Last week the OR staff was given five days’ vacation to relax and refuel in Ghana before the start of the Liberian outreach. I went on two budget (read: dirty) excursions with friends, first to Ada, a small village to the east of Tema at the mouth of the Volta River, and then to Busua, another village on the beach to the west, near the city of Takoradi. We came back filthy, exhausted, and absolutely in love with the Ghanaian culture and landscape – I’m grateful to have had the opportunity to see more of this beautiful country!
The Transport
Transportation, as always, was a pleasure. We traveled by tro-tro (thus precluding personal cleanliness), Ford Van (a glorified tro-tro, meaning it used to have air-conditioning, now it just has tinted windows), taxi, canoe (to get to our beach huts at Ada), the back of a pickup truck, and foot. The traveling by foot part was actually an accident – we asked a man at the Green Turtle Lodge, the most remote place we stayed, how long it would take to walk back to another hotel in the village, with our massive backpacks. We were told, “One hour. Just one hour. Maybe less.” Twelve kilometers and three and a half miserably hot and sweaty hours later, we finally arrived, and the locals told us we were nuts.
Taxi rides usually provide the most entertainment. One taxi driver, from Takoradi to Busua, was reluctant to take five of us through one of the ubiquitous police stops because he might get fined for “overloading” so he asked Robin and Lucy to get out and walk through the barrier so we could pick them up on the other side, and he could go through the police stop with just three passengers. You can imagine the confusion this caused when the girls informed the police that they were ‘walking to Busua,’ without backpacks or water, 30 miles away, to ‘stretch their legs.’ Again, nuts.
Incidentally, just two nights ago we actually did get pulled over for overloading, this time with seven people in a small taxi. The policeman first asked us to take him to the restaurant we were going to and buy him dinner; we wouldn’t, so he asked for one of us to marry him; shockingly, we wouldn’t do that either, so finally we settled on the equivalent of a $4.50 bribe, which he pocketed before letting us all pile into the same taxi and drive off.
The People
I could write a thesis on the people here, but I’ll spare you and just say instead that they are different. They’re all beautiful for one thing; their skin seems ageless, and their average body fat percentage nationwide might actually be below zero. Typical of West African cultures, relationships are prized over efficiency (infuriating at times, but endearing when you’re not in a hurry), and their concept of time is entirely foreign. Sitting on a bench on the side of the road in the dark in Busua, Lucy and Robin and I spent several hours with one extended family, entertaining them by trying to learn their songs and teaching them some of our own. I remarked to Robin that I felt absolutely no obligation to ever leave the bench, and I think that is quite descriptive of the general feeling of inertia that pervades social situations here. This attitude has even prompted some crewmembers to christen a new time zone: GMT, Ghana Maybe Time.
The Accommodation
In Ada, we stayed in primitive huts made of braided banana leaves on the thin strip of beach separating the ocean from the Volta river – peaceful and picturesque, and I’ve never reveled quite so much in my own filth (lots of dirt, no showers). In Busua we split time between the Green Turtle Lodge, a remote backpacker’s paradise, and a little hotel near the beach in the village where we got to know the owners quite well. The beach is usually cleaner the further one travels from villages as it is mainly used as a latrine and landfill, but it is still quite nice in Busua because of the small but growing tourist presence. Ghana’s first surf shop just opened up there, and we had all but moved in by the end of the week, commandeering the biggest and most beginner of their boards (like small aircraft carriers) despite our lack of proper rash guards (resulting in heinous rashes on our legs), and even pretending to be real surfers in pictures for their new website.
On the morning of our departure, our hotel was being set up for a wedding, with tents and sound equipment. As we were packing, we heard through the megaphone: “Wedding today at 1pm! Best foo-foo in town! All participants welcome!” We were invited to stay and attend, despite never having met the happy couple, but knew that 1pm GMT could mean anything from 3pm to nightfall, and we had to work the next day so we left as planned – I'm sure the newlyweds weren't too upset.
The Food
Emboldened by the dares and blatant peer pressure of my friend Lucy, this trip turned me into quite a connoisseur of Ghanaian street food, meaning anything from little tables set up by the side of the road with various fried or cooked objects, to baskets on top of children’s heads on the side of the highway containing bags of plantain chips or FanYogo (Ghana’s premiere frozen yogurt, in a bag like everything else). This new passion of mine may sound unwise, but I look at it as a competition between my digestive tract and the parasites that commonly afflict Western travelers. So far, my digestive tract is enjoying sweet, sweet victory.
Fried plantains with ginger and peanuts, mangos, pineapples and coconuts (deftly carved by teenagers wielding machetes), omelette paninis, banana pancakes, loaves of sugar bread, rice in a bag with unidentified spicy sauces, white mush of uncertain origin called foo-foo, in a bag with more unidentified spicy sauces, and everything accompanied by newspaper napkins, which I now consider somehow sanitary. I just can’t get enough, and the best part is that it’s difficult to spend more than 50 cents on any one meal. I do draw the line somewhere, though – usually at the fish heads. I don’t like the way they look at me.
The Transport
Transportation, as always, was a pleasure. We traveled by tro-tro (thus precluding personal cleanliness), Ford Van (a glorified tro-tro, meaning it used to have air-conditioning, now it just has tinted windows), taxi, canoe (to get to our beach huts at Ada), the back of a pickup truck, and foot. The traveling by foot part was actually an accident – we asked a man at the Green Turtle Lodge, the most remote place we stayed, how long it would take to walk back to another hotel in the village, with our massive backpacks. We were told, “One hour. Just one hour. Maybe less.” Twelve kilometers and three and a half miserably hot and sweaty hours later, we finally arrived, and the locals told us we were nuts.
Taxi rides usually provide the most entertainment. One taxi driver, from Takoradi to Busua, was reluctant to take five of us through one of the ubiquitous police stops because he might get fined for “overloading” so he asked Robin and Lucy to get out and walk through the barrier so we could pick them up on the other side, and he could go through the police stop with just three passengers. You can imagine the confusion this caused when the girls informed the police that they were ‘walking to Busua,’ without backpacks or water, 30 miles away, to ‘stretch their legs.’ Again, nuts.
Incidentally, just two nights ago we actually did get pulled over for overloading, this time with seven people in a small taxi. The policeman first asked us to take him to the restaurant we were going to and buy him dinner; we wouldn’t, so he asked for one of us to marry him; shockingly, we wouldn’t do that either, so finally we settled on the equivalent of a $4.50 bribe, which he pocketed before letting us all pile into the same taxi and drive off.
The People
I could write a thesis on the people here, but I’ll spare you and just say instead that they are different. They’re all beautiful for one thing; their skin seems ageless, and their average body fat percentage nationwide might actually be below zero. Typical of West African cultures, relationships are prized over efficiency (infuriating at times, but endearing when you’re not in a hurry), and their concept of time is entirely foreign. Sitting on a bench on the side of the road in the dark in Busua, Lucy and Robin and I spent several hours with one extended family, entertaining them by trying to learn their songs and teaching them some of our own. I remarked to Robin that I felt absolutely no obligation to ever leave the bench, and I think that is quite descriptive of the general feeling of inertia that pervades social situations here. This attitude has even prompted some crewmembers to christen a new time zone: GMT, Ghana Maybe Time.
The Accommodation
In Ada, we stayed in primitive huts made of braided banana leaves on the thin strip of beach separating the ocean from the Volta river – peaceful and picturesque, and I’ve never reveled quite so much in my own filth (lots of dirt, no showers). In Busua we split time between the Green Turtle Lodge, a remote backpacker’s paradise, and a little hotel near the beach in the village where we got to know the owners quite well. The beach is usually cleaner the further one travels from villages as it is mainly used as a latrine and landfill, but it is still quite nice in Busua because of the small but growing tourist presence. Ghana’s first surf shop just opened up there, and we had all but moved in by the end of the week, commandeering the biggest and most beginner of their boards (like small aircraft carriers) despite our lack of proper rash guards (resulting in heinous rashes on our legs), and even pretending to be real surfers in pictures for their new website.
On the morning of our departure, our hotel was being set up for a wedding, with tents and sound equipment. As we were packing, we heard through the megaphone: “Wedding today at 1pm! Best foo-foo in town! All participants welcome!” We were invited to stay and attend, despite never having met the happy couple, but knew that 1pm GMT could mean anything from 3pm to nightfall, and we had to work the next day so we left as planned – I'm sure the newlyweds weren't too upset.
The Food
Emboldened by the dares and blatant peer pressure of my friend Lucy, this trip turned me into quite a connoisseur of Ghanaian street food, meaning anything from little tables set up by the side of the road with various fried or cooked objects, to baskets on top of children’s heads on the side of the highway containing bags of plantain chips or FanYogo (Ghana’s premiere frozen yogurt, in a bag like everything else). This new passion of mine may sound unwise, but I look at it as a competition between my digestive tract and the parasites that commonly afflict Western travelers. So far, my digestive tract is enjoying sweet, sweet victory.
Fried plantains with ginger and peanuts, mangos, pineapples and coconuts (deftly carved by teenagers wielding machetes), omelette paninis, banana pancakes, loaves of sugar bread, rice in a bag with unidentified spicy sauces, white mush of uncertain origin called foo-foo, in a bag with more unidentified spicy sauces, and everything accompanied by newspaper napkins, which I now consider somehow sanitary. I just can’t get enough, and the best part is that it’s difficult to spend more than 50 cents on any one meal. I do draw the line somewhere, though – usually at the fish heads. I don’t like the way they look at me.
2 comments:
Hahaha oh man. Love the part about the food. But then, you know how I love food! May your digestive tract enjoy a long and resounding victory
love it love it love it! unbelievable stories. xoxo
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