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.
