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.

Formalities and Hospitalities Pt. 1

It’s 5:02 in the morning and the nearly full moon is higher in the sky than I expected. I hear the drums of death banging in the distance, with no sign of stopping. They have been going steady all night. The sun has yet to come up, but proof of its proximity is seen in the sky’s color, one shade lighter than black.

Although it seems that the end of the night came far too quickly, I can hear the first fire start crackling amidst the sinister funeral music, and as I look over the edge, I can make out some of the younger girls fetching water. Next to me, I see Lise and Awine rolling around in their blankets, also trying to fight off the extra early wakeup call. The stars had been comforting as we stared up from the adobe roof, but they were fading quickly, another reminder that we needed to be on our way.

Lise gathered her belongings into her small shoulder bag, and before the sun had come up, we were on the trail heading toward the main road, the funeral drumming slowly drawing closer. Five minutes walking south on the main road and the half a dozen men on a roof top playing drums and flutes were in full view. To our right, we saw men at the burial site, a slaughtered goat laying next to them. As surreal as the scene was in the early morning light, we couldn’t slow down, as we had to get to the next town and back before the sun was too harsh to walk in.

***

On Friday I made sure to get a lot of work done so that I was able to leave work a few hours early. At 12:15 I sent a rough draft of a document I have been working on for weeks and rode my bike home aqap! By 1:30 Awine, Lise and I all had our bags packed for the weekend trip to visit Awine’s family. They live in a small village called Natunya, in Ghana’s Upper East Region, and just a few miles south of Burkina Faso.

After taking a taxi to the tro-tro station, I bought some yams (not common in his village, but plenty in Tamale) to take to his family. It is rude to arrive empty-handed. The three hour tro-tro ride was expectedly sweaty, dusty and crowded, but that story is worn out.

We arrived in Bolgatanga, and quickly got in another tro-tro to Sirigu. Same story, though Lise and I were given the highly prized front seats, which was a nice relief. Arriving in Sirigu was surprisingly hectic. It was the end of their market day and the small village was bustling on their main road (assuming they have more than one road, which I don’t think they do). Some of the people here have the coolest facial scarring, delicately carved intricate patterns covering their whole face. Everyone was friendly with us since many of the people here knew Awine. Lise and I quickly learned the Farfari word for good evening (zanore…mas o menos) and the proper way to reply to “welcome” (mazim). From there it was a two mile walk (according to Awine, though I think it was longer) to his village. The road was wide and dusty, but flat enough that I could not complain. The sun had given up its torment for the day, leaving the walking conditions quite agreeable, though I was stuck with a heavy bag packed for the weekend as well as a few days in the field for work.

Fifty minutes later we reached hiss village in the dark. Unlike most rural villages I have been to Natunya is extremely spread out. It took fifteen minutes to walk from the main road and downtown Natunya to Awine’s home. When he pointed ahead and said, “that’s my house with the light on,” I was surprised to see light. A couple shops in the main part of town had power, but other than that, none of the houses that I saw did.

For the first time in over a year, Awine was back home. He told me later that he would not have gone until Christmas if it wasn’t for me. It made me glad that I paid for his transit and the yam gifts, because I knew money was the biggest obstacle for him making a trip home.

When we arrived we were greeted by hugs from Awine’s mothers (Yes Awine has two moms, no not like that. His father, who died quite a while ago had two wives). The hugs caught me off guard because I couldn’t think of a single time I have actually hugged anyone since I’ve been here, but they were great.

As were welcomed inside the common area of the concrete home, Lise and I wondered if they had turned on the generator just for us. When Awine’s twin brother started to fiddle with a little TV, unsuccessfully trying to turn it on, we were pretty sure this was the case. We felt bad as we knew the cost of gas here is very high.

Awine’s mom (who I will now refer to as Ma, since her name is Ma something, and Awine calls her Ma) brought us a huge calabash of what looked like dirty water with yellow chunks. Awine explained that this is the traditional drink to welcome strangers with. It was water, millet, shea butter and pepper (chili powder). I was more worried about the taste and offending my hosts than the source of the water. Awine took the first drink then handed it to me. And it was pretty agreeable. Like spicy buttery water and a hint of millet. After we passed the calabash around a few times, the liquid was gone, and all that remained was half a calabash of wet millet grains. We were all given spoons and each ate a few heaping scoops of the soggy grains. The hospitality and sense of tradition we were taking part of made the bland mush taste incredible.

Soon after we were served our dinner of t-zed (short for tuo zafi, meaning “hot food” in the Hausa language, it is a millet porridge and staple to those in the northern regions of Ghana and Burkina Faso) and okra stew. Okra stew is my least favorite of the Ghanaian soups, but it was still pretty good.

Awine has a sister in London who is married to a British guy. About ten years ago he came to visit the village. I can tell this was a memorable event for the community because I heard a lot about him while I was there. Quite a few people actually thought that I was him, since it is not every day that a white man visits the village. Ma said I was just like him since I enjoyed the T-zed.

After dinner we sat in front of the house with the family and chatted. Well, none of them really speak English, so Lise and Awine and I chatted next to the family, and I tried to learn the kids’ names. The Ghanaian/African family structure is extremely confusing to me, as it seems like there was a constant flow of family coming and going, all being introduced as some different member of the family. I can’t really begin to explain it because I don’t understand it, but there were a lot of women and children, and a couple men usually present.

Awine showed us to the traditional compound where the three of us would be sleeping. This home is Awine’s uncle’s, but I think his brother lives there too. Actually it seems that everyone just kind of lives everywhere and I am not sure if spaces are really designated. We climbed up a set of six steep adobe stairs up to the roof of one of the rooms in the compound. Looking down, we saw the courtyard of the compound, where wives and children were laying out sleeping mats as they got ready for bed. Lise and I talked about how arriving at night is the best, since you get to see everything brand new in the morning.

We woke after sunrise, though Awine was already up and socializing with the family. Lise and I lazed around for a bit, peeking over the edge at the women cooking and the kids doing chores. Since we had met everyone at night, we couldn’t really recognize the people we saw. When they glanced up at us, we weren’t sure if they were seeing us for the first time.

The Compound.

The big cones are grain silos, storing millet, the small cones are chicken coops.

Awine's uncle. He is proof that EVERYONE, even in Africa has at least one eccentric uncle.

After taking tea, Awine took Lise and I on a walk. We visited several households of friends of his. We were welcomed very warmly by everyone we met and in one house they brought us calabashes of pito, the local millet beer. Awine told us that he could not take pito. A while back he fell off a house, and went to a local doctor who helped him. The doctor said he had to repay him with a goat, and until he did so, he could not take pito or else he would fall again. Looking back on it, I don’t know why I told him this was nonsense and he should just have the pito and he’d be alright. But I am actually really glad I just left it.

Visiting Awine's neighbors in their compound. From top left to bottom right: Ben (Awine's twin), Awine, Lise, guy that speaks a bit of English, super smiley guy that buys me pito the next day (not smiley in photo),...guy in blue and white shirt...Guaranteed that dog on the bottom left is gonna be eaten within the year. The people in this area are known for their love of dog.

Because the village is so spread out, it took a long time to move from home to home. Eventually we reached dam, which Awine said should have been huge, but looked like a small pond since the contractor in charge of the project “chopped the money”. Kids were playing in the pond and women were fetching water from holes dug next to the dam.

Awine said there were crocodiles in the pond, but we needed to wait for one of the men who calls the crocodiles in order to see them. Within minutes a man came by and made a loud noise that I can only spell “ard-d-d-d-d-d-d”. Sure enough, we immediately saw a croc pop its head out of the water. After some discussion on what to do next, some of the kids ran and caught frogs. More debate among the people by the pond, and they decided to make a seaweed leash for the frog’s leg. They then tied the leash to a rock near the edge of the water, close to the crocodile. The croc came closer, and it was obvious that he wanted the frog, but with so many people gathered around, it was not going to come out. Finally, the kid just threw the frog to the croc. Within ten seconds, the frog was back on land. The kid caught the frog again, and tossed it out. A brief chase, a splash, and I am pretty sure the crocodile got his meal.

We walked around the water for a while, and saw a few more crocodiles poking their heads up. Eventually, Awine decided to jump in with the kids and splash in the water. I had read a week before about bilharzias, the disease that plagues almost all bodies of water in sub-saharan Africa. It does not sound awesome, not even a little bit. This body of water also had a lot of high risk factors: not moving, shallow, and plenty of animals droppin deuces in it. It was so hot though. I debated it for a while, and decided I need to jump in. Lise argued with me though and said that this would not be hard corps, just stupid. She was probably right, and I think it might be better that I listened to her. I am so close to the end, and I haven’t gotten sick yet, so why do it almost on purpose now?

By the time we got back, lunch was being served. Ma had apologized the night before for not slaughtering a fowl for us on arrival, since it was so late. She made up for it by slaughtering one that morning, and made our groundnut soup with it, accompanied by rice balls, which they grow locally.

This was Natunya’s market day, so after lunch Lise and I took the walk into town. We pretty much just sat under a thing built for shade, while we drank water and a local cocoa and ginger drink sold in a plastic bag. We also got mangos (about a nickel each!). The market consisted of a group of about 15 women sitting under a tree, and a couple shops selling pito. While I was picking out my mangos, a woman with a beaming smile came up to me and opened up a bag to show me what looked like hamburger patties. “WHAT!?” I yelled. Everyone laughed at my reaction and a couple women even mocked me, repeating, “what?!” They only cost about a dime, so decided it would be worth the risk. I couldn’t imagine that they would actually have hamburger here, but it looked just like it. Was it a hallucination? Predictably, yes. It turned out to be a bland, mashed millet patty. Even holding it and looking at it up close, it looked just like a hamburger, but I couldn’t even eat it. I think it could be sold to vegetarians pretty easily though. They deserve/love that kind of crap.

Before leaving the market, I bought a gallon of pito to share with the family. It was much more expensive at $1.60 than the gallons in Upper West, at $.45. I wanted to get two gallons, but Awine said one should be enough. The truth was that I was just really in the mood to relax in the shade and just sip pito from a calabash for the rest of the day, and I knew I would need my own gallon for that.

Back at the house, Ma, Ben (Awine’s twin) were playing Mancala, though they call it something different, and the rules are different than the Resource kids at Adams Elementary School taught me two years ago. Jeez I miss those kids. They showed me how to play and I caught on quickly, though I was not very good at this way of playing. I’ll be glad to revive my love for the game when I get home though.

After a few rounds, we started playing a board game that seems more popular with the kids everywhere. It is kind of like sorry, but there is a dice, not cards. Eventually some of the elders that live nearby came and I figured that meant it was time for the pito. Ben’s wife brought out some calabashes and mugs, and we distributed the drink. They were all thankful, and kindly requested that I take their photo. A Dutch girl I had met in Tamale told me that I would have trouble taking photos of people in the rural areas, but I actually have found that people are more upset if I don’t take their photos.

Lise was planning to meet some Canadian friends in Bolgatanga the next day to go to Burkina Faso. I was really jealous, because with my single entry visa, I could not join them. Plus, I am not really in a position to take time off work. She got a text message from one of them saying she needed to be in Bolgatanga that day since they were leaving so early the next morning. She did not want to go, so we asked around, and found that she could get a car from Sirigu the next day as early as 6:30.

Just before dark, I remembered that I had brought my slackline, but had not used it. I grabbed the ropes out of my bag and quickly found two trees about 15 feet apart and set up the line between the two of them. Awine and his brother had followed me, though after just a few minutes of walking across the line, I had attracted about a dozen more village kids and teenagers. Slacklining is fun, but entertaining alone for only so long. So I asked who wanted to try next. Nobody volunteered, so I grabbed one of the confident looking guys close to my age, and pushed him towards the rope. I held his hand as he climbed up. He wobbled pretty bad and everybody laughed hysterically when he fell. I had better luck with the small kids, and gave each of them at least one turn, holding their hands as they walked the length of the rope. After holding their hands and letting them turn the other direction, I let go, to see if they could do it on their own. The only one to make an unassisted step was a lanky young girl who everyone called “flamingo” because of her long legs. I could tell people doubted her, but she did very well, and I was really impressed. I picture coming back to the village in a year and seeing a bunch of kids tying ropes between trees and walking across. Kind of like the scene in Ghana in “Endless Summer” where the kids grab pieces of wood to try and surf.

Dinner that night was served in the dark as they had run out of gas for the generator. Lise and I were both glad. Our dinner was t-zed with bra, a groundnut based vegetable stew, and guinea fowl. As we started to hear the funeral music in the distance, and I thought about my day, I definitely had one of those moments of deep appreciation for what I have been blessed with. I looked over to Lise and said, “hey, look at your life right now.” She said, “I know, I’ve been thinking this all day.” It was so good to share this feeling of wonder and gratitude with someone else who really appreciated this moment.

As we layed on the roof that night, Lise said, “let’s look for…what do you call in English the stars that move across the sky really fast?” I couldn’t resist. “Oh, we call them ‘crazy stars’.” After seeing a shooting star, I told her what they really were called, but we decided that “crazy stars” is way cooler.

A YAM!

First I would like to make an addition to yesterday's blog that I forgot to put in. It is regarding the destruction after the storm. I think I was a bit too hard on the storm because I did not mention how there were lots of benefits. First of all, I saw lots of women gathering all the fallen branches to use as fire wood for cooking. I also saw that the roaming sheep and goats were eating very well on all the leaves and mangos. I think it's good for them to get a break from trash for a few days. Also, everybody just seemed to be working everywhere, which is good. These storms may be good for the local economy as it creates work for a lot of carpenters and construction workers. Oh, and this morning I saw that Monica's yam shelter was already rebuilt, and with a corrugated metal roof and lumber. It looks nice, but I am still wondering how much it cost. Awine told me that a thatch roof shelter that size could cost between $40 and $80, so I imagine a sturdy metal roof was quite a bit more. I hope she's sellin yams again soon, cause I'm gettin hungry!

And thanks to Mr. Steve Lombardi, I now have a toothpaste for dinner that basically sums up my life in Ghana. On the left you can picture me, on the right Awine...or Monica even.


toothpastefordinner.com

Tamale is storming up a storm!

Oh, this is me in Sankana (mentioned in two of my posts about being in the field) having a calabash of pito.

This week was fairly…non-descript I guess. I’m working in the office again, actually doing stuff this time though. I am starting to tie up loose ends in my life here in Tamale before leaving at the end of next week. Things like, selling my books, taking photos (haven’t really done that in Tamale yet), buying gifts, a bit of schoolwork, etc.

On Tuesday, Awine and I went for a walk, and Lise joined us this time. I am still not sure who we visited (I thought we were going to one of his friend’s places, but I think it might have been family of his girlfriend). Halfway there it started to rain. I was pretty excited because this was the first REAL rain since I’ve been in Tamale. As soon as it came, though, it looked like everyone else was panicking, running inside to escape. I know that during the first rains in India it is cause for celebration in the streets, but not here! That was kind of disappointing, mostly because my joy and dancing in the rain would be seen as the behavior of a mad man.

We got to our destination just before the rain, wind and lightning REALLY started coming. We were visiting a family in an apartment in a fairly nice complex on the outskirts of town. Their home reminded me of grandma’s. Not my grandma’s, but just any grandma’s. You know what I’m talking about. The mother of the house welcomed us warmly and brought us all bottles of Guinness (score!) and we chatted for a while as the young kids giggled at us. I wanted to leave just to enjoy the storm outside, but I knew we wouldn’t really leave until the weather let up. The daughter, Audrey, was the cutest thing ever and she was missing her two front teeth. I asked if they had any traditions about what to do with teeth when they fall out. No tooth fairy, but they do go outside and throw the tooth in the direction of their uncle’s house, then dance. The dance is to make the next tooth grow in strong. Lise said in France they have a tooth “mouse” that comes when you put your tooth under your pillow, and leaves a small gift. Jeez, the French are silly sometimes.

The next day we got tons of mangos, thanks to the rain! Everyone at work thought it was kinda weird when I sliced mango and squeezed lime into my lunch of beans, pepper, yams and plantains. “That’s how you do it in America? You put mango in your beans?”… “Umm…no…it’s just me…mangos are rad. What?”

That night Lise came over for dinner, and while she was there, the rain started to pour like crazy. It came so fast that when I walked out of my room it was silent, and when I got to the kitchen, 4 feet away, the rain was deafening, and the flashes of lightning were bright. I ran outside and was completely soaked in about 12 seconds. I got Lise to come out too, but she only stayed out long enough to get half-soaked. It was coming down harder than the night before, and I thought for a moment that it was the hardest I’d ever seen it rain…but then I remember that I’ve been sure of the same thing in Belize, India and Thailand…so I’ll just say it’s the typical ridiculous tropical rain. After an hour it calmed down…and then doubled in intensity. The wind was intense and I could see it knocking down tree branches. One of the branches that came off our mango tree was huge, probably 15 feet long and thick. I actually saw it fall. I watched at our doorway for quite a while. At one point I watched a huge bolt of lightning flash across the sky and could not have been more than 2 km. away. The blinding brightness was followed by pitch darkness as it knocked out our power. I had just finished my dinner (luckily) and had started writing something for work…but with the power out, who wants to do work? So Lise and I decided to use my two hours of computer battery to watch a movie. It was pretty fun, being cozy inside from the storm…but I couldn’t stay away for too long, and I kept running outside to experience it. Right outside our door the water was about 8 inches deep. Also, my roof was pretty leaky and would have flooded my room if I didn’t put down a couple of buckets.

I didn’t see Awine until about 11:00 that night, after the storm was over. I was still pumped and I asked him if the storms were always that intense. He didn’t seem to understand, and told me that he had been sleeping since he had eaten dinner. He barely even noticed the storm. Oh man! He missed out! Or…this is pretty common and as exciting to them as the rain in Seattle is to me.

The next morning on the way to work, I saw quite a bit of destruction. Lots of big tree limbs down and quite a few shoddily built shops or houses leveled. I saw one wooden food stand that was now upside down in the pedestrian/biker lane. It was pretty sad to think of how devastating these storms must be for the people in the villages where their homes are not very sturdy.

Just before getting to work I saw the stand where we usually buy our yams for lunch. It is basically just a thatch roof shelter held up by a frame made from about 6 branches. It always looked like it would fall soon, so I was not surprised to see it destroyed. I was worried about Monica (the yam seller) because she sells yams for a living. It is a steady income for her and her kid(s), but I doubt she’s got the spare cash to have her place rebuilt. Coming in to work, I was all worried about her, but when I told people they just kind of laughed. They told me that the magnitude of the storm was pretty common, and they did not seem too worried about Monica. I don’t know if that is because they know she will be alright, or if they just figure, well, not my problem. I really hope it is not the latter.

This storm, unfortunately did not bring mangos. It basically knocked them all of the trees, and very few of them were ripe.

Why Nature Should be for Speakers, not Binoculars

When I found that I would not be working the weekend, I quickly figured out a better way to spend my Sat/Sun than just hanging out under the mango tree (which is not necessarily a bad thing). I invited Lise (I feel bad that I have been knowingly spelling her name wrong this whole time, but it is pronounced “Liz”. From now on, though, I think I’ll spell it Lise) to go to Kintampo Falls, an attraction not too far away that sounded like a good getaway. We met up early, around 7:30, and headed to the tro-tro station. Lise led the way as she had scouted out where to go for the transit the day before. We got into our van/SUV thing, and rode for about 3 hours to Kintampo, a small town south of Tamale in the Brong Ahafo region. The drive was great, as we saw the landscape change from flat, dry savannah, to greener, lushly forested hills. It must have been ten degrees cooler here, and did not have the humidity that is so oppressive in the south.
Kintampo does not have a lot going on, and the town could have been any town in the region. It was weird though, and I could not shake the feeling that it felt like a dingy port town, and was just a bit sketchy. Also, I found that people were constantly trying to rip us off. I assume that this was because Kintampo attracts travelers just passing through, trying to avoid staying the night in town, never staying two nights. Lise also said that being two white people we are more likely to look like tourists, easily taken advantage of. True, I was usually alone, as was she, and we never had any problems.

The first thing we did in town was get some oranges (I am pretty sure we were overcharged a few pennies for them), and then we got some fried yams and pepper for lunch. We sat in the shade on the front step of a closed shop. When I got thirsty, I called out to a young girl selling sachets of water. She came over and I asked for one bag of water and handed her 20 pesewas. One water sachet is 5 pesewas, but she only handed me back 10 pesewas change. When I asked her for the rest of my change she acted like she didn’t understand me, and started to walk away. Two women sitting on the step a few feet away tried to say that she didn’t have change. I said, “fine, give me one more.” She gave me another one, and started to walk away, then turned and said, “one is 10 pesewas.” She was telling me to pay double! Then the women next to us echoed, “one is ten pesewas”. I couldn’t believe how blatant this was. I hate getting cheated like this. When I started to argue, a big man came up to try and solve the situation. He spoke to the girl in their language, and then says to me, “she says you gave her 5 pesewas for two waters, and so you owe her 5 more.” I explained to him the truth, and he seemed to believe me because, really, what reason did I have to rip this girl off for less than five pennies. I was sick of it at this point though, and I handed the girl 10 pesewas and told her to go away, she resisted taking the coin. “No, you must keep your balance,” the man said. I didn’t care about the money, I just wanted this scene to be over, and to let this girl know that you can’t just see white people and rip them off that easily. Ok, you can rip them off that easily, but it won’t work with me. You’ll have to have a better plan than that. “Just take it and go,” I told her. She eventually took the money, looking embarrassed, and walked away.

After our lunch (the yams, by the way, were the best ever!) we went to the falls. Surprisingly we only had to go to two different taxi drivers to get a good taxi fare, which was even lower than what the three-year-old guidebook quoted. Upon arrival, I was disappointed to see about three buses at the entrance. I had heard this was a nice, quiet little spot. At the entrance, we were surprised that there was an entrance fee. I had only brought 4 Cedis. The fees for non-Ghanaians were: 3 cedis, 2.5 cedis for students and 2 cedis for volunteers. We said we were both volunteers, and they asked for our “volunteer ID cards”. We basically laughed and said, “what? What the hell is a volunteer ID card?” We told them all about the NGO’s we work for, but they didn’t really care and showed no sympathy. “Ok, well, we are also students.” “Do you have your student ID cards?” “NO, why would I think to bring that to a freaking waterfall?!” It was really annoying, and even after quite a bit of arguing, these guys would not let us in for less than 3 Ghana cedis. I later talked to 2 different girls who had gone there without their proper ID’s and got in with the discount they asked for. I don’t know what our problem was.
We walked down the 156 stairs to the base of the waterfall where we saw about a hundred Ghanaians of all ages (though mostly school aged) playing in and around the waterfall. A big sound system was set up, playing Ghanaian Hip-life and American hip-hop, and a woman was selling drinks out of a cooler. My disappointment in the crowd quickly turned into excitement. I laughed at Lise, because she was wearing a white tank top and white linen pants. “Have fun swimming in that,” I laughed. “I’m not swimming,” she replied, saying that pretty much all water in Africa is not safe to swim in. True, maybe, but this looked too fun.

I climbed through the crowd of people and let the 25 meter falls pound down on my head. On one side of the falls, there was some smooth rock (it didn’t look smooth at all, actually) that people were sliding down, just like a water slide, but better. It was about 20 feet long, and curved into a 3 feet deep pool. It looked dangerous, but everyone was flying down so recklessly, that I knew I had to do it. People helped me climb up to the top of it, and showed me how to slide down. It was so fun, that I just kept going over and over. That night I found that I had ripped a couple holes in the back of my shorts, as well as bruised my thigh pretty bad, and bumped my tailbone. Totally worth it.

I think Lise was super jealous of me, and pretty soon she was joining me under the waterfall. When she wanted to go down the slide all the boys were excited to help her up, but they did not seem overly forward. She even said she was surprised that she did not attract more attention with her all white clothing. Everyone seemed pretty relaxed about it. I know that this situation in other places I have been simply would not have worked, and Lise would not have been able to swim comfortably. We also climbed behind the waterfall where a group of students from Kumasi were chanting and drumming on their legs. It was a really cool experience.
I expected this waterfall visit wouldn’t be more than an hour, but we stayed until it closed at 5:00, about 4 hours total. Everyone was dancing in the waterfall. At one point there was a pseudo-dance contest, though it mostly consisted of one guy who was good at popping and locking and acrobatics showing off with his friends throwing leaves and dirt on him. We noticed a few other white people come while we were there, but they just came down, snapped a few photos and left. They totally missed out. It was really one of the best days I had had in a long time, and really revived my excitement about Ghana. It also made me think about how maybe the northern regions just aren’t that fun. Anywhere I have been south of Tamale, everything just seems like a party all the time.

Is this how we should enjoy nature? There is a reason that, I am sure, that in our national and state parks in America, we don’t set up a sound system near a cool natural attraction and have a party. I mean, first of all, that just doesn’t sound very American, but also, it might destroy the attraction. But still, I really admired how people seemed to be enjoying this waterfall much more than I ever have, and I am sure most Americans ever have. And yeah, there was a bit of garbage on the ground by the end of the day, but that problem could have been solved by putting a garbage can down there, right? Maybe. Apparently this party is a weekly thing. One guy said it was always like this, but I think he just meant on Saturdays because I talked to people that had been there on a Sunday and a Friday who were alone at the falls. I was glad that we came when we did.

The next morning we got a breakfast of yams and pepper. When we opened our bag, though, we found that the woman had given us half the amount we had asked for (or charged double this amount). I was not all that hungry and did not make a big fuss, but I was glad that Lise was strong enough to go back and tell the woman. While she was gone, a woman came up to me, sitting with my meager portion of yams and said with a smile, “am I invited?” It is polite in Africa (I only say Africa because I know the custom at least reaches to Ethiopia) to “invite” people to you food if they are not eating. However, nobody has ever invited themselves to my food. Normally, I would have said fine, sit down, but already missing half my yams I didn’t know what to say, and it’s not like this woman was starving. “Uhhh,” I stuttered, “I…umm, I guess so.” She took the hint and walked away laughing. Right after that, Lise came back with the correct amount of yams without much hassle and we were again annoyed at the lame attempts to rip us off. We weren’t able to finish them, so we took a few of the yams in the bag to a very old and unhealthy looking man just sitting alone near us. As soon as we did this, another guy ran after us, and started telling us some story about how he needed a surgery on his leg (he showed us the scar on his leg, whatever that meant) in Kumasi, but didn’t have the money to get there. “I don’t want money, I just want a bus ticket.” We handed him the rest of our yams, and kept moving. Then the woman who sold us the yams came up to us and said to Lise, “1 yam is 10 peseway”, telling us that she had given us all these extra yams, and expected us too pay for them. Lise basically told her no, and we just walked away. It was crazy how just trying to be generous to the poor man attracted two more opportunists in about 8 seconds. Kintampo was a silly town but it was time to leave.

Lise agreed with me that it would be better to not take a tro-tro or bus, and instead try to find a ride on the top of a lorry. The main road in Tamale is full of huge trucks carrying goods between Mali, Burkina, Kumasi and Accra, and they always have a dozen or so guys riding on top. We went to the road where they lined up, and asked around for a while, but we were repeatedly denied, or told they were not going to Tamale. Eventually we gave up and decided to go in a tro-tro because we wanted to get back in time for a big game on TV.

Somehow we ended up on the same tro-tro as these two Dutch girls that live down the street from us. Oh yeah, Lise moved out of her homestay, and moved into a different place just down the street from me, which is cool. So yeah, 4 people on the tro-tro all on the same street. Crazy. There was a guy next to me on the ride dressed in a long blue shiny robe and a white cap, and carried a plastic water bottle that looked like it was filled part way with something green and seaweedy. He was also definitely not Ghanaian, though his skin was about as dark. His face looked more Arab, and I could see that, although it was shaved, his hair was straight. Lise thought he might be from Mauritania, but he did not understand my inquiry in English or hers in French. He just shook his head. Then I showed him the picture of Africa on the back of my guidebook and pointed at it, asking where he was from. He kind of pointed in the vague area of West Africa, but didn’t point at any single country. I figured he was not familiar with the map, or that he was a Fulani (his facial features fit the description), a nomadic tribe of cattle herders that can be found across the Sahelian region of Africa, from Sudan to Senegal. Here in Ghana everybody hates them. I always ask people about them and they just say what bad people they are. I don’t buy into it, and assume that they are an easy target for blaming problems. As we rolled into Tamale, I saw a Fulani woman, with straight dark hair, long and braided, tapping at our window, showing a big smile with missing teeth, asking for money. I was curious to see if the guy next to me would acknowledge her, but no luck. Where this guy was from would remain a mystery Charlie Brown.

Back in Tamale, we found a chop bar to watch the game. It was the championship match of the African Nations Championship (or something like that). It’s basically soccer tournament for African countries and the rule is that you can only include players from your own country. It was Ghana vs. DR Congo, who we beat 3-0 earlier in the tournament. It was pretty sad this time, though, because Ghana lost 2-0.
I really can’t say much more after that.