi by nightfall. The problem is Easter is a huge event in Ghana and the STC (government) buses will be full. Compunding the problem, the bus originates in Takoridi and may be full before it arrives in Cape Coast. On top of that, I am unable to book a room without knowing if I can get on the bus, and the rooms may be filling up for Easter. I was starting to get a little anxious about the uncertainty ahead. I show up at the depot early in the morning to get a ticket for the noon bus to Kumasi. Seems I cannot buy a ticket yet because there may be no tickets because the bus may be full upon arrival. “Come back at noon , Obruni” I come back at noon. I see the same lady and ask her about the Kumasi bus. “Obruni, relax. Sit down and I will sell you a ticket, when its time”. Ten minutes pass. “Obruni, come here and get your ticket.”. I thank her and go down to a little outdoor cafe to wait in the blistering heat the two and a half hours for the 2:30pm departure of the 12:00pm bus. As I head to the cafe I notice a guy selling beef kabobs afro style, dusted with a dried pepper powder. Delicious! And no side affects. So if you're ever at the Cape Coast STC depot, try the kabob guy. I narrowly make it on the bus, with two empty seats. I am ordered to the back of the bus, and I briefly consider making a Rosa Parks like act of defiance, but decide
instead that I would prefer to spend the night in Kumasi, as opposed to a Ghanian jail. The ride up was interesting to say the least. Huge parts of the road were much, much worse than I had been led to believe, and for great swaths of the journey the bus careened from side to side including the shoulder of both sides of the road to avoid crater like axle busting potholes. The surfing effect was compounded by the fact that I was sitting at the back of the bus. I can see why they have handles attached to the back of the seat in front of me.
Kumasi
Kumasi is the second largest city in Ghana, known as “The Garden City”, and I can see why. Lush greenery abounds and the hotel I am staying at, The Kumasi Catering Guesthouse makes one feel as if I am staying in a lush tropical paradise, yet I can walk to downtown in a few minutes.Like Cape Coast, downtown Kumasi is very manageable in size for walking around. Given that I arrived on Saturday night, I did not get out and about until Easter Sunday. While the streets were far from empty, it was kind of nice that the place had a more subdued than usual atmosphere, so it felt about as quiet as say Taste of the Danforth.
Obama!Obruni!White Guy!
The Ketejia Market in Kumasi is truly something to behold. It is one stinky, yet delicious cauldron of wonderful chaos. It is the largest market in West Africa, and is a regional trading centre for neighbouring countries. Remarkably, it is divided into sections with different areas for different items. The shoe area just outside the market takes up about three city blocks of nothing but shoes. I venture in guideless, and I am fortunate that it is Easter Sunday, as the market is calmer due to the holiday. Instead of being constantly jostled by the crowd , I am able to stroll at a more leisurely pace. Wisely, I have worn my Obama shirt, which leads to shouts of “Obama!” as I stroll about the market. I also get a lot of “Obruni” and the odd “White Guy”. All of this is meant in the friendliest way possible, and I feel very welcomed. No one is bothering me. One guy who had meat for sale asks if I am from America. “No, Canada”, I reply. He yells back “Canada, America, it is same”. I yell back “No, Canada is better!” which sends a bunch of people into uproarious laughter. The market itself is stunning in its sheer magnitude. The size is easily many, many, many, square blocks in the city of Toronto. Imagine Yonge to Spadina, and Bloor to King. It is that big.
Die, Bankerman
Crap. Crud. Are you kidding me? So I thought that maybe I should get some cash here in Kumasi before heading to the more sparse northern region. It is Easter Monday. and the banks are closed.. No problem. We live in a global society, and given that I have already successfully used my bank card at Barclay's bank in both Accra and Cape Coast I am confident that things will continue trouble free. Its Africa, after all, what could possibly go wrong? So my rather relaxed mission on this sunny morning is to find a Barclays and get some cash, mosey over to the STC depot to get some info about the bus sked to Tamale, and to generally wander the streets and soak up the joyful madness. The first bank machine I see is a Standard Bank. I try my card there, but the machine spits it back out. No worries, this has happened before. My card does not work at all banks. Turning around, I see good old Barclay's right across the street and I react with the anticipated warmth of a moneyhug from my good friend. I put in the card and wait for instructions. And wait. And wait. It slowly dawns that not only are instructions not forthcoming, neither is my bank card. I begin cursing Barclay, and the good folks at TD Canada Trust who were well informed of my travel plans. I begin hitting the keys angrily, which draws a response from the bank machine guard over at the Standard Bank across the street. I yell back that the machine ate my card! Tomorrow, he yells back. Thank you, I yell back.
In addition another thing happened today that I have been in denial about from the get go. The rainy season is here, and for the first time in many months it poured and poured and poured and may continue to pour throughout the remainder of the journey. I am ill prepared for this, and am seriously reconsidering my options as far as my itinerary goes. But first, I'd really like to get my bank card back.
Cape Coast Side Trips
Cape Coast Castle
This place was one of the “must see” destinations on my itinerary. It was one of the main trading forts in the Trans Atlantic Slave trade. The Gahnian people have chosen to make it a place of reconciliation, much to their credit. The question that haunts me is how did one group of human beings convince themselves that inflicting this upon others was acceptable? I need not go into the horrific details of the slave trade, but two things particularly struck me. After the British abolished slavery, the dungeons were left untouched, until opened in 1974. The floors of the dungeons had been usurped by a four inch layer of petrified human remains, straw, sand, urine and fecal matter. Clearly, hundreds of years of the slave trade went by without these places ever having been cleaned. There was a window at the top of the dungeon, so the guards could keep an eye on the slaves. There is also an Anglican chapel within the castle near the dungeon. It would have been impossible for the residents of the castle to get to church without passing that window and exposing themselves to the sound of the unspeakable human suffering going on beneath their feet as they toddled off to church to worship God.
Kakum (kakoom) National Park – Hans Botel
I took two side trips from Cape Coast, both of which made me question my sanity.
The first was to Kakum, mostly so I could keep a promise I made to myself. The reasons for that promise elude me. You see, I am afraid of heights and Kakum National Park boasts a canopy walk that soars 120 feet above the jungle floor. The canopy walk is essentially a series of rope bridges with a narrow wood plank walkway. I took some solace in the fact that it was built by Canadians, and even more solace in the fact that it is maintained by the people of Ghana. Suffice to say, I survived and the diaper I was wearing was completely unneeded (just kidding).
Next stop was Hans Botel. Hans Botel is an hotel built on an alligator infested lagoon. The whole thing is on stilts and it feels like walking on a dock. As we arrive, my driver (by the way I love saying “my driver”) shows me a few alligators swimming about. People are feeding them and I am entranced by the speed with which there jaws snap at the food. Densu (my driver) directs me into the restaurant where we can buy some bread or chicken to feed them. Instead, a beautiful lady there says to me “if you want, I will let you touch them” .I reply “you will let me touch them, but will they let me touch them?”. I kinda figured that if your going to call your blog “goyestoeverything” then a moment will come when you have to back it up. This was one such moment. So I follow the lady through a gate and suddenly I am in an area with a six foot alligator. Thank god Dusan is with me, because I was sure that if this alligator decides to bite my leg off at the hip, he'll at least be able to wrestle it down to my knee. The lady puts a leaf on a long stick and the alligator jumps up to eat it, like a very dangerous puppy begging for a treat. Then she tells me to touch his tail, which involves me sneaking behind a rock to get at his tail. Dusan takes my camera so I can get that Kodak moment. I sneak around and touch his tail, knowing that this animal could bite my wrist off before I could blink. It takes seemingly forever for Dusan to take the pic, which is clearly reflected in my expression in the picture. A millisecond after the pic is taken, shortlived relief pulses through me. Someone shouts at me “look out, there's another one”. Another alligator has made its way from the lagoon and sits about 18 inches from my calf. Given that my calves are one of my best features, I head for cover.
http://goyestoeverything.com
This place was one of the “must see” destinations on my itinerary. It was one of the main trading forts in the Trans Atlantic Slave trade. The Gahnian people have chosen to make it a place of reconciliation, much to their credit. The question that haunts me is how did one group of human beings convince themselves that inflicting this upon others was acceptable? I need not go into the horrific details of the slave trade, but two things particularly struck me. After the British abolished slavery, the dungeons were left untouched, until opened in 1974. The floors of the dungeons had been usurped by a four inch layer of petrified human remains, straw, sand, urine and fecal matter. Clearly, hundreds of years of the slave trade went by without these places ever having been cleaned. There was a window at the top of the dungeon, so the guards could keep an eye on the slaves. There is also an Anglican chapel within the castle near the dungeon. It would have been impossible for the residents of the castle to get to church without passing that window and exposing themselves to the sound of the unspeakable human suffering going on beneath their feet as they toddled off to church to worship God.
Kakum (kakoom) National Park – Hans Botel
I took two side trips from Cape Coast, both of which made me question my sanity.
The first was to Kakum, mostly so I could keep a promise I made to myself. The reasons for that promise elude me. You see, I am afraid of heights and Kakum National Park boasts a canopy walk that soars 120 feet above the jungle floor. The canopy walk is essentially a series of rope bridges with a narrow wood plank walkway. I took some solace in the fact that it was built by Canadians, and even more solace in the fact that it is maintained by the people of Ghana. Suffice to say, I survived and the diaper I was wearing was completely unneeded (just kidding).
Next stop was Hans Botel. Hans Botel is an hotel built on an alligator infested lagoon. The whole thing is on stilts and it feels like walking on a dock. As we arrive, my driver (by the way I love saying “my driver”) shows me a few alligators swimming about. People are feeding them and I am entranced by the speed with which there jaws snap at the food. Densu (my driver) directs me into the restaurant where we can buy some bread or chicken to feed them. Instead, a beautiful lady there says to me “if you want, I will let you touch them” .I reply “you will let me touch them, but will they let me touch them?”. I kinda figured that if your going to call your blog “goyestoeverything” then a moment will come when you have to back it up. This was one such moment. So I follow the lady through a gate and suddenly I am in an area with a six foot alligator. Thank god Dusan is with me, because I was sure that if this alligator decides to bite my leg off at the hip, he'll at least be able to wrestle it down to my knee. The lady puts a leaf on a long stick and the alligator jumps up to eat it, like a very dangerous puppy begging for a treat. Then she tells me to touch his tail, which involves me sneaking behind a rock to get at his tail. Dusan takes my camera so I can get that Kodak moment. I sneak around and touch his tail, knowing that this animal could bite my wrist off before I could blink. It takes seemingly forever for Dusan to take the pic, which is clearly reflected in my expression in the picture. A millisecond after the pic is taken, shortlived relief pulses through me. Someone shouts at me “look out, there's another one”. Another alligator has made its way from the lagoon and sits about 18 inches from my calf. Given that my calves are one of my best features, I head for cover.
http://goyestoeverything.com
Cape Coast, Michael Essien
So imagine San Francisco set amid a backdrop of poverty and a history of slavery. I go walking
through the town unfettered. The things I am seeing are difficult to convey. I have a ton of pics and vids I would love to upload, but all I am getting is that stupid circle going around and around.
If Accra was Toronto, then Cape Coast is Vancouver.. Set on a hilly locale next to the ocean, the town is teeming with activity. Having received tips from a couple of different people in Kokrobite, I opt for The Oasis Hotel. As I am led to my room, I involuntarily mutter “fuck me” under my breath. Not the bad “fuck me”, but the good “fuck me”. I am staying in a classic African cabana. My room is large and round, with a vaunted grass roof that peaks at about 25 feet in height, the beach is about six feet from my front door and Cape Coast Castle is a few hundred meters down the beach. At $29cdn per night including my own bathroom I am quite happy. As mentioned I am able to walk through the town without being bothered for the most part. However, make no mistake, all eyes are upon me as I stroll through an unending sea of stalls that mask a labyrinth of poverty. Nonetheless, I find the same spirit of life here that trancends the mundanity of mere commerce.. The people here are incredibly warm and friendly, though some do have ulterior motives. Many young men and boys here have approached me seeking help with school fees or trying to raise money so they can get jerseys for their soccer team or wanting to take me on a tour somewhere or entreating me to go buy something at their friends stall. It is difficult to blame them, and I would probably be doing the same thing if I was in their shoes, but it does wear you down after awhile. On the upside a firm “no thank you” is usually enough to deter them.
Michael Essien
Michael Essien is to Ghana, what Derek Jeter is to America., only bigger. Essien is a footballer who plays for Chelsea in the English Premiership, the top soccer league in the world. Currently the UEFA Champions Cup, a tournament pitting the best European clubs against each other is underway. Chelsea is playing Liverpool in the semi final matchup and given the scarcity of television in these parts, the game is being shown live at the local theatre, admission fifty cents.The theatre is very large, and I would put capacity at at least 1000. I arrive a bit late, and the moment I enter, Liverpool scores. The entire place sags, but for the joyous outbursts from a few Liverpool fans. It is standing room only, and I find myself at the back of the theatre, a lone Obruni in a sea of locals, craning to see the big screen. The crowd is so boisterous that it is impossible to hear the audio. Drums, horns and chants dominate the ears, the crowd hanging on every play, with good plays drawing racous applause. In the thirty ninth minute Chelsea scores, unleashing a tsunami of joy, the likes of which I have never experienced. The theatre throbs, a bedlam of human expression. At the half, I am among the first out for a smoke. A young girl asks me what the score is, and when I tell her she immediately races off to dispatch the news to her family. Outside the air pulses with frenzied chatter. I speak with one man who confides that he is for Chelsea, but does not like to divulge this, for fear of getting into altercations. I file that in the back of my mind, making a note to leave before the final whistle, if the result appears secure. Back inside for the second half, Chelsea scores to take the lead. This time I do not cheer, I want to feel as much of this as possible, I breathe it all in deeply, letting the pulse of energy rip through me. As soon as the goal is scored, people rush by me to the exit to dispatch the news to friends and family. Then another goal by Chelsea and more religious fervour. I was there on Yonge street for both of the Blue Jays wins, but tha tjust seems like a distant tea party in comparison. With about 15 minutes left, I decide to leave,and as I
arrive at my hotel two blocks away I hear what sounds like another Chelsea goal. Being a good guest, I head straight for the bar to dispatch the good news to the bartender, who is of course, a Chelsea fan.
http://goyestoeverything.com
Wednesday, April 8, 2009
Farewell Kokrobite curtain, week one
Farewell Kokrobrite, Curtain, Week One.
Time to leave Kokrobrite and the safe harbour of Big Milly's. So far my instincts and research have served me well. Tomorrow, I hope to move west along the ocean to Cape Coast/ Elmina, the Auschwitz of the slave trade. By all accounts, its haunted shores are very beautiful. This will be my first attempt at serious travel by myself. I put on my big boy pants a few days ago, now its time to take off the training wheels.
How does it feel?
To be on your own
With no direction home
Like a complete unknown
Like a rolling stone
After one week here, I have many images seared in my mind. The slums at the beach in Jamestown, Accra , will never leave my mind, hearing a band at a bar in Accra play Redemption Song, not as a lament, but as an anthem of defiance, and the euphoric crowd joining in with all their heart as we danced on the dirt floor of the courtyard nightclub early that morning in Osu ,and the sheer pulse and sensory assault of a large African city. But the image that endures most is that of a Gahanian women walking towards me as I sit in traffic in Accra. She is carrying something to sell me, just like the small children of Kokrobite. I think of both of them, and I think that they will be doing this for the rest of their lives. And they are two among thousands. For them, there is no corporate ladder to be climbed. For them, there is just survival. Yet, astonishingly, I see a lot more long faces (including my own) and self pity in Canada than I do here. Perhaps, knowing the empty materialism that we strive for is well beyond their grasp, the people of Ghana have committed themselves to something deeper.
Tune in next week to find out if Mrs. Schembley discovers that The Chumbley has nicked Miss Truebottoms garters!
And Scene.
Time to leave Kokrobrite and the safe harbour of Big Milly's. So far my instincts and research have served me well. Tomorrow, I hope to move west along the ocean to Cape Coast/ Elmina, the Auschwitz of the slave trade. By all accounts, its haunted shores are very beautiful. This will be my first attempt at serious travel by myself. I put on my big boy pants a few days ago, now its time to take off the training wheels.
How does it feel?
To be on your own
With no direction home
Like a complete unknown
Like a rolling stone
After one week here, I have many images seared in my mind. The slums at the beach in Jamestown, Accra , will never leave my mind, hearing a band at a bar in Accra play Redemption Song, not as a lament, but as an anthem of defiance, and the euphoric crowd joining in with all their heart as we danced on the dirt floor of the courtyard nightclub early that morning in Osu ,and the sheer pulse and sensory assault of a large African city. But the image that endures most is that of a Gahanian women walking towards me as I sit in traffic in Accra. She is carrying something to sell me, just like the small children of Kokrobite. I think of both of them, and I think that they will be doing this for the rest of their lives. And they are two among thousands. For them, there is no corporate ladder to be climbed. For them, there is just survival. Yet, astonishingly, I see a lot more long faces (including my own) and self pity in Canada than I do here. Perhaps, knowing the empty materialism that we strive for is well beyond their grasp, the people of Ghana have committed themselves to something deeper.
Tune in next week to find out if Mrs. Schembley discovers that The Chumbley has nicked Miss Truebottoms garters!
And Scene.
Chuck Norris
Chuck Norris
Quite unexpectedly, I was witness to a barfight today. At Big Milly's no less, a bastion of peace and tranquility. Some men are here to put a grass roof on the bar in anticipation of the coming rainy season and some Rasta guys were just hanging out. Like almost every barfight I've ever witnessed, it begins with the dick measuring argument as the opening act, followed by pushing, followed by the main event. I was enjoying a mid afternoon libation, chatting with a local. Big Milly (Wendy, the English lady who owns the property in partnership with her husband, the previously mentioned Tom) had already been by once to tell the “men more work less talk, please”, and after a time an argument ensued. Anyone who has spent as much time in bars as I have can tell the difference between an argument and an argument that is going to be an escalating problem, even if the language is not discernible. Anyway, the Gahanian version of Gilbert Gottfried was present and looking for trouble and thusly things escalated.
Unfortunately, due to the roof construction, there was plenty of wood around, and neither combatant was shy about grabbing a weapon. Both men took some pretty good shots to the head, while the guy on the roof implored them to stop from his perch, to no avail. He finally climbed down from the roof as all involved shouted back and forth in Twi (the local tribal language). Both Wendy and Tom came running down from the front desk hut, some distance away, and make no mistake, Tom is not a man to be trifled with, despite his gentle carriage. Anyway, after much fighting, all combatants were ordered off the premises, and the guy on the roof was ordered sternly back to work, even though he was a peacemaker. This made him so angry, that he stomped back onto the roof (which was not built for stomping). His stomping on the delicate roof, made all the other bar patrons flee for unroofed safety, except myself. I figured that the sound of the wood cracking would be enough warning, should I need to evacuate, plus it was too hot to not be in the shade. After a time one of the lady bartenders began teasing the roofer. All I could hear was a bunch of Twi interspersed with Chuck Norris, Chuck Norris, as she took a karate stance. This caused great hilarity, as we all started laughing, including myself, despite my not understanding the language. The tension was broken and I am sure I saw Tom stifle a laugh as he walked back to the office.
Quite unexpectedly, I was witness to a barfight today. At Big Milly's no less, a bastion of peace and tranquility. Some men are here to put a grass roof on the bar in anticipation of the coming rainy season and some Rasta guys were just hanging out. Like almost every barfight I've ever witnessed, it begins with the dick measuring argument as the opening act, followed by pushing, followed by the main event. I was enjoying a mid afternoon libation, chatting with a local. Big Milly (Wendy, the English lady who owns the property in partnership with her husband, the previously mentioned Tom) had already been by once to tell the “men more work less talk, please”, and after a time an argument ensued. Anyone who has spent as much time in bars as I have can tell the difference between an argument and an argument that is going to be an escalating problem, even if the language is not discernible. Anyway, the Gahanian version of Gilbert Gottfried was present and looking for trouble and thusly things escalated.
Unfortunately, due to the roof construction, there was plenty of wood around, and neither combatant was shy about grabbing a weapon. Both men took some pretty good shots to the head, while the guy on the roof implored them to stop from his perch, to no avail. He finally climbed down from the roof as all involved shouted back and forth in Twi (the local tribal language). Both Wendy and Tom came running down from the front desk hut, some distance away, and make no mistake, Tom is not a man to be trifled with, despite his gentle carriage. Anyway, after much fighting, all combatants were ordered off the premises, and the guy on the roof was ordered sternly back to work, even though he was a peacemaker. This made him so angry, that he stomped back onto the roof (which was not built for stomping). His stomping on the delicate roof, made all the other bar patrons flee for unroofed safety, except myself. I figured that the sound of the wood cracking would be enough warning, should I need to evacuate, plus it was too hot to not be in the shade. After a time one of the lady bartenders began teasing the roofer. All I could hear was a bunch of Twi interspersed with Chuck Norris, Chuck Norris, as she took a karate stance. This caused great hilarity, as we all started laughing, including myself, despite my not understanding the language. The tension was broken and I am sure I saw Tom stifle a laugh as he walked back to the office.
Big Milly's
About forty five minutes west of Accra, is Big Milly's Backyard, located in Kokrobite. Highly regarded by the backpack set, it is as close as I care to get to camping on the beach. Kokrobite is a centre for drumming and drum making with a significant local Rasta population. Big Milly's is a campground/compound of sorts. I am staying in a small cabin with its own facilities. The restaurant serves excellent food and there is a 24 hr bar, both of which are outdoors. Just beyond the hotel lay a spectacular beach. Local fishermen, repair their nets, while women and children ply their trade of food items, clothing, etc only feet away from me while I eat my breakfast. Last night a band played highlife music, which is a big Saturday night event around these parts. This place has a definite vibe. My room is one step above camping, which is fine. Normally it would be two steps above camping, but there is a water shortage at the moment, which means my self contained bathroom has no running water and I have to haul water to fill the toilet so it will flush. If its yellow, stay mellow. None of this is particularly problematic or surprising.. Its just Africa. It seems that when there is a water shortage here, the trucks stay in Accra to sell and won't come out here. They sell where the demand is closest. Parked across from my cabin are a couple of serious overland tourists. When I checked in I was looking at one of these vehicles and noticed a sticker that said www.overlandtrombone.com . Weird name, I thought. Returning to my room after dinner for a laydown, awesome trombone music wafted into the cabin, clear as a bell. I had dinner with a Swiss couple who are on the 65th day of an overland journey through Africa. Apparently its 48c in Mali. No thanks. These folks have been to some really remote parts of Africa, very hardcore.
When In Rome
Shortly after arriving in Accra, I went down to the hotel bar to see how much beer you could pour into a 180 lb. sack. Exhausted from my journey, I stretched my feet out and interlocked my hands behind my head. Instantly, the waitress came over, and asked me what was wrong. “Nothing”, I replied. She explained to me that in Ghana that gesture means that your parents have died. Oops, now I know.
Saturday, April 4, 2009
Off to Kokrobrite
Going to Big Millys in Kokrobite. Found out about this place here http://www.moxon.net/ghana/kokrobite.html. I don't know about net access so I may be quiet for a few days. Jason, this is drummer heaven, so I'll try and get some pics for you. Tried to post 2min worth of video today, but after 2 hours uploading I gave up. Think that I will have to stick to pics for now.
Friday, April 3, 2009
Accra Day 2
A whirlwind day of playing tourist, with stops at three museums (I won't bore you with the deets) a visit to a slave fort (Ussher Fort, don't say Fort Ussher cos they won't understand) ; St. Jamestown (the British part of Old Accra, and the Accra Mall, which is just as boring as any Canadian mall, but a point of pride with the locals and The Arts Centre, which is a traditional African market selling crap to tourists within a maze of tiny stalls.
I hired a driver and the day was a good initiation into life in Accra. As you drive through the city there are people trying to sell you anything and everything at every traffic stop. Tables, plantain, apples, remote control units, pocket knives, drinks and books were just a few of the items I declined.After a couple of incidents, I have decided to be very cautious taking pictures here. Stupidly, I forgot the aforementioned ban on taking pictures of government buildings and officers and tried to take a picture of the courthouse. I was kindly warned by one of the street sellers that I should be more careful, because if a police officer saw me I would be in some trouble, and there is no shortage of police officers on the street here. The second incident involved me videotaping as we entered the beach at Jamestown, which led to a brief, but heated exchange between my driver and a local member of the Ga tribe, who inhabit Jamestown. After that I decided I would only take pictures when my driver said it was OK. It was kinda scary.The beach at Jamestown is home to a shanty slum of fisherman, and the deprivation and poverty there made me realize that I was in one of the worst areas of the city. There is no way I would ever venture here alone, but I am grateful that my driver took me there and it is difficult to even write about it without getting emotional. A number of shacks/homes lined the beach which was populated with many goats who were cowering next to “buildings” to avoid the midday sun. I felt very much like I was intruding and not terribly welcome. One man took it upon himself to show us around and I “dashed” (Dash- a bribe or gift) him a couple of Cedis (money). It was Thursday, which is like Sunday for the Ga people, so the fishermen were not fishing, but instead were working on their nets and boats, which are really just wooden canoes of varying sizes. I half expected to meet Sally Struthers, it was that gut wrenching. The tour at Ussher Fort (a slave trading fort) was kind of mediocre, but just the fact of standing there and knowing what happened was very eerie. The fort is set on a cliff above the harbour, and the sound of the waves crashing below took on a grim meaning, knowing that those waves brought in the ships that led people through the “door of no return” where they would make their final journey to the New World, never to see their family or homeland again, where their offspring would be subject to the same horrors that they endured. My god, the things we do to each other. On a happier note, The Arts Centre, was kind of fun. Immediately, I was accosted by a few people wanting to take me to their stall, and I was not even out of the vehicle yet. I bought one item and bargained the guy down a bit, but I know that I overpaid. My heart is not really into playing hardball with people who are struggling to get by, but the bargaining is kind of fun. The Accra Mall was really boring, but if I get homesick I could go there and feel like I was at home, as it is an empty and vacuous monument to blind consumerism and selfish gratification as any mall in Toronto. The only thing that made me realise I was in Africa, is that it took us half an hour (seriously) to get out of the parking lot. God bless the Asian lady who gave the guys directing traffic hell, as they were not stopping traffic on the roadway to let us out, and the crowd of cars just kept stacking up in the parking lot.
Wednesday, April 1, 2009
Day One
Seriously, this is very intimidating. I ventured out for a bit today, needing to exchange some money, get some shades and a razor. My hotel is on the Ring Road, the major route around the city and it is bustling to say the least. Three lanes on each side, teeming with traffic. The street lights are very far apart and the "sidewalks" are bordered by open sewers. Trying to cross the street is risky at best, and the streetlights are so far apart that you may have to walk half a mile or so before finding a safe crossing. Needless to say, many choose to dodge the traffic rather than walk to the nearest streetlight. I had a notion to try this, but my caution had led me to bear right and the "sidewalk" was elevated about four feet above traffic at the point where I noticed a bank across the street where I could exchange my money. I saw some people jumping down to cross, and considered it myself, but the clincher was that I would also have to clear the open sewer below. Thanks but no thanks, I'll walk to the corner.
During my walk I came upon a crowd of people gathered. Curious, I joined the crowd to see what the fuss was. At the center of the crowd was a guy doing faith healing, casting out evil demons. There were two men laying in the dirt, and I assumed that they had been healed or were in some sort of religious based trance. Another man, was receiving the treatment in the full on hands on head, "I cast the devil out!" kinda thing. I don't know if this was a Christian thing or some tribal thing, but it was definitely in the in the Ernst Angley tradition. Walked back to the hotel around noon and decided a nap would be good before heading back out. Woke up 7 hours later. Guess I'm still a bit tired from the journey. Oh well,I'm rested and ready to go for day 2.
During my walk I came upon a crowd of people gathered. Curious, I joined the crowd to see what the fuss was. At the center of the crowd was a guy doing faith healing, casting out evil demons. There were two men laying in the dirt, and I assumed that they had been healed or were in some sort of religious based trance. Another man, was receiving the treatment in the full on hands on head, "I cast the devil out!" kinda thing. I don't know if this was a Christian thing or some tribal thing, but it was definitely in the in the Ernst Angley tradition. Walked back to the hotel around noon and decided a nap would be good before heading back out. Woke up 7 hours later. Guess I'm still a bit tired from the journey. Oh well,I'm rested and ready to go for day 2.
Inquiring Women
I know the video is boring, but all those vans you see are Tro Tro's. The Tro Tro is the ad hoc transit system of Ghana and is widely used throughout Africa. More and better pics and vids to come.
Apparently, my marital status is of great interest to the few women I have spoken with here, beginning with the lady at the front desk. Another lady, Gloria, a twenty year old girl from CoteD'Ivoire offered me a nice massage. It was hard to resist cos she was unspeakably hot and charming, but resist I did. I bought her a drink and we had a lovely chat, but that is it.
Apparently, my marital status is of great interest to the few women I have spoken with here, beginning with the lady at the front desk. Another lady, Gloria, a twenty year old girl from CoteD'Ivoire offered me a nice massage. It was hard to resist cos she was unspeakably hot and charming, but resist I did. I bought her a drink and we had a lovely chat, but that is it.
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