Thursday, August 8, Accra, Ghana

More nomads

The oldest man in the village. 

I've been remiss the last few days. I'm mentally on my way home already but physically I'm at the same hostel where I started my journey six weeks ago. It's a fun place, filled with travelers and volunteers from all over the world.
I left Togo on Tuesday and headed for a monkey sanctuary in eastern Ghana. It was great fun having monkeys crawl on my shoulder to eat bananas out of my hand.

I also visited a village of weavers. In this case the men do most of the weaving though they allow some women to participate. They keep them physically segregated, the men in a small factory, the women in the village. 

I have several more photos I'd like to stick in here though they don't fit chronologically:

I loved this little girls hairstyle. She was from a voodoo village in Togo.

Monday, August 5; Togo

I had three marvelous days trekking the central areas of Togo. I am going to try to tell much of the story in photos. Loic Henry and his wife run a small business (1001 Pistes) guiding tourists around Togo. They've been at it for decades. I signed on for three days.
I was dubious about Loic's suggestion for Day 1. He wanted to take me to "voodoo villages", places where voodoo was the predominant religion.
We set out in a four-wheel drive, journeying out of the Lome megalopolis and into a vast floodplain north of the city. This was a different world. No electricity, no television, of course, few automobiles, few White people. In fact White people were so rare that whenever kids saw us driving by they'd begin chanting, "Whites, Whites" spontaneously.
I soon learned that Loic had friends in just about every village in the region. And he supplemented his relationships with a trick of the trade. Each time he entered a village he'd take many photographs. Then, when he returned with some other tourist, he'd search out the people he'd photographed and present them with the finished product. Since no one in this world had a camera it made him an instant celebrity. And it allowed him to interview just about anyone in the village. Whatever he learned he translated to me. We spent the first day doing all this. I got a crash course in life in rural Togo.
It's not a bad life, I learned. Food is abundant. And there is no monoculture like so much of the Third World that I've visited. In Guatemala, for instance, the land is nearly consumed with maize. But in Togo a single village might have 30-40 different crops. Pineapple, guava, watermelon, tomato, maize, mango,  coconut, cassava root, potato, the list goes on.
Western religions don't seem to have taken over this region, either. There are Catholic churches and the Mormons are, of course, always trying to make inroads. But voodoo seems secure. Every village had its fetishes, carved or forged or molded images meant to keep away evil spirits. Somewhere within the village is a small building housing more fetishes.
The people I met were seemingly happy, healthy, and content. The only modern affectations were an occasional motorcycle and ubiquitous cell phones.
The people were as friendly and welcoming as you could imagine. I enjoyed the whole day.
The next day we spent farther north in more villages. The one that really stood out for me was a gathering of nomads. These people drove herds of zebu, an African antelope, from the Eastern Sahara to Togo, wherever the grass was. Ethnically they are very unique, a cross between Arabs and Africans. They dress beautifully with dazzling colors. Loic pointed out that they had no wells and had to fetch water from 4-5 kilometers distant from their settlement. This they did every day to keep those clothes clean. It was a great opportunity for me to see a civilization that I could never have imagined or been close to on my own.
The third day we did a strenuous drive and hike into the hinterland northwest of Lome. We were seeking a towering waterfall that forms part of the border between Ghana and Togo. My legs had a very hard time on the downward walk, along the rim of a mountain. I staggered to the falls where we found a secluded spot for lunch. The walk back up the mountain seemed impossible when we started but, surprisingly, was easier than the descent. The pool in front of the waterfall was filled with cold, clear water and a cooling mist that actually made the air cold.
It was three days well spent, memories that will stay with me the rest of my life. I was very glad I'd found Loic and his wife.
I plan to post as many photos of these three days as I can given the very slow wifi connection I have at the hotel. With luck I'll get 15 or 20 pictures up.

On our second day we visited a village of nomads, ethnically a mix of  middle eastern and african. They drove their zebu from near the Sahara to Togo, following the grass. I never met any group of people who were more elegantly dressed. 

Rosa lived in a village near the top of a mountain. We stopped here on our way to the waterfall.

On the first day we visited several voodoo villages. The girl in front was the daughter of a chief, I think. On the right   is Loic, my guide. 

On the third day we walked for several hours to reach this waterfall on the Ghana border. 

Sitting in front of the village fetish.

The chief's wife from one of the first villages we visited. She and her daughter operate the small grocery store which you see here.

Si

I wonder if the Steinbrenners got their percentage of this hat.

Another nomad girl. 

Wednesday afternoon, July 31, Lome

Today was like travel-war, long periods of relaxation interrupted by an hour of chaos.
Togo has a strange provision for we tourists. You can get a visa at the border but it's only for seven days. You must renew it before the first week expires. Way to encourage tourism, Togo.
The renewal takes two visits to a distant building (a four dollar taxi ride). Yesterday I spent a half hour filling out a form and giving them my passport with two photos.
Today I returned in the afternoon to pick up the visa-stamped passport. I waited outside the building with about 75 other folks. The internet indicated that at some point the officials would begin reading off the names of visa holders. They would do it by country. After waiting for about an hour I got fidgety and started wandering around. Very soon I noticed a group of people in a semicircle near a walk to my left.
They were handing out the passports! I moved quickly to the spot and joined the riot. There were about  75 men and women of various sizes and ethnicities shoving and pushing to get near three police officers standing against a wall. A woman to my right had a baby on her shoulder. The kid was balling. Several groups of frustrated people were conversing in French, apparently trying to figure out the best strategy for getting close to the officers. The officers were shouting out names in heavily accented African-French. Every once in a while I'd understand a word.
"PAT TREEEK!"
"ERR EEEEN?"
90% of what I heard was unintelligible to this anglicized listener. I moved around the periphery of the mob to see if I could get closer to the cops. The roll call went on but only occasionally did anyone respond to one of the names. The number of supplicants barely diminished.
Gradually I elbowed my way closer. When I got within three layers of the officers I noticed that it wasn't enough to hear your name. Once your passport was found you still had to push your way to the front to a little table. On the table was a register. You were supposed to print and sign your name and write down your passport number. The whole process seemed impossible.
Suddenly two guys to my left began shouting at each other. They seemed ready to come to blows. The cops had difficulty mollifying them, but finally that eruption simmered down.
I despaired. For one thing all the passports were crimson. I saw nothing of the USA blue. There were hundreds of passports on the table all in rubberbanded piles.

Everyone wants their passport! This was after I'd gotten mine. 

Then one of the cops made eye contact with me. He asked me a question in French. I took a guess and said, "Etats Unis". He furrowed his brow and mumbled something. I said, "America!" This he understood. He said something else. A helpful guy in front of me translated:  "What's your name?" I told them. The cop shuffled through about 25 US passports and found mine.
Then he threw my passport near the register book amongst 50 others. I had made it to the second bureaucratic pile. I still had a long way to go.
I shoved and maneuvered close to the register, only to be pushed back by larger and more aggressive folks. But the crowd was thinning as people began signing the register. After about 15 minutes the third cop found my passport and gestured me to the front. I signed, and was gone.
Dictatorships don't always make the buses run on time, or develop rational ways to distribute visas.

I'm discipling myself to avoid the duty trap. Le Gallion is my kind of place, except for the creepy old French guys pawing at young African women downstairs. The weather is perfect, the trees provide some pleasant shade, the ocean breeze makes me happy. I'm determined to do nothing but read till I hear from my tour director later tonight. If all is well we'll head out tomorrow morning.

Wednesday, July 31, Lome, Togo

Things are looking up. I met with the local ecotour operator and we agreed to a three day trek to the hinterland beginning tomorrow. He's trying to line up some other participants but it looks like, sadly, I'll be by myself (and the guides). I'm looking forward to it. I've spent the past two days reading and getting my visa extended.

Rather than talk about me I want to tell you about Inge and Jens, my German friends. On Monday they were walking in Lome when they were approached by a well-dressed, well-spoken African gentleman. He spoke impeccable English.  The man was in obvious distress. He staggered and evidenced some sort of physical problem.
"I've been mugged," he told them. "They took my wallet and bag including my insulin. I'm diabetic. I'm in great need of an injection but have no funds to procure the drug. Can you help me, please?" He showed them business cards and evidence that he had a LinkedIn page. His obvious education and his clean appearance indicated that he might actually be in need.
He said he needed about 70,000 Togo francs, about $140. They talked for a bit and negotiated a way to exchange information so that he could pay them back as soon as he could get to his hotel and call the bank. But first he needed a shot. They grabbed a taxi and proceeded to a pharmacy. During the trip the man's eyes began to lose focus and his head lolled around from side to side. He seemed to be ready to pass out. Once inside Jens and Inge supplied the needed money. The man immediately injected himself in the chest. Then he purchased another dose and handed over his personal information to the couple. They parted. Jens wondered if he'd ever see his money again, but everything about the man seemed to suggest that he was legit.
Next evening Jens came up to me while I was eating my dinner in the cafe beneath the hotel.
"I checked Lonely Planet," he told me.
"It's a scam."
There on the internet was a story about the same man from 2012 playing the same role.

Tuesday, July 30, Lome, Togo

I spent my first two days in Togo in bed with a penetrating headache and roiling stomach. I'm not sure if I ate something I shouldn't have, or ate too little, or was simply sick at heart.

But my arrival in Lome was auspicious. When the taxi driver pulled up to the door of the Le Galion hotel (for the first time the taxi driver did actually know where the hotel was) I was almost knocked off my seat by the mass of people nearly bursting out of the wall enclosing the hotel. Every table in the cafe that underlay the hotel was full of boisterous, touristy-looking folks. The joint was jumping. After weeks of being the only resident of my hotels this was a shocking change.

Le Galion looks like something out of a Francois Truffaut film. It is only two stories with approximately ten rooms above and the aforementioned cafe below. I got here via much struggle.
I spent my last day in Grand Bassam searching the internet for accomodations in Lome. I was anxious to have a confirmed reservation to show to the immigration officials at the airport. I wasn't sure they'd require it, but I wanted to provide as few obstacles to a visa as possible. I already purchased the second half of a round trip ticket as everyone advised me to do (the airline people, the internet, LP). I headed for Abidjan Airport with plenty of anxiety in my stomach. Would they let me in?
Four times they checked my paperwork before I got on the plane:  twice before I presented my baggage for check in; once at passport control; and once before they scanned my carry-on luggage. Each time I expected someone to send me packing due to my visa-less status. Twice I heard, "You have no visa?" Each time the questioner raised an eyebrow, paused, then sent me forward. Somehow I made it to the plane. (After lining up for the wrong flight.)
Our plane landed in Lome and we were directed down the ramp to a waiting bus meant to take us to the terminal. I held my breath, wondering what I'd find when I got there. Our plane was sparsely populated, barely 50 people in a plane ready to take over 300. I thought that might help me as the line for immigration would not be so long as to irritate the officials when I explained my lack of a visa.
What I found was a large sign to my right:  "Visa Applications", manned by two smiling folks, a young woman and a rubinesque man. They gave me some paperwork to fill out, stamped my passport, and sent me on my way. They never even looked at my return ticket. I didn't know whether to exult or to weep. (My visa was only for seven days, SOP, and I must renew it by Friday. Perhaps then they will ask about the return ticket?)

I lost my first two days here, as I said, to illness. Part of my angst was caused by the fact that I could not locate the tour service mentioned in LP that had lured me to Togo in the first place. I searched the internet for hours but could find no address or way to contact them despite their prominent mention in LP. My headache made that even more difficult.
Finally I noticed an email address in LP. It had been there all along but I hadn't noticed it. I sent an email. Twenty four sickly hours later I still had heard nothing. I despaired.
Then, on Monday evening my problems all resolved themselves. My loneliness was assuaged when I met a German couple upstairs at the hotel. Like many such encounters it happened because of my ill fortune. The electrical outlet in my room was so tenuous that I couldn't charge my computer. These MacIntosh charging systems have always been a problem when I travel but this was the worst. I simply could not get it to charge. I looked for another outlet and found one in a common area between the various rooms. By propping the computer on some books and clothing I managed to keep a connection that would charge the battery. I sat down to read and wait. I estimated it would take 3-4 hours to affect a complete charge.
While I read my book a man came out of another room and spoke to me in German-accented English. He had been robbed on the streets of Lome that day (a camera held too loosely in the crowded bazaar) and needed a computer to find some files. I happily provided my machine. We began to talk. His wife (or girlfriend) joined us. We chatted away for the next few hours. At the same time I received an email from the tour service. They'd been 'in the bush' and had just returned to find my message. My headache concurrently evaporated. All was well.
I'm supposed to meet with the tour operator in 15 minutes. My plans for the next week depend upon what he has to offer. We shall see.

Friday, July 26, Abidjan, Cote D'Ivoire

I'm sure, when this trip is over, that these three days will rank with the dreariest in all my travels.

I was sitting in a cafe in San Pedro ruminating on how I was going to get into Liberia. The cafe was part of a hotel that looked interesting. I made tentative plans to shift my location to this place from my ritzy oceanside digs. As I sat down to eat an african woman of about 25 began talking to me. I smiled and told her, "I only speak English."
She was puzzled for a moment but then seemed to bristle. She turned and went back to a group of people sitting in front of the restaurant.
Then I noticed a group of three folks sitting near me. There was a pretty young african woman and a middle aged african man. The third party was obscured at first. Then the woman moved over a bit and saw that the other guy was a paunchy, middle aged white guy.
They drank some beer. Then they got up to leave. The white guy put his arms around the african woman and escorted her to his car. The other guy went his own way.
Suddenly a light bulb went off in my head. This hotel served as some sort of bordello! Are you lonely for female company, go to the Atlantic Hotel (for so it was named). "Woops", I thought, maybe it wouldn't be such a good idea to move to this place.

Meanwhile I took out my LP and began rereading the section on Liberia, especially the part about Harper, the city nearest San Pedro.  The road to the border would be bad, the book said.  The road on the other side would be worse. One internet traveler (from comments I'd read the night before) said the mud holes in Liberia during the rainy season (i.e. now) were as deep as a vehicle. There would be no buses or established vans to take me west. And the $131 entry fee charged by Liberia rankled.
I decided to investigate other options.
I looked in LP to see about Burkina Faso (to the north) and Togo (east of Ghana). The latter seemed the better option. I decided to abandon my plans for Liberia and go to Togo.
Next morning I took a taxi to the gathering place for vans to Abidjan. From there I planned to fly to Lome, the capital of Togo. The journey, over some rotten roads at times, took seven hours. I was spent. But I still needed a hotel in Abidjan. LP recommended a place. I found a taxi driver who knew* the place.
*(One thing I've learned is to not trust any taxi driver who says he knows where something is. Almost 100% of the time that has turned out to be false on this trip.)
It turned out the driver knew the neighborhood. He didn't know the hotel. We stumbled around a bit till someone told him, "Hey, see this empty building here? That's where the hotel was.) Now I was in a fix. The driver spoke no English. I tried to suggest other hotels listed in LP but he didn't know them. I tried to suggest he find a hotel for me; that went right over his head.
Then that light bulb went off again. I told him to take me to "Gare d'Bassam", the gathering point for vans to the Bassam neighborhood in the suburbs. Once there I grabbed a van for my old hotel from several days before. I still had the task of locating the hotel and telling the van driver to let me off at the appropriate spot. Those vans speed. My heart was pumping as I scanned frantically out the foggy window for the right place. Hotels whizzed by. What would I do if we missed the place? I'd be in an unfamiliar area late at night with no place to call home. I remembered my host telling me that hotels in Bassam had no electricity. That was why it was so dark, and why it was even more difficult to find my hotel.
Then I saw it. I screamed at the tout and the driver, "Here!!" They didn't get the message for a moment, but then realized it was the crazy foreigner. They slowed, the stopped. I had a refuge.
But I still had to find a way to get to Lome.
I tried making a reservation over the internet but got nowhere. Places like Expedia and Kayak didn't handle flights from Lome. Then I found a British firm, Edreams. They got me a flight. I was saved.
Except I wasn't.
Within an hour the company emailed me with a demand for a faxed copy of my passport and other documents. How was I going to manage that?
I told my host, Volcker, a German expat, about my problem. He solved the problem by photographing the required documents and faxing them on his computer. I was back in business.
Except I wasn't.
While I waited, next morning, for my confirmed reservation, I saw a little email two-thirds of the way down the search page for Edreams.
"Don't ever use this company," was what showed on the list of search answers. I delved deeper. It turned out there were many such comments on the web. For unfathomable reasons this company apparently makes a practice of taking reservations and then withholding them, demanding more and more documentation, till the traveler gives up.
I'd been conned, though I'm not sure what Edreams gets out of all this. They never got any of my money. They did email me one more time asking for another fax, but by that time I'd moved on.
I decided to go down to Abidjan airport and try to buy a ticket. There was only one ticket agency in the building. The woman there said she could not sell me a one way ticket.(Round trip was over $500)I was despondent. I began mentally making alternate plans. I thought I might head out via bus to the northern part of Ghana.
As I slowly trudged out of the airport I noticed an office with a faint sign saying, "Cote D'Ivoire Airlines."
"Oh well, what's to lose by asking," I thought. I went in.
Inside was a pleasant woman who spoke good English. She sold me a one way ticket. I went back to my hotel triumphant.
Except I wasn't. I checked the web. They won't give you a visa to enter Togo without a return ticket. This morning I went back to the airport and got the return ticket, which I will never use. Total price as almost $400. My decision to go to Togo was going to be expensive. But I was still happy I'm made the choice. Liberia was going to be very expensive, too, with added dangers. The costs were comparable.
In two hours I'm headed for the airport. I'm still not 100% certain they will admit me, but it's highly likely based on what I've read on the internet. (I did make an effort to go to the Togo embassy yesterday, but the embassy had moved.)
Next post I'll let you know if I got in

Tuesday, July 23, San Pedro, Cote D'Ivoire

Today is a day of rest preceded by two eventful days.
I left Abidjan on Sunday morning. I crossed the road in front of my hotel, which was in the distant suburbs, and immediately grabbed a 504 van to the city. One dollar, and the radio was playing Elvis and the Beatles and Otis Redding. I was happy. Once in the city I had to do a little negotiating but found a very friendly taxi driver who sped me to the bus station in the north of the city. He searched the madhouse till he found the right bus to take me to Sassandra, a city about 200 kilometers to the west. The bus filled rapidly and we were on our way within 20 minutes. For once I had navigated and negotiated skillfully.
The first two hours of the trip to Sassandra were uneventful. Then we took on a few more passengers and I was suddenly compressed between a linebacker-sized guy on my right and a smaller man on my left. The linebacker's considerable girth was crushed my spine. Add the crash of the bus encountering deep potholes and you have a recipe for pain. This lasted about 90 minutes. We were in Sassandra, or at least we were on the main highway a couple kilometers from the hotel recommended by LP. I got out. The other passengers looked on in wonderment. "You're getting out here," they said (in body language). I assured them I was not out of my mind with a smile and several nods.
More taxi negotiating yielded a trip to the hotel on a hill overlooking the harbor. It was a luxury place, probably more luxury than I truly wanted, but I doubted my ability to find something better so I agreed to the $34/night cost of one night's lodging. Since it was mid afternoon I still had time to explore the city. I set out.

Some kids from the central market in Sassandra.

This girl really wowed me, again in the market on a Sunday afternoon.

While walking I was approached by a guy on a motorcycle offering me a personalized canoe trip to the hippo's on the Sassandra River. He was clearly somebody who made a few bucks with rare tourists who visited the city. We negotiated. This time I made a muck of the whole process and agreed to an exorbitant fee to be paid next morning when we would set out.
But I got an unexpected bonus out of the deal. My guide, who spoke only French, ran and fetched a buddy of his who spoke English. As I spoke to this new guy I realized he had a group of young interns under his care that very minute across the street. So we went and found them. Which led me to 90 minutes of nirvana chatting with these kids who were in Cote D'Ivoire working with various businesses as part of their university educations. They were male and female, from Mexico, the Philippines, Italy, France, and, most notably a pretty young blonde from Holland, who immediately button-holed me for conversation.

Two of the interns I chatted up in Sassandra.

I enjoyed the heck out of that time. After wandering a bit more I went back to the hotel. Once again I was the only guest in the place. I had a fretful night beset by mosquitoes for the first time in my journey. I dragged out my mosquito net and wrapped myself in it. It wasn't wonderfully comfortable. And since there was no where to hang it I had to "wear" it, which probably undermined half its usefulness.
Next morning I was up early for my canoe trip. I rode on the back of his motorcycle for a half hour till we reached a canoe port on the river. He handed me a paddle and we worked our way upstream for about an hour to the place where he'd reputedly seen hippo's before. (The interns told me they'd taken the same trip the day before and seen no hippo's so I was prepared for the worst.) We stored the boat on the river bank and trekked through the jungle for ten minutes till we got to an observation location. We waited. No hippo's. After about a half hour we gave up and did the return trip. All in all a worthwhile adventure nonetheless but not worth the fee.
Then he ripped me off. He owed me $10 change but my heretofore reliable guide disappeared to allegedly get change. He never returned. That left me with a bitter taste after so much good luck in Sassandra.
It was time to check out of my hotel and head for San Pedro, the next burg on the way to Liberia. I boarded a van outside the Sassandra market and waited for a full house so we could move on. That took about a half hour. Generally these vans fill quickly, but they always carry freight on the back or on top. This freight business takes a long time. Imagine trying to fit various bags of coconuts, cassava root, clothing, bags of bread, and other goods into spaces not designed to haul such.
Then we got to driving. I now declare that the road from Sassandra to San Pedro is the worst road in the world.

My guide strikes a path through the jungle as I follow.

We met river fishermen as we rowed along. These guys were out setting traps for fish.

The Sassandra river as seen from my vantage point as I took a breather from paddling.

Every 100 yards featured a series of potholes deep enough to hide a canoe and always extending across the road sufficiently to make sure we could almost never escape a bone jarring portage.This went on for hours. At one point I considered asking the driver to let me out despite the fact that there was really no place to be let out, out. Other than a few small villages all we saw was jungle and rice fields. I got through it and was deposited on the outskirts of San Pedro (Cote D'Ivoire's second largest city). The van driver found me a taxi and negotiated a fare (two dollars) to take me to a hotel prized by LP.
That hotel turned out to be too expensive but I found one nearby at a more manageable price.
Then I reached in my pouch for the funds and found.....none. I thought I had 100,000 of the local currency stashed away. ($200). But the pouch was empty except for some US currency. How was I going to pay for my hotel? I'd spent my last dollar, I thought, on the taxi, except for the hidden funds.
Generously the hotel allowed me to wait a day to pay the bill, but that still left me with the dilemma of how to get the money. I remembered we'd passed several banks with ATM's on the route into the city. In my recollection, however, those banks were far distant, and I had no money for a cab.
Then I reached in my pocket and found the sum of $2.00 in Ivoirian currency. That would be enough to get me to a bank. Unfortunately the hotel people told me that the banks were closed (it was past 4pm) and the ATM's were inside the banks. I had had various experiences with this on my trip but I knew that frequently, yes, the ATM's were in the banks.
What to do? Without funds I couldn't eat. I've gone without food for extended periods on my trips and I knew I could abide this, but somehow it angered me more that my fast was forced on me rather than a chosen strategy.
I refused to accept my fate. I decided to walk to a bank and see for myself if I could find an accessible ATM or, failing that, a foreign exchange place.
Off I went--though dead tired from the arduous ride from Sassandra.
Very quickly I came to a fork in the road. As Yogi said, "If you come to a fork in the road, take it."
I tried to remember what I could from the taxi ride. Left or forward? I chose left. Fifteen minutes later I realized that had been a mistake. But I persevered. I went in the general direction that I thought might lead me to the banks. Up a steep hill. Down the other side.
After 35 minutes of walking I came to a commercial district. To my astonishment I looked to my left and saw the aforementioned banks. They were much closer than I remembered. But there was still the problem of the late hour. It was now past 5pm.
My favorite West African bank is called EcoBank. I found one. The gate was closed, the doors of the bank closed. But there were four guards inside the gate. I decided to ask, as best I could, if the ATM--which I saw on the left side of the bank--might be accessible. I dug out my ATM card and stuck it through the iron bars of the gate. One guard noticed me and examined the card.
Then he opened the gate and waved me inside. I was thunderstruck. 
I entered the little room housing the machine. I stuck my card in the slot.
It wouldn't go in. The machine was off. Again, I despaired. The guards must not have known the ATM rules.
But, no, the guard said (really motioned), don't worry, I'll get the machine activated. Which he did. And I got my money. And I verily skipped out the gate.
I walked happily back to the hotel and paid my bill. Then I lay myself down to continue reading David Copperfield, which I'm loving, and sought to rest after two eventful days.

Saturday, July 20, Grand Bassam, Cote D'Ivoire

This cursed internet connection won't allow me even to send an email, accentuating my loneliness. It is Ramadan and the hotels, including this one, are empty. I'm the only guest. There are no tourists to talk to. And I've been away long enough now that folks at home have forgotten me. Out of sight, out of mind.
I'm nervous about the next two weeks. Tomorrow I'll head off westward toward Liberia. Both this country and Liberia were recently war torn, which means I'll meet with lots of soldiers. It also means I worry about general lawlessness. I've haven't exactly decided where I'll go next but my best guess is to a place called Sassandra. The problem is that this direction leads me to a border crossing that LP says is almost impassable.
My experience crossing into Cote D'Ivoire was not reassuring. I managed to get cheated by a money changer and by another guy who pretended to "help" me with the crossing. To my credit I did successfully negotiate a good fare from the border to Abidjan.
I realize now that traveling to places like this is probably unwise for someone like me who is shy. The recent wars have scared away even backpackers so that there are no functioning hostels or even places for travelers to meet. I'm feeling nostalgic for the relative comforts of Ghana.

The highlight of my time around Abidjan was finding David Vincent, the artist on the left. I bought one of his paintings. I wish I could have bought four or five. I found him by accident when I took the wrong road back to my hotel. He was ensconced in a little artists' building in the former French Quarter of Grand Bassam. There was a lot of great art there that I sadly had to leave behind.

Thursday, July 18, Abidjan, Cote D'Ivoire

I've been trying all morning to post photos to this blog but the internet connection is too weak.
Yesterday I had one of my typical walking days. I walked for several hours all about the center of Abidjan. I began by trying to find the Liberian Embassy in the interests of getting a visa to go there, but the embassy had moved.
Then I looked to get a SIM card to make my phone functional in this country. That led to an adventure.

First I found a little shop with cellphones in the window. The lady inside spoke no English, I spoke no French. We tried to communicate. She tried putting a card in my phone. Nothing happened. Then a nattily dressed young man entered. He tried to intervene. He spent ten minutes fiddling with the back of my phone trying to make it work. No luck.
I resolved to move on. The salesperson and the young man were having nothing of that. They gestured that I should follow the young man out into the street. Reluctantly I consented.
He led me up and down avenues seeking....something, I knew not what, but I was gradually getting the idea that he knew where to locate a SIM card.
We went to various shops and offices, each one motioning for us to go somewhere else.
Then we encountered a shoeshine boy who apparently had nothing better to do with his life than help a confused tourist. He gestured for us to follow him. Now we were a merry band, the shoeshine boy, followed by the nattily dressed young man, followed by the white tourist in the funny hat.
At some point we arrived at Abidjan's version of a Sprint or TMobile shop, starkly modern in the midst of a city of tubbledown shops.
After some inquiries we were directed to an air-conditioned office in the rear manned by a pretty young woman in western garb.
For the next 20 minutes or so the shoeshine boy and I waited while the young man conversed with the pretty young lady. He did some charming, I think, but mainly he tried to find out how I could get a SIM card.
Finally another employee came in and explained to me that they could get me a card but that it would take a few hours as their computer system was slow. I nodded agreement and headed off to tour the city. They told me to return in two hours.
I then bopped around Abidjan. I saw the trash-covered banks of the lagoon that border the city. I saw the expensive district where all the white tourists supped and shopped. I found an ATM. I gawked at shop windows.
Then I returned to the store for my phone. Success.
With my errands completed I decided to do some more exploring. After walking for an hour or so I noticed on my LP map that there was a place for "shared taxis" back to Grand Bassam, the neighborhood of my hotel. I headed for that spot.
Bad move. No one knew of such a spot, and I managed to consume another 90 minutes of fruitless walking trying to locate it. When I gave up the search I realized I had to backtrack another hour or so to find a taxi to take me back to the hotel. By now I was tuckered out, but I resolved to put one foot in front of the other till I found myself back in the central Downtown. I did it.
Then I took an expensive taxi home. We are way out of the city here, on the ocean. It's a nice location and my host, an expatriot German, speaks English. I expect to stay here two more days, then......I'm not sure.

Tuesday, July 16, Nzulezu, Ghana

            I had a terrific canoe trip today to the stilt village of Nzulezu. A guide polled and paddled me for almost an hour to get to this lakefront habitation.

We set out from the canoe harbor.

The trip itself was so beautiful and serene that I was in awe throughout. We began from the main, dirt road that fronts my resort. We walked over a rickety wood bridge to the canoe harbor at the base of a newly-dug canal. From there we boated through grassland and into a jungle filled mostly with raffia palms. After about 30 minutes we came to the lake.

            The village is on the west side of the lake and consists of about 40 buildings, I’d estimate. Population is about 1,000 folks. Luckily school was still in session. Tomorrow they begin summer vacation. The teacher I met looked haggard from grading final examinations of her kindergartners and first graders. Like most of the schools I’ve visited on my travels supplies are an issue. Each classroom has one textbook, for the teacher. Each of the four classrooms had a blackboard and some simple desks for the kids. Classes were 15 or so for each grade level.

An Nzuzelu classroom. The blackboard is behind me.

            The village is undergoing two transformative changes. A year ago they got electricity for the first time. With power comes….TV. Many of the women of the village were watching a soap opera when we arrived. I’m speculating that having electric lights and television has done much to change the mores and habits of the inhabitants. I’ll bet the men of the village aren’t terribly happy to see their women diverted from home tasks to check out the developments in their version of “As the World Turns”.

            The other big change is still in process. Oil. Ghana Oil Company is building a platform out at sea directly south of here. I saw lots of construction going on during my journey here from Takoradi. Soon there will be lot of engineers and oil workers in this region. What effect that will have on local life is difficult to predict. If Ghana ends up like Nigeria then this area will probably suffer greatly. Everywhere I’ve gone I’ve made an effort to quiz locals on what they think of the coming oil boom. No one had a firm answer. All hope that the wealth trickles down. If it does I suppose many youngsters from the stick village of Nzulezu will drift off eastward to find more income than they can get from their own native fisheries.

            I also visited the local fort, Fort Apollonia, built by the British in the 18^th century. It’s small but well preserved mostly because Kwame Nkrumah grew up around here. He took a personal interest in its preservation.

            Tomorrow I go to Cote D’Ivoire. I’m worried about the money exchange, about the possibility of having to bribe border guards, and the cost of getting from the border to Abidjan, nearly 100 km. distant. By the time I find Internet service I’ll likely already be in Cote D’Ivoire.

Monday, July 15, Beyin, Ghana

            Can I claim that my experiences in Axim are lucky or unlucky?

            The unlucky part came, of course, at the local bank. I carefully reconnoitered Axim on Sunday when everything was pretty much shut down.  I walked all around the city with occasional guidance from locals. Never fear to be lost in Ghana, there will always be someone willing to go out of their way to steer you to your destination. I visited the ironically named Fort San Antonio (a slave fort named after a saint?). I suspect I was the only visitor of the day. Axim is not exactly in the center of tourism. On Monday I saw three white folks walking around town dispelling my notion that I was the only Caucasoid visage in Axim.

Fort San Antonio.

            I trudged down to the fishing village near the river that gives Axim its raison d’etre.  This seemed to be the poor side of town. Every slum in Ghana seems to be named Freetown. I watched three fishermen navigate their boat through the breakers at the mouth of the river, then stash the boat at “dockside”.

            Conscientiously I made sure to find a bank with an ATM since my money was running too low to get me to Abidjan without one more fill up. I found one, complete with a sign saying VISA and MASTERCARD. I trusted that Monday morning I’d be able to replenish my cash there before setting off for my last stop before the border.

            In Accra I heard a horror story of an ATM machine that swallowed someone’s card so I didn’t dare try out the machine on Sunday. I wanted the bank open before I risked the transaction.

    

        Meanwhile, back at the ranch (Axim oceanfront hotel), I had my best piece of good luck so far. You remember that I’ve been having trouble transferring photos from my phone to my computer so that I could use them in this blog. I chose my hotel, a swanky place on the beach, specifically because LP said it had Wi-Fi. This turned out to be true.

            Sunday afternoon I sat down in the hotel lobby and began fiddling with my phone, trying to move those persnickety images. No luck.

            My first problem was that I couldn’t log in to the hotel’s system. Then an African young man came by.

            “Having trouble with something?” he asked.

            I confessed my problem and he rectified it straight away.

            That got me to thinking. I bucked up my courage and re-approached the guy, who looked to be in his mid-20’s with an air of authority on him.

            “I wonder if I could ask you one more question?” I said, as humbly as I could manage.

            Suddenly, it was as if I had become this fellow’s sole concern in life. He began asking me questions about my phone and about my knowledge of software, which was near zero. His face registered mild shock at my ignorance but this only served to spur him to greater efforts.

            For the next two and a half hours Edem (that was his name) installed every manner of new software on my phone and taught me all sorts of tricks for better utilizing both my tools. Among other things I got Skype, Tango, a couple free phone services, Dropbox, and a repaired email system that allowed me to transfer those blessed photos. 

            I was in heaven. I called one of my students, Koko, on Tango and we chatted for a while before I had to give the phone back to Edem for more upgrades.

            I found out in due time that Edem and another guy were at the hotel to repair computers, that they operated their own tech company.

            Now I was really ready to move on.

            Then my luck turned bad again. The ATM wouldn’t take US cards. It would take Ghanaian cards. It would probably take cards from the Soviet Union or the Holy Roman Empire, but it wouldn’t take my card. The bank manager tried gallantly to make it cooperate. The software people said it should work, but it didn’t.

            That meant another trip to Takoradi (remember Takoradi?). Every other day I have to hop on a tro tro and return to that benighted burg for money. The only saving grace is that Takoradi also has a small shop near the bank that had some books so I was able to grab one of Larsson’s thrillers for my journey to Cote D’Ivoire.

            The trip back to the bank took nearly two hours over suitably terrible roads. The trip west, after I got the money, was even more arduous. I arrived at the appropriate Takoradi tro tro station in the mid afternoon. There are many tro tro stations in the city. I found this one, again, via the aid of a citizen. He not only told me where to go he assigned two little kids to guide me over hill and dale till I got to the right place.

            But the van was full, or so I thought. The driver, it seemed, was determined to take me perhaps to make a few extra cedi’s or maybe because he knew this was the last van of the day to Nzulezu, my goal.

To get a seat he had to insist that two stout African ladies shove over to provide me with about two square feet of space over the right-rear wheel well. Counting the two women, a nattily dressed male student, and me we were four across, where three could barely fit—due to the massive girth of the distaff folks. My left arm was contorted behind one lady. My butt was half on the seat, half on the wheel well. My back ached from being partially on the seat partially not.

            I had a seat, however. When the two African ladies got off the van they argued with the driver in Ghanaian for ten minutes I think the dispute was over the indignity of having to shove over for me.

            I made it to Nzulezu. The driver dropped me at another paradisiacal, oceanfront resort, where I am now. I’ll try to get some photos of this place. You won’t believe how beautiful it is.

             I have one day here, then I’ll try to venture into a new nation tomorrow.

Saturday, July 13, Axim, Ghana

I'm nearing the Cote D'Ivoire border.  I need to be there on Wednesday since they wouldn't give me a visa unless I had a confirmed hotel reservation. Mine is at someplace called Bassam, a sector of Abidjan, the capital city. How exactly I'm going to get to the border, and thence to the hotel after the border, is a mystery to me at this point.
Akwidaa Beach, which should have been a paradise, was a disappointment for two reasons. One, everyone there was in a group and no one was very social so my time there was mostly lonely. I did go on a tour of the nearby village which allowed me to converse with my guide, but other than that I spent most of my time reading.
The other problem was the weather. It's the rainy season, which hadn't been a problem for my first two weeks, but for the past four or five days it's been rainy or overcast just about all the time. I didn't even bother to swim at Akwidaa as it was too cold and rainy. I moved on to another resort because this was the only place listed in my Lonely Planet as having wifi. With luck I'll be able to finally post some photos.

This is the fishing village attached to the city of Axim, where I am today, July 15. I have to hustle to get on the road but I'll update in a few days.

Wednesday, July 10, Akwidaa Beach, Ghana

The “road” is rutted and rock strewn. It takes an hour of jostling, twisting, and bouncing to get here from the last conurbation, Agona Junction. This morning I was at Busua Beach, which I thought would make a good jumping off point for Akwidaa, but the taxi driver at Busua wanted 40 cedi’s ($20.00) for the journey and I knew I wasn’t paying that much.

I decided to backtrack to Agona figuring that the taxi competition there would drive the price down. What I didn’t know was that there was a tro-tro at Agona that would take me here for two cedi, $1.00.

It wasn’t that easy, though. I had money problems. Every year I have money problems. This year I planned ahead and stashed $600.00 in various spots in my luggage. Everyone takes US dollars. Except when they don’t. They don’t in Agona. They have a bank in Agona. It has an ATM. The ATM is broken. They didn’t know when it might be repaired  But I didn’t despair, I knew any bank worth its salt would exchange Uncle Sam’s currency for cedi’s. But they wouldn’t. Morons.

So I had to backtrack another half hour to Takoradi (remember Takoradi? I was there three days ago). I found a bank and—major bonus—I found a little store with some decent books. I bought the biggest one she had, 531 pages:  Small Island by Andrea Levy (“Winner of the Whitbread Book of the Year and Orange Prize for Fiction).  I just finished an Anne Rice novel and a western (?) from Robert Parker of mystery fame. That reduced my inventory to two books—one of them a very slight autobiographical thingee by Joseph Conrad—so I should have enough to keep me going till I get out of here.

The beach here is the equal of the one in Busua and the lodge is much better principally because it is crowded. I’ve already met up with two Brits from the Guernsey Islands (matriculating at Cambridge!). I never got to talk with anyone at Busua except staff.

A typical Ghanaian fishing boat, this one laying just outward of the village. You can see the ocean in the distance.

This place is better also because they have tours. I’m always up for tours, any kind of tour. You got a tour to look at seashells? I’m there. So tomorrow I supposed to walk eight minutes up the beach to the next village to hire a guide.

This is the end of my lagoon trip near Akwidaa village. The fisherman's area is in the distance.

Tuesday, July 9, Busua Beach, Ghana

You get to Busua Beach by first going to Agona Junction a market town. You hire a taxi. I paid six cedi ($3.00) which I’m certain was too much but I didn’t want to bargain because the driver had helped me find a bank and carried my bag and generally tried to make himself useful to me.

At the end of the 25 minute taxi ride you come to a T. If you go right you enter the fishing village of Busua. The road peter’s out after about 400 yards. There are a few “stores”, really just lean-to’s that shelter various small businesses. When you get near the end of the road you find men sitting around mending diaphanous blue nets. Behind them on the left side are the fishing boats. They look like something out of a Rudyard Kipling novel. Like everything else in Ghana (except building) they are brightly painted. The aft portion is topped by a flagpole and flag.  I couldn’t see any means of propulsion but I assume there’s an inboard motor. I tried to see how many crew serviced each boat but never quite got close enough. There is no dock, they just pull the boats up on the sand and leave them there.

If you go left at the T you are in the resort portion of the town. About 500 yards down the road is a large resort, fancy, expensive, that sort of thing. Before you get to the ritzy place there are about six cheaper places on your right, fronting the ocean. Though Busua is a small town it doesn’t lack for activity on its road. Goats, chickens, dogs (for some reason there were a bunch of dogs) and people constantly fill the street. There are several small eating places opposite the beach hotels. A meal runs about four cedi. Or you can get fancy food at some of the hotels. One boasts a French chef. Since all I ever eat is rice and vegetables or pasta and vegetables there was no reason for me to eat anywhere but the cheap places. An eating place, by the way, is generally either a woman behind a table cooking over a fire, or a tiny roofed structure with a couple plastic tables.

Tuesday, July 9, Busua Beach, Ghana

I'm at a beautiful beach in West Ghana. The only internet connection is at a fancy hotel. Tomorrow I move to  Akwaadi Beach, even more remote. No internet there at all so I will probably be out of touch for about a week.
I'm starting to accumulate swimming credits. I've swum in the Atlantic on the Jersey Shore and in Ghana; I've swum in the Pacific in Los Angeles and outside Hue in Vietnam; in the Black Sea at Batumi, Georgia; and in the Mediterranean at Malta and Ephesus in Turkey. No Indian Ocean yet.

I can't explain why I have nothing much to say today. Maybe it's just all that sitting in a hammock reading a book (occasionally interrupted by trips into the surf). My apologies.
Thanks for the comment, Charlie.

Sunday,July 7 Takoradi, Ghana

For some reason I have always been extraordinarily lucky on my travels. I make silly mistakes and somehow they end up working out swimmingly.
I left Accra on Thursday afternoon. I'd heard, from someone at my first hostel, that the air-conditioned VIP buses that connected major Ghanaian cities were not as good as reported in my Lonely Planet Guide. This person advised using the "private" buses instead. So when I looked for private buses in LP I found reference to same at a place called the Kanieshi Motor Park. This bus station was about a 45 minute walk from my hotel so I strapped on my big backpack and hoofed it to Kanieshi.
When I got there I found a large tro-tro camp with "private" tro-tro's headed for all parts of Ghana. It wasn't what I expected but I was tired from my walk and I knew I'd save money using the vans so I started asking everyone for directions to the tro-tro for Cape Coast, the city I had set as my next destination.

I don't think, to the day I write this, July 21, that I have yet met a true tourist during my travels. All these folks, at the fort at Cape Coast, are volunteers, working at orphanages in Ghana, spending their weekends traveling around the country.

After talking with about four people I found myself in a tight spot near the sidewalk outside the tro-tro park. A lady in the crowd told me she was on line for the bus to Cape Coast. I had arrived.
"You need a ticket," she told me calmly. After viewing my mystified visage she pointed in the general direction of a copse of people talking near the road. They were only six feed from me, but there were so many intervening folks (plus vendors selling foodstuffs) that I despaired of reaching the salesman before the next van left. There was one, partially loaded van in front of me to the left, the one that the lady intended to board.
I wasn't too anxious because I had lots of time. If I missed this van I could get the next, which, judging by the controlled chaos in front of me, wouldn't take long.
Then, suddenly people began rushing for the van. In a trice it was full. I still didn't have a ticket, but now I had space to talk to the salesman. Probably because I was obviously a tourist he immediately became solicitous and motioned for me to board the van. There was one open seat, I saw. But, quickly someone nudged ahead of me and filled it. My ability to pounce on an open seat was greatly impeded by the large backpack that I was trying to ferry into the bus.
Then the salesman intervened again and somehow got me into the bus. He closed the sliding door. It looked like I was on my way--feeling a little guilty that I got such primo treatment when all manner of Ghanaians waited behind me.
A moment later the sliding door opened again. This time the guy motioned for me to exit!
"Come with me," he said.
Quickly he opened the sliding door of the van in front of us and directed me to sit in the one open seat. As I awkwardly maneuvered myself into the seat I realized the van was fun of white people.
What I didn't know was that Ghana does have hundreds, perhaps thousands of European and American visitors. But they aren't tourists. I found that there are several charity organizations that arrange multi-week excursions where you sign on to work at orphanages and schools around the country. They pay around $500 for the privilege of working. The people in my van were part of this population. Given the weekend off they were in the process of going to Cape Coast.
Two of the leaders--if there were such among the group--were young men from Pleasanton. They seamlessly  adopted me into their group. They had already arranged accomodations at a nice hotel so I simply lodged at the same place. They then let me tag along as they visited all the tourist attractions around Cape Coast:  a fort left over from the slave trade; a crocodile-feeding place; a place to walk over some rope ladder-type things up in the trees; and, most deliciously, an animal exhibit crafted by an eccentric Dutchman and his wife. The Hollander regaled us with his life story, how he left Holland and tried to find someplace to settle away from home, how he had done badly in school but really wanted to work with animals, and how he came to set up a place to protect and propagate endangered species, especially monkeys. It was the most interesting thing I've done in Ghana so far.
And it never would have happened if I knew what I was doing and had taken the air-conditioned VIP bus that I might have taken.

We visited a national park where you could walk this rope ladder up in the trees. I'd done this same thing before, in Mengla, in Southern China. Apparently there are four of these spread throughout the world.

I still don't have wifi and haven't got the picture thing together yet, but I will soon go back and fill in photos where appropriate. I really do have some.

He (or she) is hard to see, but in that mirk is a crocodile, one of many at a restaurant we visited outside Cape Coast. An endless line of school children were bused to this place to feed the beasts and receive some sort of lecture.

We spent a couple wonderful hours at the home of an expatriot dutchman and his wife. His mission was to rescue wildlife and, some day, return their spawn to the wild. This monkey didn't like visitors and attempted to bite my head off at one point.

The fort at Cape Coast. I and my eleven new young friends spent a couple hours here learning about the slave trade.

Friday, July 5

Trash, especially plastic trash, befouls just about every square meter of Ghana. Here is the open sewer near the river. The smell of fecal matter comes up with every gust of wind.

This is Accra's main river. All this will end up in a kilometer or two, in the Gulf of Guinea and the Atlantic. How do fish survive what people send to them?

Tro-tro ettiquette.
If you want to travel in Accra (or just about any Third World city I've been in) you need to learn the rules.

Tro-tro's don't stop everywhere and it's not always clear where they are headed. You have to listen carefully and try to master the Accran accent. "Yaaavaaadeeee" the guy yells. He's hanging out the sliding door, hectoring passersby to hop on his van. After a few times I finally realized he was saying "Labadi", the name of the main north-south artery in northern Accra. Many times I could never figure what the guy was saying. {Capetown was even more interesting. The guys blew whistles before they shouted their destinations.}
Once you find a place where the tro-tro's stop (stops are never more than a few hundred meters apart) you should make eye contact with the tout. He'll repeat his destination ("LaaaPaaahhhz" = La Paz, an Accran neighborhood). You will be expected, from that, to decide whether you want on or not. For me it often required a short conference with the tout before I committed.
To join requires quick action. You pop your head inside the van and rapidly survey for the proper seat. Courtesy requires that you take the most distant open spot. If that means way in the back corner, well, then that's your place. Don't worry about getting trapped, people will always allow you the time to exit when it comes time.
Once seated you need to find the money for the fare. If you are intelligent you already asked the tout about the proper fee, which hereabout ranges from fifteen cents to 25 cents. Correct change is appreciated but few have it. Don't worry when no one asks for your money when you first set off. They are masters of timing. When things settle down the tout will start fetching the cash. If you are in the far back of the van you will need to hand your money to someone in front of you to be passed forward. If you sit forward expect to be part of the chain of custody of someone's money from the rear. Miraculously the money gets to the tout in plenty of time. I never saw it fail. (Once a guy complained he'd been shorted ten pesos (there are one hundred pesos in a cedi, the Ghanaian currency. Ten pesos is five cents). I never found out if he got his proper change.
Getting off is easy, just give a nod to the tout. The right side of the van has folding seats that are taken up to make room for anyone exiting.
In the city, unlike long distance travel, you don't have to wait to leave a spot until the van is full. Here they go and go and go, full or not full. But fee tro-tro's are less than 80% full from my experience.