TBC...
Where were we? In Wa!
That is when Suzanne had to go to the Wa outpatients to find out why she was resembling a lopsided chipmunk – a very fat, very full-cheeked, lopsided chipmunk. I had no doubt it was mumps – even if only on one side. I once had three children, a husband, two parents and a sister all in bed with mumps at the same time. I know what mumps look like. I know the side effects. I know mumps when I see it. But, just to have it confirmed for me, I called my own little physician in Sydney and Nici called back and made the diagnosis and prognosis for me over the phone. However, for some reason the doctors here decided that it is probably a mosquito that had bitten her on a gland and that antibiotics would make the swelling go away. Suzanne was already on antibiotics for a week for the swelling – with no result, but went on a second, much stronger course – also with no effect. The mumps swelling goes down in about ten -14 days and that is exactly when the swelling went down.
Anyway, Suzanne has now had her fair share of mishaps – then the mugging in Bamako, the loss of all credit cards and therefore money, now the mumps aka mosquito bite. Enough excitement and adventure for one gorgeous Canadian, already!( – at least for a bit, please!)
Back on the road and next stop the beautiful Kintampo Falls. A red Red Button Moment!
From there on to Kumasi where our newest passenger, Tony, joined the group. Tony is from Bristol, UK and will be on the truck with us only until Namibia. We camped in the grounds of the Presbyterian Guest House, not too far from what is the biggest open-air market in Africa. This is where I saw my first tray of dried fruit bats carried high and proud on a woman's head. And, for good measure, the woman who walked behind her in hip-swaying elegance, carried on her head a tray with a pile of flattened 'grass-cutter' (mm how shall I describe them best?...) – animals that resemble medium dog-sized hairless hamsters, large teeth, six inch tails, small ears. And these looked like road kill – they were that flat and splayed out. This was also where the guard at the guest house came to tell our group that no drinking or smoking was allowed on their grounds – our first encounter with the very strict religious rules of Ghana. Seems the people are allowed to swear and curse at white people who visit their country. The children are allowed to point fingers and call adults names. And when a bus load of churchgoers arrive at the guest house at midnight, they are not allowed to smoke and drink, but they are allowed to turn the communal television set on at full blast and watch American movies where violence and murder and swearing and sex are the main themes, while at least two people in the group of 40 have their laptops playing music so loud the windows shudder and another group sits ten feet away from where our tents are set up and start a conversation so loud that I suspect they were hoping the people on the other side of Kumasi could share in it. I stayed quietly in my tent until 1:30am, then got up and went around to everyone asking them if they would kindly keep the noise down as there were people sleeping. At some time after two they finally settled down. Then, at quarter to three, two Americans, young men whom I suspect being Jehovah Witnesses or Seventh Day adventists, judging by their similarity in face and hairstyle, their clothes and thick soled shoes, came outside their room to make telephone calls to their boss back in the States. Perhaps their mobile phone did not work too well or else they were still under the impression that you had to shout into a phone when you were making an international call, but their conversation was probably audible to you where you are right now. So, at about quarter past three I once again climbed out of my tent and gently informed them that we were really not interested in their business conversation.
They slunk off to their room. I went back to my tent, finally got comfortable and fell asleep. Only to be woken with a jolt as the same group that had arrived at midnight and stayed awake until after two, came out of the guest house and noisily boarded their bus and more noisily took off – at 4:45am! And when the roosters in the grounds took that as their cue to start crowing, I pulled the pillow over my head and gave up.
The next morning while everyone went off to the market, Kyle and Randy joined me in a taxi to go look for the World Heritage site of an ancient Ashanti Village. We drove around for a few hours all over the countryside, asking her and there if anyone had heard of it, but no one knew of such a place. What old Ashanti building there are, have long since been covered in cement, then had the cement crumble off, have some original clay brick showing, but more than that, nothing remains of a once proud, rich civilisation. Disappointed – and disillusioned – we eventually returned to Kumasi, I dropped Randy and Kyle off and continued on to the Ashanti Museum. Here at least I could see something of what once was. What an amazing nation the Ashanti was! A fascinating culture of mother and son reigning together, the solid gold stool not only the king's throne but also the enbodiment of the power and the strength of the entire nation. A peaceful nation, but who, like their totem - the peaceful porcupine, will shoot a thousand arrows at you if you threaten it. The museum is situated in the original King's palace, right next door to the current king's palace. When I told Terence about my fascinating visit to the museum, he reminded me that he was the guest of the Ashanti king only recently and stayed in that same palace at the time. Of course – the big chunk of iron ore – bronze plaque and all – I had forgotten!
The last morning in Kumasi, Suzanne and I tried something Mark had told us about from the last trans – we made cinnamon and jam doughnuts for breakfast! Brilliant! You simply take two slices of round bread, put a teaspoon full of strawberry jam in the middle, dunk it in egg batter and fry it in oil over the fire. Then sprinkle with cinnamon sugar and see how people crowd around the breakfast table licking their fingers and asking “Is there more? Please say there is more?!”
From Kumasi there was a general excitement in the air. We were heading for the beach and everyone had a smile on their face. Ghana must have some of the best beautiful beaches – the sand is soft and white and the surf perfect for swimming and surfing. We headed for an exceptionally lovely beach at Busua and stayed at Alaska Beach, a small camp-site with palm trees, grass roofed pergolas, a good bar and food and room for our tents under good shade and on grass. Bonfires on the beach, drumming sessions, surfing, abundant hashish, hammocks, baby monkeys who love beer, a man who comes to take orders for freshly squeezed fruit juices every morning, another man who takes order for pants made of flour sacks and shirts sporting the face of Obama, an owner who brandishes a big stick when her staff do not perform and swears like a Harlem madam, her white husband – from Alaska – who just smiles behind his beard and watches her flirt with the local talent, fishermen who throw their nets at dawn and the Rasta man who tells us how he fights to save the turtles and runs his little establishment called The Black Mamba further along the beach, dread-locked surfers and bikini'ed girls, sunrises over a beautiful ocean, the Southern Cross appearing in the night sky, coconut milk and crayfish and barbecued chicken and ice cold beer and long walks on the beach at sunset: pure trans pleasures!
After a blissful week at Alaska Beach, and another two nights at Brenu Beach, we arrived in Cape Coast where we took turns in visiting the old slave castle, the museum and the guided tour – a disturbing experience for anyone – and quite an eye opener for those who knew very little about the slave trade in Africa. The fact that the slave trade had already been going for many centuries before the first Arabs came from the north or the first Europeans came to African shores in their ships. As it is the custom for chiefs and kings to take prisoners as slaves whenever they overpower a neighbouring village, it was only a matter of course for them to provide these slaves along with their gold and other minerals and valuables when strangers came from other countries to trade with them. Just another commodity. And so the trade had been going since at least the 8th century. We baulk at the thought that the local tribes sold into slavery what we term 'their own people', but this is not how they would have seen it. Never 'their own people' – but people from other nations and tribes who had been conquered by them. People who were already slaves – their slaves; their property with which they could do as they pleased. The horror still remains though that our forefathers perpetuated this abhorrence, packed these souls into ships as they would bags of flour, carried them away from family and homes. The bigger horror still to me is that in our own time, right now, right here amongst us, we now perpetuate this abhorrence. People trafficking, the flesh markets in our big cities, the children slaves in the homes of the rich, the labourers on European farms living in abandoned chicken batteries or working in sweat shops in China or in factories in the UK, unable to return home as they have to pay off their 'cost', while their passport or travel documents are held by their 'owners'. Just as the Europeans – the Portuguese, the Dutch, the Swedes, the British sang their hymns and received their blessing after the sermon in the chapel right above the black dungeon where the male slaves awaited their shipment down below, just so we shrug when we see yet small one inch column in the back of the paper about a dozen people found dead in a cold storage truck that had arrived in Dover, destined for Edinburgh.
And then another bright Red Button Moment!
We spent the night in a delightful place – Hans Cottage Boatel in the Kakum Rain Forest Nature Reserve. It was Jesco's last night – he had sadly decided to leave the trip and go back to Germany – and we will miss him very much. We decided that, as Jesco has a knack for buying the strangest shirts in every place we visit, we will all put on silly outfits for his farewell party. And silly they most certainly were! I could not begin to describe the silliness of it all, but suffice to say it involved quite a bit of underwear worn over clothing, strange bits of clothing that made their first appearance since our trip started and one or two items that were bought – no doubt in the (literal) heat of the moment – in a crowded African market. Jesco regaled everyone for the last time with one of his fantastical fairy-tales with the group throwing in the odd word here or there for him to weave into the story. Then, to add total weirdness to the already silly evening, a zillion-trillion flying ants appeared from the earth and filled the air like a whirly gossamer cloud. Many of the group had never seen flying ants; is it just an African thing? Kyle and I got all nostalgic remembering running around the garden after a rain storm chasing the ants – in different eras of course, but the memories remain the same. Flying ants come out of the soil after a rain storm in their millions, fly around until they eventually lose their wings, and only a very, very few live to fulfil their destiny – which is to be fertilised, become a queen ant start a new colony. It was while everyone was mesmerised by the ants that we suddenly started jumping around as if the earth was on fire. The reason for these new antics was an attack by red fire ants – out in full force to attack and carry off the flying ants that had lost their wings. These fire ants are quite huge – and quick! Even jumping up and down, stamping ones feet they still manage to grab a hold with their sharp pincers and pinch hard enough to break the skin. And if they had only stayed on ones feet, that would still be bad enough, but they run up legs and in seconds you find yourself screaming in pain as they bite you all over. With the millions of flying ants in the air and on the ground and the fire ants attacking us, the scene could easily have been from some B-grade horror movie – you are not sure whether to laugh or cry, but whichever, it was very very painful!
The following morning we were all up early and ready to go – the Kakum rainforest and reserve was on the agenda for the day. I, for one, was most excited as I had done been here with Marc, Nici and Pierre when Terence and visited them for Christmas in 2002 whilst they were on their own trans trip and we joined their group on the day that they visited Kakum. The rain forest stretches over a vast number of square kilometres in a very hilly area and it is exquisitely beautiful. The trees are bigger than most people had ever seen – and there are so many of these giants – different species, but all lush and green and reaching to dizzy heights – majestic, regal, stunning. You cannot help but be moved by their magnificence. We had a Monty Python moment when Mark tried to drive the truck in through the gates – and we got stuck and almost took the roof of the entrance with us! The weight of the roof had made the beams sag since his last visit and they were a good few centimetres lower than our roof rack. He had to ease very slowly and very carefully back, park the truck outside the entrance and we had to walk up the hill to the information centre of the park. There we were picked up by a tall friendly Ghanaian, a botanist by profession, called Ben who acted as our guide and had so much interesting information for us that I wished I had brought a notebook with me! At last I had the names of all those beautiful trees that grace the countryside and tower way above the hills and forests of Ghana! (But none of them are names we had heard before so how to make comparisons to be able to visualise what I am talking about?) I loved the one tree with the exceptionally large leaves – as big as dinner plates; these leaves, when they have dropped and been lying on the forest floor for a while become all leathery. Two of these leaves put on top of each other form a 'roof tile' and as such offers good protection and water proofing for up to five years! Another massive tree, which looks as if the bark forms folds and deep pleats hanging down the sides of the tree also serves as a form of communication in the forest. Tapping lightly on these 'folds' results in a deep, sonorous drum sound that travels huge distances. If ever you happened to get lost in the rain forest, no need to panic – find one of these giants, tap a few times and sit in the comforting folds of the tree to wait for your saviour to come find you!
And then, definitely another high-highlight and Red Button Moment: We climbed to the crest of the hill, girded our loins and stilled our beating hearts as best we could, and stepped out onto the rope bridges of the Kakum Rainforest Canopy walk. How best to describe the experience? Walking on air, above the clouds, way above the highest of the high trees that grow against the sides of the mountain, the forest canopy down below in a distance, 40 metres down, the tops of trees and bushes and creepers a dense carpet of green below your feet – IF you dare look down! The bridges – built by Canadians, span distances of up to about 40+ metres between the highest trees. There is a small platform around the main stem of these trees where you can let go of your breath and relax for a few moments before continuing to the next tree. Once I walked through a cloud of the sweetest perfume imaginable, and, there, right below me, about ten metres down, I could see the top of a tree that looked like it had small bright yellow star-shaped flowers scattered over it – as if the stars had fallen from the sky and landed on this glistening dark green blanket of leaves. A long way in the distance you see your friends walking carefully – as if in thin air – nervously holding on to the side ropes, but the slightest movement on the rope bridges causes the bridge to sway and shiver and even the most courageous amongst the group looked slightly pale, smiles a little fixed, eyes sparkling and sweaty palmed. And at the end of it, everyone excited and thrilled that they had done the walk and all in agreement that it was an amazing experience.
Down to earth, back on the truck, back into the one big traffic jam that is Ghana and south again towards the coast. When we turned off the main road to Accra to go to our next destination, we had to stop and say goodbye to Jesco. He was to get a taxi from there to the airport as he was leaving that night. What a heartbreaking moment for us all – saying our last farewells – like leaving one of the family behind next to the road! We already miss you and talk of you often Jesco!
We trundled long on the very bad dirt road for about twenty minutes and arrived at our home for the next couple of days – the famous Big Milly's Backyard. This is where we had stayed with the children for one night when we had joined them on their trans – and I remembered it as the most idyllic spot – at the time it looked like a scene out of the film 'Beach' – on the edge of the beach, swaying palm trees in a swept clearing, hammocks tied to the trees, a large open fire in the centre where everyone sat and cooked and talked late into the night, a handful of huts nestling in amongst the trees around the perimeter of the camp, one small enclosure to the side where there was a shower and toilet, the only sign of people a few fishermen on the beach repairing their nets.
It is very seldom a good idea to come back to a place of which you have dreamlike memories.
Big Milly's is now anything other than those memories. The palm trees are still there but in amongst them, in every available space, it seems, some for of structure has been built. A large 24-hour bar, large kitchens for the restaurant, a double story open air lounge area looking out to see, with a fruit juice and cocktail bar, dozens of little shops and stalls where vendors sell their wares, a high wall with gate going out to the beach – with a big sign warning you not to take anything with you when step onto the beach as you will be mugged and your valuables will be taken, a dormitory, huts, bungalows, offices – and wherever there is not a building structure of some kind, there is a car parked – the beautiful swept central area one messy car park. I did go out onto the beach at 5 in the morning and watched the fishermen take their boats out to sea.. There were also about 30-40 men pulling a rope – putting all their strength behind each pull, straining on the count and using the rhythm to best capitalise on the joint endeavour – the rope obviously attached to a fishing net that was so far out to sea that none of the markers or floats could be seen. Later I came back – again and again to see whether the net was visible yet and it was only around 10:30am that I could see the markers and floats. And just before noon, after seven hours of pulling and heaving of forty strong muscular men, they finally brought in the net. Empty. No more than a bucketful of small silvery fingerlings! All that work, all that manpower, all those hours, and the catch was not even enough for the children’s tea. How horrifically sad what we have allowed to happen to our planet! What an indictment against all of us who have turned out backs all these years on the abuse of our earth. The look of dejection and despair on the faces of these men as those nets came in empty – and I am sure it was not so much disillusion at having done all that work in vain, but disappointment at having to return home to their families and once again tell them that there will not be any food on the table today and not be any money in the tea tin on the shelf this week. The last time I had seen fishermen bring in anything was in Essiouaria, Morocco. From there, going south, we have encountered many, many fishermen who fish in many different ways, and none of them have brought in anything bigger than a two inch sprat. In Busua one boat brought in a few bigger fish, but when we bought their whole catch for our supper – all four fish they had, they had nothing – nothing left to sell. There we did see them bring in small crayfish – way below the minimums, but nothing else. Damn the Koreans. The Chinese. Whoever is out there in their floating fish factories. And woe us for not doing anything to stop them.
No comments:
Post a Comment