My first video!

Lise let me borrow her camera, and Awine let me borrow his friend so he could film how Awine and I made our fufu. At the end I eat the final product, my favorite dish, fufu with groundnut soup and guinea fowl. 

GIVE ME MONEY!

New albums of the GWI Projects in Nadowli District, the Burkina border and a SILC Project. 

After leaving the small village, Lise and I made it back to Hohoe before dark. We picked up our bags, and caught a bus to Ho, just a couple hours south. When we arrived, it was dark and pouring rain. I was able to lead us to a guesthouse near by the bus station, but it was full. The guy there made a phone call, and said he found a place with a room at a decent price, although it was on the other side of town. In most other countries, I would have been a lot more skeptical of this guy's helpfulness. He waited in the rain to help get us a taxi and then rode with us and led us right to the place. To be honest, though, I was a bit nervous when he led us down a dark alley in a less-populated part of town. For the most part, Ghanaians are incredibly helpful and friendly, though there have been just enough instances of being cheated to keep me on my toes. Luckily, though, this guy was cool and we got a place. 

We didn't really make a plan, but the next morning, we decided to keep moving south, and hit the beach. 

I really would have liked to explore this eastern part of the coast more, but we only had one night before we wanted to get back to Accra. We decided to go to Ada Foah, a small, spread out beach town. Getting there was kind of complicated and required two tro-tros and a shared taxi. 

When we got to the town, we decided to go to the Sunset Beach Lodge, which was cheap, but really far out of town. We arranged a deal with the taxi driver to take us there, but when we arrived, he tried to overcharge us. With help from the hotel staff and another dude standing by, we were able to stand up to him and get our price...after plenty of arguing. 

After checking in we headed down to the beach. Every kid we passed yelled out to us, what I think was "Abrafuno!" which I correctly assumed meant white person. Another peculiar thing they were also calling out was, "give me money" in a very demanding way, yet it was obvious they didn't know how rude it sounded. It was the first time since my first days in Ghana that I had been called "white person" so much, and the first time I had encountered this kind of begging. It was really weird, and I am really curious where they learned it. This town was not touristy in the least, and begging is not necessarily bred out of poverty. I later learned that this is a hotspot for turtles laying eggs, an event that undoubtedly will attract droves of tourists and biology students. That month or two of outside attention could be the answer to why this kind of begging is so common here.

We wandered around the waterfront for a bit, walking through shells of buildings on the shore that looked straight out of a war zone. Curious kids yelled at us, and equally curious adults asked us questions as we passed. Eventually we sat down on near the water. There was only about 20 feet separating the water's high point from the closest buildings. The water looked really intense with a ridiculous undertow. Lise headed back to our place for something, I can't remember what, but while she was gone, I slowly attracted a small group of children. 

One of the girls taught me the local words for good morning/afternoon/evening, what is your name, how are you, black person, etc. I asked if she swam, and she said, "no, it will take me away!" She also said that almost nobody in the village swims, and when I told them I was going to swim, nobody believed I could. Most Ghanaians I have met don't know how to swim. Boss, our guide for the caves said, "I hate swimming!! I hate it FIRST CLASS!!" 

By the time Lise got back, there were about ten kids around me and a few guys in their young 20's. When she returned, I was excited to find that she had brought a couple of big beers. About halfway through mine, one of the young 20's guys asked for a drink, so I gave him one. I drank a bit more, then all of a sudden, a middle-aged woman came out of nowhere, as if she had smelt the beer. She was wearing a skirt and a bra. She asked me for a drink, so I handed her the bottle. She went bottoms up and chugged almost the whole thing like a champ. The last couple drinks, though, she handed to her kid of maybe 6 years, who drank it eagerly. I was kind of annoyed, but at the same time, it was pretty hilarious.

I went swimming, to everyone's surprise, and found the water to be pretty ridiculous. Probably the strongest waters I've ever been in. I couldn't really go in to far, or it seriously would have taken me away. 

That night we caught a moto-taxi in to town and found some banku, then found some beer. The tiny main street was pretty lively with several little spots blasting hip-life at high volume. It was fun.

Play Boys AND Girls

Two more albums. One is here. The other is here.

And I think I left off arriving in Hohoe, a small and beautiful town in the Volta Region.

Things I remember of this town:
-Amazing kebabs
-A bar with more character than most in the north
-A guy who liked Bush because he is "fighting the Muslims", who he described as "wicked people"
-A guy trying to sell me a red winter hat with a poofball by saying that it is a "chief's hat"
-A shop labeled "The Lord Will Provide Ent."...For a long time I thought "ent." stood for entertainment, which is a lot funnier than enterprise in this context
-An amazing view of green hills, an old church and an expanse of corrugated metal roofs.

The next morning we went to some caves nearby. There are quite a few attractions nearby, including some ginormous waterfall, but apparently the entrance fee is pretty steep at nearly $10. So we decided to go to a village called Likpe Todome where they've got some caves.

We took a tro-tro to the village, which dropped us off exactly where we were supposed to be. We had thought we would have to walk the last couple km, but nope!

There was a little wooden building (an old church apparently) that housed their tourist office. We waited around until word traveled through the village that the white people were here for a tour, and the guide, "Boss" came to assist us. It dawned on me that this was the first actual tourist attraction I had been to in Ghana, unless you count Kintampo Falls.

Boss told us that his Christian name was "Boneyface".

He was pretty old, probably in his late 50's, but of course very strong and a great guide. We walked at a steady pace (he kept telling us that he can go slower if we needed to...giving us the impression that he has guided some pretty weak people in the past) for about an hour up into the hills. We got a great view of the village down below and a vast stretch of green jungle surrounding it.

We arrived at a quaint little cleared out green area on the top of the hill that serves as a place for celebrations in the community. There was a swing hooked up to a tree that Boss swung us around on for a bit as we rested. We then headed down a steep slope toward the caves. Boss insisted that these are the best caves in the world. I have been to many caves and always am amazed. These were...not amazing, though the tour as a whole was really great.

The caves were small, and were just like pock marks in the side of a mountain. There were 6 of them, and they all had some sort of interesting historical significance to them. During the time that the Ashantis were going around Ghana and West Africa to capture slaves to sell to the white men (or use themselves) the village of Likpe Todome (meaning under the mountain) had to find a way to escape. They hid up in the caves whenever invaders were threatening. From the "lookout cave" you could see for miles, though it would have been impossible for anybody below to see any of the caves. Each cave served a different purpose for the people in hiding and the caves basically saved the village. Boss was exceptionally informative and, after 27 years of leading tours to the caves, still excited about them.

After the caves, we continued to descend rapidly down the side of the mountain until it was back to the muggy jungle. There was wild cocoa trees and avocado growing. Boss led us to a great waterfall with a small, shallow pool. There was not a lot of water coming down it though, and it didn't so much "fall" as it did pour down an 88 degree slope. To get the full refreshing effect, we had to push our bodies up against the rock and let the water run over us. Good enough for me though!

Boss had gone ahead of us on the way back to get an avocado. As we got closer to him, he started yelling at me to hurry, and something about ants. I was like, yeah, yeah, Boss, I'm coming, ok. Then he started to get more urgent and telling me to run because of "Driver Ants". That was about the time that I felt an intense stinging on my hand. I looked down and saw a huge black ant wriggling its body, its head pressing hard against my skin. Then I felt it on my feet. On my leg. I tore off my shoe to find a few more of these ants on me. I was under attack and Boss kept telling me to run. I didn't know what to do but these things hurt like hell. I would run for a few feet, then stop, forced to flick more of these things off my body since they had a crippling stinging effect.

I finally ran far enough (like 30 yards) to not be in the lair of these evil ants and Boss helped me get them off. He said, "they climb up into your uniform so fast, they will be all over your body!" This is one more reason that the jungle can be described as "green hell". Seriously, this felt like something out of Jumanji. The ants were ruthless. Lise got one bite.

Boss said that some tribes used to use "juju" to control the ants against their enemies. When opposing forces would try to invade, they would be attacked by the driver ants and immediately drop their weapons and run. I can totally understand this.

When we got back to town after the 4 hour hike, we decided we had earned a beer, so we asked Boss to show us where the "spot" was. I think there was only one in town, so we went there and treated him to a beer. I ate the rice that I had brought and Lise got some banku from across the street. At the bar there was a ridiculous poster for a locally made liqueur that looked like it was
supposed to be pretty high class. It was called "Playboy's" and it had a picture of a kind of well-dressed young guy sitting on a couch with too girls. When we commented on the poster, Boss pointed out there is something wrong with it and that he is going to write a letter to the company. "You see," he said,"if you look at the poster it is not just boys. They should change the name to Play Boys and Girls." We decided it would be better if we agreed with his point, and encouraged him to write the letter.

IT'S NOT OVER YET!

Because there's photos! Here is a link to the album!

Also, I will probably go into more detail about my last 1.5 weeks of traveling...hey, why not start now? It has been a while, so I don't know how I will remember, but lucky for you, I will make it brief.

So after Lise all of a sudden ditching work to come travel with me, we had to wait in the bus station for like 3 hours waiting for our tro-tro to fill up. As Lise sat with the bags I went around and did some investigating, and discovered another tro-tro in a random lot half a km away that was also going our direction, and they were showing more promise of leaving sooner. I went back, and we grabbed our bags off the top of the tro-tro, and we probably got on our way at least an hour earlier than we would have.

Our destination was Bimbilla, a small town south east of Tamale, near the border of Togo and the Volta Region.

The bus ride was pretty long, I think 5 hours, most of it on really rough dirt road. We were taking a VERY unconventional route back to Accra, and we were not sure how long it would take.

Just before arriving in Bimbilla there was a downpour that soaked our bags sitting on top of the tro-tro. They stopped and brought them inside for us, but it was too late. Most everything was already wet.

We wanted to move further south to Nkwanta, but we were unable to find a vehicle going there that day. We didn't mind too much as we were both tired and needed some real food (not just $.15 kebabs of organ meat shoved into our window at village stop) and a rest.

Lise had been trying for a long time to find some of the campaign shirts from the recent election. As we walked past the headquarters for the local chapter of the NPP, I suggested we just go and ask them if they knew where to find their party's t-shirts. The guys playing mancala outside were really friendly and they sent somebody to get one, and they just gave it to her, brand new. I was offered one, but declined it, as I am really more for the NDC party.

We found a chop bar (against the suggestion of a guy we asked, who said it would be best if we ate at the guesthouse) which had pretty good banku and cheap beef, though only two of the three pieces were edible.

The bar we found afterword to get a beer was being operated by a kid who could not have been more than 12.

The next morning we fenagled our way into the last two spots on a packed bus heading all the way to Accra (my heart goes out to those making the journey the whole way), though we were just going to Hohoe. The trip took maybe 7 or 8 hours and it was almost entirely dirt road. But the change in scenery was amazing. We had already left savannah and gotten into some greener views, but when we got to Hohoe, we found beautiful lush hills, the first non-flat terrain I had seen in Ghana. It even looked...mountainous.

I'm gonna finish this later I guess.

so far...

So far I'm not gonna go into any details. I am going to say that I am halfway down the Volta region after two days of travel that were complicated in the most fun traverery way ever.

the Most interesting development though is this: My good French friend Lise said our goodbyes on Monday morning, and I left for the bus station and she went to work. I also said my goodbyes to Awine, he cried and I half-promised him to come back, knowing it unlikely that I would return, but really really hoping that I can some day.

Then I get to the bus station, finding the tro-tro very empty, making it obvious that I would be staying put for a couple hours.

Meanwhile Lise is sitting at work missing me, knowing that her last week would be boring if I wasn't there. She decided to leave early. She ran home, packed her things in 6 minutes and took a taxi to the bus station and caught up with me. It was amazing, and she's a great travel companion. Should be a great last week, but an even more difficult goodbye.

Biggity Bolga

We arrived in Bolga just before sunset. I would be meeting a couple people from work here, but had not yet gotten word of where they were staying. Also, my cell phone was dead. A one-armed man helped Awine and I find a place for me to charge my phone. He took us down a stinky dirt alley and into his dingy drinking spot, where I knocked over a huge stack of sachets of water with my bag. Luckily none of them broke, but I was definitely being a nuisance. I got the phone working and found they would be at the Presbyterian Guesthouse. I didn’t know where this was (only passed through Bolga once, stopping for lunch) and it was not in my crappy guidebook. As we walked out of the one-armed man’s drinking spot, I was surprised he had not tried to get us to buy him a drink. He followed us back to the bus station where I said goodbye to Awine as he boarded his tro-tro. I now assumed that the one-armed man was waiting for Awine to leave before asking for his compensation. Not that he didn’t deserve it. He had showed us exactly what we needed and was extremely helpful, but the whole time I knew it would be help with a cost, which I can’t stand. It annoys me when people are friendly simply to get something in return. Then he asked where I was going. I mumbled something vaguely, and he kept walking with me. He said, “ok, so, should I leave you here?” I told him yes, and that I would be fine, waiting for him to ask for something…And it never came. As I walked away quickly, trying to figure out my next move for how to get to the guesthouse of an unknown location, I cursed myself for being so cynical about this man that apparently simply wanted to help a couple of travelers. It made me want to go back and buy him a drink, but he was already long gone.

I went to a shop and asked the man if he knew where the guesthouse was. The man pointed to a man sitting under an umbrella next to the street, selling cell phone minutes. I knew that I could wait for the co-workers to get back to town in half an hour and come pick me up, but I felt like getting there now. I asked this plump young man if he knew. He said yes and told me that it was much too far to walk to. He said he was closing soon and would take me on his motorbike in a few minutes if I waited. That sounded like a good idea, so I waited for five minutes, then hopped on the back of the guy’s bike. I worried that me+backpack+shoulderbag+heavy lunch would be too much, but he said it would be fine.

About halfway to the guesthouse, I started thinking, hey, I accepted that ride way too easily…where are we really going? But I feel that I have gotten good at gauging the situations in which somebody is trustworthy. For instance, if somebody (not a taxi driver) had come up to me at the bus station and asked me where I was going, then offered me a ride, I would have said no. But since I approached this mild-mannered guy, I think it is much safer. Of course, this is not foolproof, but if you live your life doing only what you KNOW is safe, that is super boring…and in fact not always safe. For example, a tangent: in Guatemala highway robberies are a big problem. Most backpackers/travelers therefore take what appears to them to be a safer mode of transport than the clunky chicken buses: the more expensive, slightly more luxurious charter buses that run on a schedule. First of all, why would highway robbers rob a chicken bus? Second, the charter buses run on a schedule, and therefore are much easier to predict their whereabouts. This is why I have heard so many stories about travelers in Central America being victims of highway robbery and I was never even worried about this. Tangent done.

We arrived safely at the Presbyterian Guesthouse, and the guy refused to accept payment from me. It was completely out of his way, but he still refused money. And this is the kind of guy who deserves the money more than anyone. It turned out that the guesthouse was full, though, so I waited inside until my co-workers arrived and drove me to a different guesthouse where I had to pay double what they were paying, lame. It was nice looking, but as usual with the more expensive options in developing countries, it is never worth it. The attached bathroom was nice, but the fan barely worked and I was hot all night. There was also only one outlet, and I needed to charge my phone, computer and camera. The next night I moved to a super cheap guesthouse run by the ministry of forestry. Shared bathroom, yes, but the fan worked great and I had THREE outlets! Sweet.

The next day we had a conference at my hotel to train people in how to conduct interviews for a baseline study for a maternal healthcare and child survival project. I didn’t really do much other than sweat as the power was out on the top floor and we had no fans or AC.

After the conference I went to my new guesthouse and started washing my clothes before it got dark. I was washing them outside, and as I was about to start washing my last bucket of clothing, two guys came up and introduced themselves, and said they wanted to help me. They must have seen the poor job I was doing and felt bad. I welcomed them and they just wilded out all over my clothes. I couldn’t even do anything since they were crowding the bucket and doing such a good job. I stated to realize just how incompetent I was in clothes washing. They even double rinsed them, “so we get the detergent out and the colors don’t fade.” Haha, like I care about colors fading, I thought. Their names were Gilbert and Banaldi, and they work next door. They said that if I ever need a ride anywhere on their motorbike, just to come by during their work hours and ask.

I quickly learned that the Farfar people of Bolgtatanga are basically rad and extremely friendly. I really enjoyed the town itself too. It is probably a quarter of the size of Tamale, but doesn’t feel any smaller, since it is so much more compact. It is very lively and seems to have a lot going on, despite its reputation as just a transit hub of the Upper East Region. I wouldn’t mind really exploring the town for a while. Oh, and the food is much better than in Wa, the place I have spent most of my time in the field.

That evening I went to a “spot” near my guesthouse to get a beer. It was a very comfortable open air bar that was basically 10 tables spread out in a big open dirt space. Each table had a bell on it to summon the server. They also played really good reggae music and I found this spot more enjoyable than most I have been to in Tamale.

I JUST REMEMBERED SOMETHING FUNNY THAT I FORGOT TO MENTION BEFORE. That was not meant to be in Caps, but seeing that it is, I am not going to change it. Anyways, a month ago when I was going through customs at the Burkina border, a Ghanaian official looked at my passport and said, “you have a Mexican background?” I was confused. “Umm, yeah, how do you know?” I asked. “Your name,” he said. I told him that most people in America wouldn’t have known that. What else is interesting is that my last name is actually not of Spanish origin, but of Basque. Done.

The next day was pretty non-descript. More preparation for the baseline. Visited some communities within Bolgatanga for an exercise in interviewing. Blah blah blah.

The next day, Wednesday, we finally made it into the field to begin the research. I had planned to only spend Monday and Tuesday with them before heading back to Tamale Tuesday night so I had three days back in the office to organize my departure. However, since they were not going into the field until Wednesday, I was obligated to stick around for the morning. I was told that after doing some quick work, I could catch a bus back to Tamale. I expected to be back in the office by around one or two…but nope, somehow I got left in a tiny little village not far from Awine’s village. They dropped me off with the people conducting the research, and said they’d be back for me. This was at about 10:00 and I assumed within an hour they would be back. First of all we were informed that this was a bad day to conduct the research because they did not get the word that we would be coming (bad etiquette in the small village, even though they HAD been informed, but word didn’t reach everyone) plus it was their market day.

So there was very little research and interviews being done. At around 1:30, bored out of my mind, I got a call from the people that were to pick me up. “When do you want to go back to Tamale?” I resisted just saying 2.5 hours ago, and told them I’d at least like to be back before dark. They said, “ok, see you soon.” With a one hour drive from the village to Bolga followed by a three hour drive to Tamale, it was looking bad.

Fast forward to 6:00. It is getting dark in the village, and the researchers are finished. Two of them have motorbikes, and after speaking on the phone to our ride, they said to get a ride to the market in Kandiga. So the two guys picked us up (4 of us) on their motorbikes and drove us, three to a bike, to the market about 15 minutes away. This put me in a better mood, as the dusk was really beautiful there.

I was pretty excited when we got to the market. It was dark by now, but this little village was BUMPIN! It was a very compact village, with the vendors crowding the road, selling their wares by lantern and candlelight. There was a bar at the center of it all that was playing loud hip-hop and reggae music. A fluorescent light illuminated the area in front of it where young guys congregated to dance and actafool. This was where we would be waiting for our ride to come pick us up. I got some rice while I was there because I had not eaten all day. I can deal with hunger. I was more annoyed that I had been left without being told, “yeah, we might not come get you for like nine or 10 hours”.

I also took a calabash of pito outside the bar, while the played the Barack Obama song three times. I was surprised at how little attention I attracted as I wandered around the narrow streets. Some people didn’t even seem to notice me, some greeted me in English, some in Kaseem, but nobody seemed surprised at my presence. This was odd, as it was after dark, I was alone (the other guys were waiting near the junction) and white. This was definitely unusual for them. One guy did ask who I was there with, as it is not protocol to be in a small village without being accompanied by somebody. It was difficult to simply get across that I was waiting for a ride and there was two other people waiting with me around the corner.

We finally got picked up at 8:00. They asked if I wanted to stay in Bolga another night, and I said, no, take me to the bus station. They assured me it still wasn’t too late to get on a nice A/C bus. I said I didn’t care and just wanted to get on the first one leaving. We pulled into the station at nine, and sure enough, there was a big fancy looking charter bus just about to leave. I couldn’t really argue against it, and the price was not bad at about $4.00, only a little more than the tro-tro price. This was, hands down, the nicest bus I have ever been on. It was brand new, Korean made. Still had all the plastic wrappers on the seats. By the time I got on, the only seats left were the ones all the way in the back that don’t recline. The A/C was blasting, and provided quite a relief. Two big screens were playing music videos. These comforts, predictably all had their drawbacks. About ten minutes into the ride, the A/C either broke or was turned off. The digital thermometer showing at the front of the bus jumped from 73 to 90 degrees. The windows on these buses don’t open. Then the music videos, which were mediocre, but tolerable, were turned off in exchange for a Nigerian horror film turned up at full volume. This was far more torturous than any cramped tro-tro ride. Plus on tro-tros we can open the windows and buy water and snacks from vendors when we stop at check points and toll booths. As I started to fall asleep, I felt a painful crunch, something destroying my knees. It was the guy in front of me who had violently dropped his seat back all the way on to me. It hurt so bad and I yelped in my drowsiness, not realizing what was going on. My seat, being all the way in the back could not recline. Lame.

I arrived at 11:30 and took a taxi back home.

So it is currently 4:52 on my last day of work. I’ve gotta get home soon for dinner, so I can’t go into a sappy story about how much I love it here and will miss the people. Just know that I am leaving some great people and I will miss many of them dearly. However, as I have been on the move so much in the last two years, I have learned to not get too attached to anything and look forward to the next thing when necessary. So on that note, can’t wait to see yall in just over a week! It’ll be great to be back! Woot!

*Update: I am leaving Tamale tomorrow morning. I am using an internet cafe for the first time in order to post this. I will be traveling to Accra this week through the Volta Region, the narrow strip of land between the ginormous man-made (biggest man-made lake in the world) Lake Volta and the border of Togo. It is pretty rough traveling for the first half of the journey which I am excited about. I won't be able to write a blog since I sold my laptop to someone at work, and probably won't be on the internet much. Back in Accra by Friday probably, and then flying out on Sunday. HOLLAH!

Formalities and Hospitalities Pt. 2

When we got to Sirigu the next morning at 6:30, it only took a few minutes to fill a taxi to Bolgatanga and Lise was on her way. We walked about 2/3 of the way back to Natunya before Ben and another guy came to pick Awine and I up on their bikes. They carried us all the way back to their home. I was thankful because the sun was always getting very hot and I had only bought one sachet of water in Sirigu. However, it did not mean it was easy for me, as the balancing act was a major ab workout for me, and my legs also got tired after a while.

After taking our tea, Awine and I went to one of the nearby homes (where we had been given pito the previous morning) to thank them for a guinea fowl they had sent to us. Because Ma had already slaughtered a fowl for us, Awine said we would take it home with us. I found out later that they had tied the bird's legs too tight and it died over night. Lame. While we sat in their compound, they offered me another calabash of pito, which I gladly accepted. There is something quite nice about a big gourd filled with millet beer at 8:00 in the morning, especially when you are drinking it about ten feet from where it was brewed.

This man sent us the guinea fowl. His child has quite the taste for pito. After they gave him a sip of it, I realized he looked wasted. Then I realized that all really little kids look drunk if they think about it. Imagining kids that just learned how to walk as alcoholics makes watching them way more entertaining.

He got dressed up for a photo.

Soon after that, Ben and the other guy came and picked Awine and I up on their bikes. More bumpy riding on the back of Ben’s bike as we rode about 15 minutes to a nearby village for their market day This village was much more compact, and their market extremely lively and crowded. Another one of those moments that really drove home the point: “Joey, dude, you are NOT in America, and nowhere near it.” Awine bought tomatoes (much cheaper here than in Tamale) and I bought about 15 mangos (much sweeter here than in Tamale). I shook so many hands in the hour we spent at that market I felt like a politician. It almost felt like I should be kissing the babies. We also had some kola nuts, the big red nut that is a stimulant and seems very popular among the elder men. After my fourth try with them, I still hate them. They are probably the only Ghanaian food/drink item that I will openly admit to not liking. Ben’s wife was at the market selling kooly kooly, a crunchy ball made from groundnuts and tastes almost exactly like peanut butter cookies. We had seen her making them the day before. I bought some and was shocked at people’s shock. Awine told me that everyone was saying, “hey look the white man is eating kooly kooly.” I saw people pointing at me, laughing. For the last time people, WHAT DO YOU THINK I AM EATING HERE? I swear, every time I eat a local food item other than rice, people are amazed, like I am eating something that I am obviously allergic to. How could I live here for three months and only eat rice? People are always surprised that we have groundnuts (peanuts) in America. It is true, though, that we don’t have other Ghanaian staples in America, like cassava, millet and yams (very different than American yams). Recently in the market in Tamale a young girl passed by me as I was enjoying a small bag of groundnuts. “You are eating groundnuts,” she said matter of factly. It made me laugh. Other times, the assumptions about what I eat are more annoying. One time I went to a chop bar and asked what they had. The woman simply responded, “we don’t have rice, rice is over there.”

Ben's wife making kooly kooly.

On the way back from the market a dog ran past us. I didn’t see it, but I saw the people chasing after it. “That dog is crazy,” Awine said. “You mean, it has rabies,” I asked. “yes, that is why they are trying to catch it.” One of the guys farther behind told Awine that the rabid dog had bit another dog and a child.



For lunch we had a delicious tomato stew with boiled yams (the ones I brought). After eating, I sat around with the young kids as they ate, teaching them how to say, “holla at ya boy,” and “choppin buha!” which I guess is my pidgin Farfar/English way of saying eating yams. I also showed them the Indian kid’s handshake, which was difficult but hilarious to them and the northwest hand slap and fist pound (not the California version).

Choppin' Buha!

Ben and his son, Azaya.

As I was sitting outside the house, waiting for Awine to finish bathing, two men on bicycles came up and the one in front greeted me in perfect English. He was wearing an elegant fugu, the traditional smock that can be very expensive. He asked if I knew who he was.
“No,” I said.
“I’m the chief, I live over there,” he said, pointing.
Before I could get up to shake his hand and introduce myself, he continued, “Why have you not come to visit me?”
I stuttered, “Umm, I…guess I didn’t know.”
He had a smile on his face, though this conversation did not feel good-natured.
“Where is Awine?”
“He is bathing.”
“He should have brought you to meet me first, don’t you know I am the leader of this village,” he said, sounding angry, though I could tell he was simply trying to assert his power and intimidate me. I did not like it, but what could I do? I mean, he’s the chief. “Where are you from?” he continued.
“America.”
“America…so Barack Obama is your leader.”
“Umm, yeah, I guess, so if you came to America, you would have to meet him first right?” I missed his point.
“I am the Barack Obama of this village, I am the president.”
“Oh…I’m sorry for the misunderstanding.”
“Where will you go if you have a problem here?”
I wasn’t sure if this was a trick question.
“Umm…you?”
“Ah-hah,” he said.
I was looking around, wondering where everyone else was, hoping that somebody would rescue me from this awkward situation.
“Are you going to the funeral?” he asked.
“Yes, we will go when Awine is finished bathing.” The two rode off on their bikes.
I had asked Awine about the chief the day before. We could see his enormous compound from where we slept. He said the chief died several years ago, and they currently had a “standing chief” until they decide on a new one. How someone becomes chief in a village differs from place to place, and Awine’s explanation of how it worked here did not make any sense to me. When he came out, I told him about the chief’s visit. Awine didn’t care. “If he says anything to me, I will f*** him off,” he said. I had never heard Awine swear before, and he seemed really annoyed. “He cannot talk to you like that. Why do you have to see him? He just acts like he owns everything.”

Soon after, we made the fifteen-minute walk to the funeral. When we got there, a fairly large crowd had already gathered. The old man that was being honored had died several years ago, but it took this long for his family to save the money for a proper funeral. Awine had told me to bring my camera since he had already asked the family if I could take photos. I did not feel very comfortable taking photos at the funeral since it was not for any sort of journalistic purpose, but Awine really encouraged me when we got there. Plus, it was hard to really resist taking photo of this elaborate ceremony. The drums and flutes had already started, and the first thing I saw when we got close to the compound was a sacrificed cow laying in front of the entrance. Each leg was broken and cut open at the knee and it’s neck was sliced halfway through, and bent to expose the inside of the throat.


All of a sudden a string of about 15 ornately dressed “war dancers” came barreling out of the compound, screaming war cries and waving about huge spears and bows and arrows. They wore fugu, hats decorated with cowrie shells and horns, and decorations made from leather and animal fur. They looked fantastic and terrifying, which I think was the point. As soon as they all left the compound, Awine insisted that I follow him inside. The ground was covered in mud and hay, and a slaughtered bloody goat lay in the center. Women were walking around the middle of the compound, some in bras, some topless. The war dancers started to make their way back in, at which point Awine led me out.

I took a couple pictures, and Awine and I were quickly summoned to where the village elders were sitting, in shade covering built right outside the compound. We bowed our heads and shook hands with each of them. They were dressed in their nicest fugus and hats, and gave us intimidating looks. Awine and Ben spoke with them for about five minutes, giving me no hint as to what was going on. Eventually Awine had somebody bring them a jug of pito, and he explained that they had not gotten the word about me coming with my camera. I felt awful, but it turns out they were fine with it, and now they wanted their picture taken. I obliged, not wanting to incur the wrath of the village elders of Natunya. I also insisted that I bring them some kola nuts. So I went and bought them a dollar worth of kola nuts, and they were grateful. As we stepped out of the shelter, I turned and was face to face with one of the warriors. He was huffing and puffing at me, making a lot of noise and pointing his spear in my face. I knew this was part of the persona that comes with the costume (and maybe I was in his way too) but I was genuinely scared. I kept my composure and quickly stepped aside avoiding any deep wounds.

“Joey, dude, you are NOT in America. You are in AFRICA!”

The elders of Natunya+Awine

Awine and I went back into the compound, and he insisted that I join him up on the roof where the drummers and fluters were performing. Yeah, I said fluters, what? I did not want to, as it would make me even more on display than I already was, simply being the first white guy in the village in who knows how long. But it was either follow him up, or remain alone on the ground with the scantily clad women. I followed, and luckily it gave me a much better angle to photograph the dancers. Otherwise I would not have had any decent images.



I really just wanted to sit and enjoy the ceremony and sip pito, but Awine and I both needed to get back to Bolgatanga soon. Before leaving, though, I wanted to have a calabash of pito. They were selling it (along with kola nuts, small snacks, sachets of gin, etc.) right there outside the compound. As they poured it for me, I tried to pay the $.15, but a friendly bearded man that I had met the day before had already bought it for me. As much as I was feeling the hospitality of this little village, Awine was feeling the effect of being with the white man. He said that being seen with me makes others assume that he is rich by association, and asks him to buy them drinks. That is usually how it is for me, but I guess when the people can’t ask me for money or drinks in English, they have to turn to Awine.



We only stayed at the funeral for about an hour, before we had to head out. That morning I had told Lise how much I was enjoying the funeral music, even though it didn’t stop all night. She said it was more disturbing for her since her friend, who is working in a small village in the region, told her that these all night funeral celebrations result in a lot of teenage pregnancies.




Back at the house, I packed my things and thanked Ma profusely for her hospitality. She speaks a bit of English, but we had Awine interpret our conversation for us. She apologized for not being able to slaughter an animal for every meal. She said that if I come again (preferably not during the dry season) and give more notice, she will tell everyone in town that her son is coming, and they will have a big feast for me. Ma is the sweetest woman ever, and it was a privilege to be considered an honorary son.

Awine with Ma (right) and one of his aunts.

Luckily, as we headed down the trail to the main road, Ben picked up my pack, and rode it all the way to Sirigu for me, so I only had to carry my shoulder bag. Part way there, we saw some of the village boys walking to Sirigu, and Awine had them carry the rest of our bags. In the villages anybody older than you can basically tell you to do whatever you want. This is a pretty sweet setup for me, as I could have asked any of the young boys to fetch me whatever I needed from town (Awine did this, but I never did) but as a guest, nobody would ever ask anything of me. On the way, we passed another funeral. They were also doing the war dance, though not as many people were in attendance. Awine explained this and said that since this family did not have as much money, they didn’t slaughter as many animals, which brought fewer guests. I want my funeral to be a party, but I don’t want anyone coming just because we slaughtered hella animals.

About a third of the way to town, Awine got a passing guy to pick me up on his bike, and Awine caught a ride soon after. I sat where Ben had put my bag. I gave him one of my mangos, and two to the guy that had given me a ride. I had two left, and as we waited for one of the tro-tros or share taxis to come, I ate one and started on the second. About three bites into the second, with my hands and faced covered in sticky mango, a taxi pulled into town. There was an immediate sense of panic and Awine told me to run.
“My bag?”
“Just leave it! Run!”
Awine got to the taxi a step ahead of me and he jumped in, pulling me in with him, as we beat a crowd of about ten other people trying to get in. I still had my mango in my hand and my shoulder bag. A teenage girl squeezed in on my right, and a stocky young guy pushed in on Awine’s side. Three were sqeezed in up front. Ben shoved my pack into the trunk. After a bit of mechanics work on this barely moving heap of rust, three guys gave the taxi a hefty push start and we were on our way to Bolgatanga.

On the way there, we came so close to hitting some war dancers performing at a funeral. I could see them dancing up ahead, and moving toward the road, but figured they would yield to us. Even though our driver was holding down the horn for about ten seconds before getting there, they were so much in their zone that I don’t think they realized we were there until we were slamming on our breaks. I figured we would get speared, but they let us pass peacefully, probably a bit shaken up themselves.