Big game in Africa, part 2

Wallace Kwaw, the master of the house in which we lived outside Cape Coast, retired last year after more than two decades as a tour guide at the Elmina Castle. A self-made man, he had worked hard, making a very nice life for his family.

As a side note, I should mention that part of his efforts included building the book shop at the castle. If you happen to find yourself in Elmina, the store boasts perhaps the best selection of books on Ghana, and slavery in particular, that you’re likely to find anywhere in the country.

When it came time for Wallace to step down and assume the life of a country squire , he decided he would henceforth devote himself to two things: his goats … and soccer. Not keen on animal husbandry myself, but wanting to get to know the man with whom I would be living for three months, I decided to commit myself to learning more about the sport.

Wallace proved an excellent guide, and endlessly engaging companion, for my crash course on the Spanish La Liga, the UEFA Champions League, Ghana’s national team (called the Black Stars), and the single abiding obsession of most Ghanaian men, the English Premier League.

“I suppose my favorite team is Manchester United,” Wallace conceded, “but I like the style of play of the Spanish teams. The British use a more physical approach, more brute force, but the Spanish play with more style.”

And so they did when I had a chance to compare. And I had plenty of chances. If the TV was on, which it typically was at night, it was showing soccer. Outfitted with a satellite dish, Wallace tended to watch only those channels showing soccer ― any game would do. Breaking it up, when they were no games, with a visit to CNN. Mostly we would toggle back and forth from a Barcelona game, say, to the Arsenal game to some obscure French league game with guys who looked like they’d had their hair done for the match.

In less time than I would have ever guessed it possible, I found really enjoying the games. I quickly grew to look forward to our evening constitutional. We would enjoy one of Aba’s wonderful meals, and then I would retire to the living room, sometimes with a cold beer, to watch the game with Wallace.

Over the months, I learned the teams. I learned the names of the principal players, even settling on certain favorites (Lionel Messi and Samuel Eto’o for Barcelona, Wayne Rooney for Manchester United). I started checking the standings in the newspaper. I even regretted when circumstances prevented me from seeing an important match. And incredibly, for the first time since I’d idolized Phillies third baseman Mike Schmidt, I thought about buying a jersey.

I will take a great many things away with me from Ghana. There are Aba’s yam chips, the country’s groovilicious highlife music, the smiles of the kids and my uncanny resemblance to one of Ghana’s presidential candidates. But I will never forget those evening sitting with Wallace at the end of the day, his leg hanging over the arm of his lounger, and watching soccer. Thank you, Wallace.

(Picture: Wallace and I at Cape Coast Castle, which is conspicuously absent a book store...)

Big game in Africa, part 1

I have to confess that when I considered soccer at all I considered it not really worth considering. What, after all, could be the appeal of a game in which a tie of 0-0 could be a satisfactory conclusion?

Admittedly, I never played the game. Growing up in northeastern Montana in the 70s, soccer wasn’t even available. I remember hearing about it, but it seemed as exotic a sport as elephant polo. Surely no one in the U.S. played it.

Since then I’d only watched it when required to to support my stepdaughter or nephew. The game was no more a part of my life than Posh Spice is.

And then I went to Africa.

Africa is mental for soccer. The game is just barely edged out by God in their pantheon. Take the recent case in Morocco. In that North African country, the phrase "God, The Nation, The King" is a common expression, encapsulating the three priorities for all Moroccans. Few mess with the inviolability of that triumvirate.

Enter soccer fan Yassine Belassal. An 18-year-old student and rabid Barcelona fan, he was recently inspired to alter the above phrase, which had been written on the blackboard in his class, to read "God, the Nation, Barcelona.” It got him arrested.

You don’t trifle with King Mohamed VI. And when you do, for your soccer team, then that’s being mental for soccer.

In Ghana, as well as neighboring Togo, Cote d’Ivoire and Burkina Faso, you’re just as likely to see kids playing soccer as you are to find plantains in your next meal. In other words, it’s unavoidable.

On one level it’s not difficult to understand why. Unlike golf, say, or midget car racing, it’s a versatile sport that can be played virtually anywhere and often is, from open fields, to empty lots, to narrow alleys.

There is a similar lack of pretense when it comes to soccer accessories. If a ball is not at hand, or at foot as the case may be, one can be easily fashioned from rags, plastic bags, a slow chicken. Almost anything will work. As for extravagances like cleats or shin guards, who do you think you are, Steven Gerrard?

(Picture: A homemade soccer ball)

Back to Cape Coast

After nearly two weeks on the road, returning to Cape Coast feels like coming home. I recognize its chaotic streets, its open sewers, its roaming goats. Well, I don’t recognize the goats, but you get my meaning. It’s a familiar craziness and after so much that has been new it is comforting to be surrounded by people and places you know.

At the top of the list is our Ghanaian family, the Kwaws. I’d missed them more than I expected. And they seem to have missed us at least a little, too. Normally taciturn Abu welcomes us with big hugs. Desmond, the youngest son, whose moods are as unpredictable as the weather is predictable, seems positively overjoyed to have us back, embracing us both with a lot of feeling.

Wallace takes a relaxed approach to such things. Over 20 years working with and getting to know visiting obronis, their comings and goings are just a part of life. But he seems happy to have us back and back safely; I know he feels a responsibility for our welfare, even if we’re dragging it to Burkina Faso. A smart man, but one who has done little traveling outside Ghana himself, he takes great interest in our adventures, asking lots of questions.

We’ve also missed our room, which we’ve come to call the “blue” room due to the light blue paint that distinguishes it from the white walls elsewhere in the house. It is airy, open, private, comfortable and the perfect place to escape to each evening and now after many days in hotels and even one on a chilly rooftop.

The next morning I’m surprised to find that the staff at Global Mamas seems equally enthusiastic at our return. This is a warm group of people and though we are barely more than strangers they make us feel missed. George, friendly, ambitious George, is the first to shake my hand.

“You’re back. Mr. Greg.”

“We’re back. How are you, George?”

“I am fine. I hope you had a good trip.”

“We had a great trip. But it’s good to be back.”

“We are happy you are back. This week there are big games in the Premier League.”

George has become my source of European soccer information.

Each of the others does the same in turn, offering nothing but smiles and gentle, endearing expressions of welcome. It does not last long; these are not effusive people. But it is unmistakable and for the first time I begin to think how very hard it is going to be to say goodbye when it is finally time for us to leave for good.

(Picture: Outside Kotakaraba Market in Cape Coast)

Up the Mole River

A little over two hours later we return a bit dejected, I won’t lie. Not only had groups in previous days seen multiple elephants, they had even been mugged poolside by baboons. So far we had only succeeded in paying too much for beer at the hotel restaurant.

OK, we did see a warthog cooling off in a puddle of mud near our room. And while this would’ve been cause for much excitement if it had happened at home in Portland, it suffered by comparison when encountered in Africa in a park famed for its elephants.

In the afternoon, Shawn and I join a small group of Swedes for what is billed as a canoe safari. It is, in truth, just a pleasant, if abbreviated, tour up the Mole River. There was never any promise of spotting wildlife on this trip, that is, beyond the bird variety, which, no disrespect meant to birders, is really the CSPAN of wildlife viewing.

Our guide: “Do you see that bright blue bird just there?”

Us: “Oh, yes. That really is a bright blue. What kind of bird is it?”

Our guide: “I don’t know. It’s just blue.”

We just enjoy the sound of the paddle in the water, the movement of the light through the leafy jungle canopy.

That night, after a nice meal around the pool with new friends from Sweden, England and Holland, we turn in so as to be up at 3:45 a.m. for the 4 a.m. bus. Though abominably early, we soon learn it’s fortuitous for us that we’re the first to get on. Being the only bus from the area into Tamale, it is soon packed, with even the aisles occupied with passengers and bags.

By about 8 a.m. we find ourselves once again waiting in the Tamale station, this time for a bus to the second largest city in Ghana and capital of the once-great kingdom of Ashanti, Kumasi. We will spend one night, and then point ourselves toward Cape Coast.

(Picture: Our awaiting canoe "safari")

Looking for elephants

We’d arranged the evening before to take a walking “safari” with one of the park’s guides. Shawn, who is not feeling well, elects to forego the march in favor of a canoe trip later in the day. The rest of us are up at 6 a.m. for the 7 a.m. departure into the bush.

Jeanne and I learn that close-toed shoes are mandatory so each rent a pair of rubber Wellington boots for 1 cedi. Our guide, Abu, is wearing them, so I figure they must not be too cumbersome should we need to escape a charging elephant or baboon attack.

During our pre-walk briefing we’re told that groups in the previous three days have had good luck finding elephants. But we are reminded that the elephant is a private and rather peripatetic beast and could just as easily feel overexposed after three days in the public eye and steer clear of us. Abu assures us he will try to root them out.

It is a beautiful hike. We see a variety of antelope, including the Kob, bush bucks and water bucks. They are shy bunch and most are spotted at a fair distance, at least once in a dramatic, springing escape into the deeper brush.

We learn the sad story of the male Kob, which, if defeated in battle by another male, must then live alone and apart from the herd for the rest of its life. So bereft are they, we are told, they no longer even care about their own safety and will not run if approached. Sometime later we come upon just such a sad case. I point and chant “quitter” in hopes that tough love will be the difference. Sadly, it is not.

The hike takes us through fields of high grass, and then into open country that smells of the wild mint that is everywhere. We cross a few small creeks and follow the edge of a couple of drying watering holes. Along the way we see monkeys and more antelopes. We watch crowds of gray egrets move gracefully across the sky. And we see evidence of elephants, including footprints, but, alas, no actual elephants.

At one blind overlooking a favorite pachyderm bathing spot we sit in silence for 10 minutes in hopes that they will appear. Antelope can be seen bounding in the distance. Monkeys move about in loose groups in the trees. It is a striking scene, truly like something from National Geographic, but the big game refuse to cooperate.

(Picture: Our guide Abu finding elephant tracks, but no elephants)

On our way to Mole, part 2

The final two hours to Mole is traveled on dirt road so pitted and rutted one suspects it’s intended to bounce the memory of asphalt from your memory. It is like we are driving on square wheels. You have to hold on to the seat back in front of you to keep from falling into the aisle. Clouds of red dirt billow into the bus. Shawn ties her bandana around her nose and mouth like a bandito.

In the village of Damongo, we drop off all but the obruni on our bus, which, including us, number maybe 10. The town is a patch of swept dirt at the side of the road encircled by a loose arrangement of a dozen mud huts.

It’s dead dark by now, and we watch goats scatter before our headlights. We are all hoping to happen upon some wild animal that’s wandered to road and squint into the distance out the windshield.

At one village, free of electricity, our arrival is the evening’s entertainment. A group of 20 gather as the bus removes some bags. They peer into the windows, one boy saying, “Give me 1 cedi.” When we leave, the entire lot of them is plunged back into complete darkness.

Finally, about 8 p.m., we reach the gate to Molé. A guard enters to collect the park “fee.” This amounts to 4 cedis (about US$4) per person, with an additional 2 cedi charge for those expecting to use their camera in the park. An excellent memory is apparently free to bring in.

The bus stops here for the night, we learn, with the driver staying at the hotel as well; he will return to Tamale in the morning at 4 a.m. It is really the only way out of the park each day.

We check in, Shawn and I getting a double room for 35 cedis. As we make our way to the room in the dark, we find a family of wild antelope dining and reclining in the strip of grass to the side of the one-story bank of rooms. They are far less interested in us.

All settled in the simple, rather institutional room, we join a group of others for a late dinner in the hotel’s restaurant; the Molé Park Hotel is the only accommodation option in the area. It’s a nice group made up of visitors from England, Holland and Finland. They explain that they saw three elephants that day, one only a couple of hundred feet away.

“And then we’re sitting around here later and a baboon stole my camera,” says John, a Brit.

“Excuse me?” I say.

“Yeah, I was sitting over there by the pool and I had my camera on the table and he just came up and took it. It was rather frightening to be honest.”

“Just … came over and took it?” I’m stupefied.

“Yeah. Simple as you like.” The rest of the group is laughing.

“That’s amazing,” I say. “Did you get it back? Had he taken any pictures with it?”

“No. But the batteries were new, so he has plenty of time I reckon.”

It’s an incredible story. We keep our eyes to the short wall separating the hotel grounds from the wild. In the distance stretches the vast park, dramatically illuminated by a bright, white moon. I keep waiting to see if I see a camera flash in the distance.

(Picture: One of the warthogs fond of roaming about the grounds)

On our way to Mole, part 1

The 4.5-hour ride from Tamale in northern Ghana to the entrance to Mole National Park in the NW of the country is not recommended by the American Chiropractic Association. On the list of things to be avoided it falls just between stage diving and falling out of a tree.

The first couple of hours of the ride you’re just happy to be free of the Tamale bus station. You’re distracted by joy. After four hours waiting for the one bus to the park, captive to the heat, the dust, and the welter of vendors, buses, tro-tros and people, the simple act of moving, anywhere, is a kind of intoxication.

You’re also putting distance between you and the station’s public bathroom. It’s a simple business arrangement: You pay the surly man in the sunglasses 10 pesewas, and you are permitted to pass through the screen door into what can only be described as a crapatorium. The row of eight or nine stalls look to have been without the custodian’s loving touch for much of the millennium.

The first half of the drive affords you the myriad benefits of asphalt, most notably, speed. Bikes and motorcycles keep to the shoulder. We pass a man who, far from any town or sideroad I can see, moves along in the waning afternoon light on crutches. He stops momentarily to watch us as we drive by.

A truck thunders by in the opposite direction, piled 10 feet high with bags of yams on top of which sit a dozen men. On the tailgate of the truck has been painted “Justice.”

As it is election season, there are political posters and billboards everywhere. They are plastered to every surface that will permit glue or nail, sometimes four or five for the same candidate right next to each other. We pass a woman collecting firewood at the roadside. Another is pounding her staff in its wooden pestle making the evening’s fufu.

As the sun begins to set, they all turn to dark smudges, backlit by a sky that is the brilliant pink of that Chinese pork they serve with hot mustard and sesame seeds.

(Picture: A taste of the pandemonium of the Tamale station)