Weekend Away

This past Saturday morning, at 7:00 AM, four other students and I took off for a weekend out of the city. We have three open weekends, during which we can do what we desire, and this was the first one. Surprisingly, we were the only ones who went away. Personally, I was dying for both the break from “The Palace", the large group, the programming, and the city, as well as to absorb more of all this country and culture has to offer. And it turned out to be the best experience here yet. Though it didn’t start off so well. The five of us split into two cabs and didn’t think ahead of time to divide according to which ones of us had cells phones, or to tell the cab drivers to follow one another. So we ended up getting separated before even arriving at Temi Station, the huge bus boarding area. But really in Ghana there aren’t many buses, as we know them in the States, but instead are vehicles called “tro-tros” which resemble vans, and can stuff up to 14 passengers (literally stuff, like anchovies). Anyway, my roommate JD had a cell phone that sometimes worked calling local numbers, but did not have the numbers of our co-travelers. So we literally ended up calling our professor who called the group organizer who called the other three, and meanwhile trekked around the grounds desperately searching for them. After an agonizing hour, we finally reconnected. I screamed when I first glimpsed them, and ran like a fool shrieking in relief and excitement, drawing even more attention than I already do as a white woman in a sea of Ghanaians.

After reuniting, we needed to figure out how to get to the eastern Volta region. A host of Ghanaian men assisted us on this search for the correct transport. However, once settled onto a bus – after buying the tickets – we were informed by the driver that it would not be leaving until 12:30 PM, which presented a bit of an issue, as it was only 8:30 AM! A few of us were able to sell our tickets to other riders before finding the right tro-tro, boarding, and waiting just an hour and a half in the stifling van until taking off. It was a cramped ride, to say the least, but the three hours were bearable. A delightful four year old girl sat on her father’s lap next to me, which helped the time pass. It was somewhat precarious figuring out where we wanted to be let off, and we kept questioning ‘are we there? is it further?’ but finally arrived where we wanted to be: in Logba Alakpeti, the junction town in the Tafi region. We were wished a safe stay, offered safe travels and many thanks to our helpful tro-tro cohorts, and jumped out, gasping for air and aching to stretch.

We were welcomed immediately to the town by a man named Lawrence, who assisted us throughout our 24-hour stay. He led us to the Adzotor Hotel, where we obtained two doubles and a single (only one other room occupied, the place appeared barren, but not too spooky in the daylight). We unloaded, replenished ourselves, and took to the town where at every turn grinning Ghanaians assured us “You are welcome”, the typical greeting phrase to foreigners throughout Ghana. Our first stop was the market, a bustling array of open straw-covered stands, brightly colored goods, and an almost entirely female and children crowd. I have found that the blatant cultural/racial barrier between locals and foreigners typically dissolves when the foreigner initiates a greeting or conversation with the local. This proved to be the case once more.

We had a surprisingly unsuccessful search for something to drink, ending up with bottles of coke (unable to find bottled water!), and then arranged to take a taxi the 5km down a dirt road to Tafi Atone, the nearby town known for its Peace Corps-maintained Monkey Sanctuary. A cost miscommunication with the cabbie hindered our arrival in the serene village, but we resolved it and allowed the remarkable scene to absorb us. Chickens and goats pattered around the town, which consisted of small shacks and straw huts, a few stores (with bottled water, of which we almost bought them out!) directed at tourists, a quaint blue church with a water pump in front. Our tour guide, a young boy about our age, was sweet and very patient with our slow meandering through the village towards the forest, and our frequent stops to photograph the beautiful children who were as drawn to and fascinated by us as we were to and by them. Eventually we made it down the road to where the monkeys hung out, and we fed them bananas we had picked up at one of the huts we’d stopped by to say hello. After hanging with the cute things for a bit, we continued on a guided walk through the magical-seeming forest encircling the village. Just as we came out on the other end of the trail, the pitter-patter of rain launched into a downpour. We took shelter on the porch of one of the sanctuary’s small wooden houses, and stayed there throughout the almost 40 minute rainstorm. It was the most peaceful part of my time in Ghana yet.

Told there would not be a taxi to drive us the 5 km back to our town, JD and I hopped onto the back of a motorcycle. This turned out to be the most fun ride, and our driver was very skilled, considering the sloppy, muddied roads remaining after the rain. We didn’t get off as skillfully as he drove, however, and both of us burned our calves on the metal out of which came the exhaust!

Evening was descending, and we strolled around the village some more, returning to the market as it was being closed down. The liveliness largely lost, we felt less comfortable and welcomed this time around town. It may have just been the wearied mood that comes with the end of a working day. We took a break at the hotel before heading out in search of dinner, though a few (including myself) had already decided to pass on whatever local cuisine we came across.

We walked ½ km at sunset to the town’s “Chop Shop” which was more like a family’s front porch area, and after being served drinks – Maltas, which are a barley based fizzy drink that taste like carbonated Grapenuts, and which none of us took more than one or two sips of – were never asked about ordering food. Turns out they were not serving food anymore (6:30 pm)! However, my roommate JD was determined to get something to put in her grumbling stomach, and after some desperation pleading the woman produced a hot meal for her. It consisted of a ball of “porridge” and barley and goat stew, in which lay a goat’s hoof. Yes, its hoof. And yes, JD ate what she could of it, nibbling around the nail for the meaty bits. It was an utterly memorable meal. The others of us ate pre-packed energy bars, nuts, dried fruit, and a few loaves of bread they also had at the Chop Shop.

The evening was lovely, candlelit and infused with African music played on various stereos in the huts throughout town. We chatted and read in candlelight before turning in. Not the best sleep, I’ll admit. Really hot, stuffy, no sheets, no toilet paper (we brought our own, as this is true most places, even in Accra). We roughed it, to put it lightly.

Sunday is not a day of lazing in bed in the village, and we woke pretty early to the sounds of motors and music and churchgoers. First on the day’s agenda was trying to find the barber so JD could shave her head, as she has in the past, because her hair has been bothering her in the heat. Across from our hotel, Uncle Maxi’s Hair Do shack said it was open but was empty. The family gathered on the porch next door approached us, but they only spoke French, so I was designated translator. However, it was not the French I’m familiar with, as it was heavily accented by an African dialect spoken in conjunction. But we were led around the village in search of the barber, and though we found him, he was off to church and the loose agreement to reconvene later in the morning did not ultimately pan out.

We decided to head next to Tafi Abeupe, the center of traditional Kente weaving in the area. We battled with a taxi driver who was asking for way more than was reasonable, though we ended up forfeiting the argument in the service of getting on with the day. The weaving village was another beautiful sight, the handmade houses of straw and clay, the livestock scattered throughout the compounds, the people going about their various tasks and trades. In the central part of the village stood two large sheds – open air but with aluminum ceilings – built by the government to provide rain-durable shelter for the weavers. We also learned a Peace Corps volunteer was currently living there. The weaving itself involves an impressive set-up, with colorful threads spread the length of the room to facilitate rapid production. Boys are seven when they begin learning the craft, and interestingly primarily men engage in the “hard work” of weaving, though several women know how too. I bought a piece of finished cloth (two yards in length, considered a “woman’s piece”, as opposed to four yard long men’s pieces) with the symbol meaning “Hunter’s Path” woven in repetition. We once again got caught in a rain shower, and waited for its dissipation inside one of the sheds, getting lost in the rhythmic motions of the weaver’s skilled hands shuttling the spools of thread in repeated patterns.

Upon our return to the junction, we waited about thirty minutes for a tro-tro headed to Accra with enough room for five additional passengers. Another cramped and over-heated ride, but okay for its familiarity. Immediately I showered –never before only realizing how dirty I had been while trying to scrub myself clean – and then threw my clothes in the laundry. But what a remarkable trip, and despite the welcomed luxuries of a shower and AC, the return brought with it a certain sense of let-down at being back in our palace, in the semi-urban atmosphere, far from the authentic naturalism we’d found in the Volta.