Larabanga/Trotting to Tamale

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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.

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Kumasi to Tamale

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Kinda proud of myself today. After a dismal Easter Monday I went to sleep promising myself that I would do four things. Pack, Checkout, Get my bank card back, and get my ass on to the bus to Tamale. Two major fears, which involved trying to find which particular Barclays I was at when the machine ate my bank card. No easy feat in a strange African city. Nonetheless, I accomplished all, and I found myself on a moving bus to Tamale at 10:20 am. The bus departure was a miracle in itself, as it was only 20 minutes late in leaving, which pretty much feels like early at this point.The ride was longer than I expected, and we pulled into Tamale around 4:30 pm. There were a couple of chilling images on the road. The first was a Grelyhound like bus turned over on its side off the road. There had obviously been a very bad accident at some recent point. Another image was a twisted transport truck, laying neither prone nor supine right in the middle of the highway. Our bus meandered over to the shoulder and around the recent relic of some terrible moment. When I saw the truck, I let out an audible “oh”. These are just two of the many twisted wrecks that I have seen littering the roads of Ghana. I let out a second audible “oh” during the bus ride. As I gazed out the window I noticed the twelve billionth young cute lamb along the road. This particular lamb decided to act like a wreckless dog.and run with the bus, and just as we were about to pass it, it disappeared from view under the front of the bus. This is where I gasped, causing my seatmate to turn and look at me like I was crazy, oblivious to my to my private drama. Clearly, I am now in a very different part of Ghana. The journey north has meant the evangelical south yielding to a more Muslim world. The landscape is more brown, though there is still lots of greenery. I am now painfully aware of the ticking clock. I have two things left on my list. I must get to Mole National Park, so as to pass on a hello to the elephants from a friend. Secondly, I must get back to Accra and make arrangements to get to the Omenako Primary School. At this point I am considering flying to Accra because it will take at least 12 gruelling hours to get there from here. The problem is the bank card. Will it work again, or will it be eaten again, causing me to waste more precious time rectifying that problem? If daddy can't get no more love from the ATM the options become more frugal, though not yet dire.So the plan is to go to Mole and Larabanga. Larabanga is home to the oldest mosque in West Africa and also a very amazing place by all accounts. After that a mad dash back to Accra, and a journey to Omenako. Let us pray that the ATM gods will smile upon me one more time.

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Cape Coast, Michael Essien

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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.

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Two weeks. Two weeks. Two freakin weeks. Starting to get very excited. The excitement has flashes of inner terror, but I'm trying not to listen to that voice. The reality of this bizarre expedition is beginning to yield its shockingly unknown head. That David Byrne line "watch out, you might get what your after" keeps going through my mind. However, I once took some classes in Bhuddism which were conducted by a doctor who at that time was head of emergency at The Wellesley (sp?) Hospital. And he said something that I have always carried with me when embarking on new experiences - "Things are not necessarily difficult, simply unfamiliar" I'm going to try and make that my mantra.

I'm starting to get a feeling in the pit of my stomach. The feeling is excitement, combined with a fear of the unknown. My lack of experience as a traveller, combined with the fact that I'm going alone are also making me guffaw at my dumb temerity. (yeah thats for you Miss Jocund!) Nonetheless, I'm ready to light this candle.

And Cayelle, thanks for the advice. Four layers and no L!

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