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.