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.