Your crash course in Fanti

There are approximately 75 different languages spoken in Ghana. This incredible variety is really only a challenge for visitors from outside West Africa as most who grew up here speak a polyglot of dialects. The most prominent languages are Twi, Fanti, Ga, Ewe and Hausa.

At the time of Ghana’s independence in 1957, Twi was actually put forth as a possible national language. Ethnic infighting took care of that, forcing authorities to seek a solution in the language of the most recent colonizer. Lucky for us. Because the native tongues are a bear to get a handle on.

For those looking to fill out their Fanti, I’ve culled a list of important words as identified in the “English to Fanti” translation guide published by Gospel Ambassadors Church and peddled by the busy vendors working the traffic lines throughout Accra. Happy bilingualism, everyone.

Ennui – Enyi haw
Leper – Ɔkwatanyi
Hunchback – Efu/akyakya
Pus – Kur-mu-nsu
Cloyed – Biribi afon wo
Enema – Asa
Iniquity – Emumuye
Concubine – Nwenwe/Mpona
Matrimonial troubles – Awarmu-Ntawa ntawa
Embalm – Rebo fun h o ban ho ban
Deceaded – Obi a w’ewu
Regicide – Ɔhen-kum

For those looking to go further, here are some sample phrases that you may or, um, may not find handy:

The tallest among us should squat.
Hɔn a wcye atsentsenfo wɔ henmu no mbɔ hɔnmu adze

My manner of walking is an inborn.
Me nantsew fi m’awosomu/wɔdze me nantsew woo me.

Let’s block our ears to any hearsay.
Mma yentsie akekasem biara.

The door has nipped my finger.
Abow no afew me nsa atseba.

Don’t covet my property.
Mma w’enyi mber m’agyapadze.

Don’t arrogate evil deeds to me.
Mma nfa bɔn nsusu me.

Are you here to ridicule me?
Ana ebae de rebeyi me ehi anaa?

Never in my life will I allow a woman to dominate over me.
Merentsie mma basia nhye medo da.

Why have you frowned your face?
Ebenadze ntsi nna aka w’enyim esi dem.

He has slobbered all over the pillow.
N’ano ekyi nsu taka egu sundze nodo nyinara.

There is a long queue at the standpipe.
Nyimpa pii atow santsen wɔ paap ano hɔ.

Look! The clothesline is sagging.
Hwe de ahoma no resian famu.

I have crunched some tiny stone.
M’akaw abobaa ketsewa bi mu.

Sniff at it and see whether it has gone bad or not.
Hua hew de nka aba mu anaa-de nka mmbaa mu.

The scent of the meat makes me want to vomit.
Nam no nenka ye me abofon/ ama mepe de mefe.

Don’t come and parasite on me.
Mma mbesi mekɔn ho/mma ngye mensamu edziban ndzi.

Too much water has made the fufu soggy.
Nsu dodow no ama fufu no egow/aye mberew.

I have a jaded appetite.
Me kɔn ndc hwee mpo.

Go and have the plates sponged.
Hew kitsa pretse ahorow nomu.

The shoes punch me.
Mpaboa no kyer me dodow.

Don’t sway your hips at me, you bad girl.
Ɔwo akatasia bɔn, hew na anwosow wo sisiw ankyere me.

I said I was celibate mere as a joke.
Mehyee da ara kae de menwar.

Janet is not a nubile girl.
Ewuraba Janet ɔnsoe awar.

Some people are too much saturated with nonsense.
Nyimpa binom dzi nsem gyangyan nkotsee.

(Picture: An Abompe beadmaker)

Ben and Boadu

If Abompe is to achieve its goals of becoming an eco-tourist destination, it will be because of young men like Ben and Boadu. They are the developing leaders of their village, with one foot in the old ways, the traditions and cultural isolation, and one foot in the new possibilities. Theirs is a new and increasingly complicated culture, of the Internet, of cell phones, one in which the far-flung corners of the world have been stitched together more than ever before.

During our stay, both of them exhibited a commitment to their community that was based not on immediate benefits, but on the promise, at some point down the road, of advancement for all. It takes a certain kind of person, an openhearted, forward-thinking person , to agree to forego payment for work for a period of months, or years, for the sake of the greater good.

This, it seems to me, is the difference between a transaction and an investment, between stagnation and development. Both Boadu and Ben seem to understand this distinction. Their hard work, and they are tireless, is a kind of sweat equity. When not leading tours, working with beadmakers, helping organize a fledgling bamboo bike project or supporting a mother and two younger siblings, Ben studies mechanical engineer in a town some distance from Dwenase.

Boadu, for his part, is married and only months earlier lost his first child to complications at birth. He waves this off with a smile, as if it were no greater a tragedy than arriving a few minutes late for an appointment. He does what he has to to get by, be it leading tours or digging bauxite.

Incredibly, they make no requests of us. With a sincerity that nearly breaks one’s heart they want only to make a connection, a personal connection, share a moment, perhaps a laugh. They want us to know that our visit is appreciated, that we are appreciated. We have searched and of all the places in the world our resources could have taken us, we chose this little piece of jungle. That is significant. Perhaps, if one is inclined to think this way, it might also be fate.

After only a couple of days I feel a great affection for these two young men. I want so desperately for them what they want for themselves, and their community, that it nearly hurts to breathe. I’m sincerely sad when it is time to leave. As much as is possible, given the things that separate us, they have become friends.

So I say to them now, Ben and Boadu, thank you. Thank you for everything. And all the very best of luck.

Digging Abompe, part 4

Ben informs me that bauxite falls fourth on the list of principal sources of income in the area behind cocoa, coffee and plantain. It’s difficult to tell where the illegal gold mining operation we passed earlier in the morning figures on that list, though I’m guessing the foreign bosses, who we are to encounter some hours later in their new Land Rovers, don’t much care.

Bauxite has nevertheless been a mainstay of the local economy since the early 1900s as the preferred material for the beads that are such an important part of the local culture. The brown rock, which to be honest looks a bit like dried crap, is said to take on an attractive sheen from its contact with the skin, turning a glossy brown over time.

After another half an hour of humping through the branch and brush, Ben points out the first of a series of abandoned pits. Largely grown over, they are not exactly what I expect. When I think mining, I think monumental gashes carved into hillside, big holes, Bob the Builder sorts of equipment. I expect a busy beehive of men.

But incredibly these pits are dug by hand, in most cases to a depth of only about 15 to 20 feet and then laterally as long as the vein of bauxite cooperates. And more incredibly still, I am informed that Sam, a one-time Nigerian tailor, is the only miner of the stuff in the area. Each of the dozen or more holes we passed were his doing and his alone. He does not seem to share my stupefaction at this news and only offers a passing smile with a mouth largely free of teeth.

We are sitting at his current site, a red hole in the ground, and he’s changing his clothes to get to work. By its simplicity, the spot could’ve just as easily been the work of some subterranean animal except for the little clefts that have been carved into the walls for hand and foot holds. He does not tarry long, every moment here being an opportunity to dig. So he quickly disappears, followed by Boadu, who has agreed to help him.

Ben remains up top to describe the process. I ask questions and he translates, shouting them down to Sam in the hole. Nearby sits a battered bucket attached to a line of raffia taken from a palm tree for pulling up the rock. A simple makeshift rack made of sticks teeters above a pile of ash; this is Sam’s grill where he smokes any bush meat he happens to kill.

And for his labor, the four-hour hike, an average of four hours in the dark of a 20-foot pit, that you must dig yourself, the chipping free of the rock and hoisting it up, and the ridiculously difficult job of then transporting the rocks, typically at a weight of 35 kilos to 50 kilos, on one’s head back down the mountain, for this, on a good day, Sam can expect to make no more than 10 cedis, the equivalent of US$10.

I ask Ben to ask Sam if this is enough. I do not speak Twi, but when I hear the answer echo up from the hole, I understand it clearly enough.

“But if Sam is the only miner, and therefore the only seller, of bauxite, can’t he dictate the price paid by the beadmakers in town?” I ask. I am stunned by the answer.

“No,” Ben says. “It’s not like that. People here don’t respect this work. People think that if you are not a farmer then you are lazy.”

(Picture: Boadu in the mine)

Digging Abompe, part 3

Now we begin to climb. It is rocky, uneven ground and slow going. The surrounding brush does not permit much room on either side and at times it’s like tiptoeing up a steep, bumpy balance beam. Thankfully we’re largely in shade so saved the added insult of being squeezed dry by the sun.

It very quickly becomes clear that Calum’s flip flops aren’t going to suffice. Hiking boots they are not. By this point his feet look like a couple of yams just pulled from the ground. Boadu offers the rubber, knee-high Wellington boots that pass for hiking gear with him and Sam. Calum thanks him but declines.

Boadu then exhibits a resourcefulness that is truly inspiring, configuring a crude heel from a stray piece of cord cut from one of the bags. Calum is very appreciative. And we all express admiration for Boadu’s quick thinking.

“My name, Boadu, it mean to help someone 10 times without getting tired,” he says smiling.

“But on the 11th time you’re on your own,” I joke.

Everyone laughs, Boadu mostly hardily. Shaking his head, he says, “Mr. Greg, you are my funny father.”

And then we resume our climb. Conversation largely ceases, except for Suzanne who manages to belt out a line from this song or that, showing an incredible breadth in her catalog, before going quiet again. Our breaks for water become increasingly frequent, and a source of some curiosity to Sam, who we are to learn makes this trek three times a week. We agree that we would not undertake it three times a week if there were a gondola, and a Starbucks at the top.

After another hour we finally reach the cave. It is the home away from home for Sam and local hunters when in the bush. Situated beside a gurgling mountain stream, the accommodation is less a cave than a sliver of cover made by a rocky overhang. For beds, visitors use the wooden planks that have in some spots been laid on the rock. I ask if it comes with a continental breakfast.

As it happens, it does. And Boadu carves up the most delicious papaya, or pawpaw as it’s called here, I’ve ever had (I agree with Shawn that it typically tastes like some unidentifiable meat). Ben tells us that at times as many as 100 people sleep up here. It is sincerely hard to imagine.

Then it’s back to our new favorite pastime, climbing. Boadu and Sam try to encourage us by ensuring us it is only “30 minutes more.” By the third of these promises, they prove good to their word and the land flattens out. We now look down on a valley of the profoundest green. One feels that if he were to jump off the edge the thick leafy canopy would catch you.

(Picture: Boadu, left, and Sam Ofori)

Digging Abompe, part 2

We awake at 5 a.m. for our hike. Our hope is that an early start will give us a jump on the sun, which can be brutal in the afternoon. Hell, it can be brutal in the morning, it’s Africa. But when you’re with the only obroni in town the simple 3K walk from Dwenase to Abompe can involve a lot of glad handing.

Abompe seems a slightly larger village than its neighbor, and is equipped with its own equatorial church shoehorned onto the end of town. We buy egg sandwiches from a woman for breakfast, and then a back-up for the walk. We also fill our packs with bags of water.

By 7 a.m., having connected with Ben and the other guide, Boadu, we set off just as the town is beginning to rouse for the day. People greet us warmly as we pass, nodding and pointing back toward the mountain. We follow the dirt road out of Abompe for a mile or so. In the distance, a thick veil of mist hangs on Mt. Bepobeng and the surrounding hills.

As we walk, I am struck by the total Africa-ness of it all. In my imagination, reading Sir Richard Burton and Graham Greene and watching Bo Derek’s “Tarzan,” this is the Africa I envisioned. It is lush and green and busy with birds and enormous swaying leaves. School children pass in their uniforms. Women move up the road with a baby on their back and a pot on their head. A man rattles by on a bike.

At some point we turn off the road onto a dirt trail that leads off into the jungle. Suzanne, looking at Calum’s and Emily’s flip flops warns us that this is a not a stroll; this is a proper hike that will take us deep into the bush and up a steep, uneven trail for hours. Hours?

But this first leg is easy and pleasant, leading us through rolling country and dense stands of maize and cassava. We could not have asked for better guides. Both Ben and Boadu are friendly, attentive leaders. At one point, Boadu stops us inside a shady grove of trees and cuts down a yellow football-shaped fruit. Cracking it open against the tree, he offers it over.

“Cocoa,” he says. “You can eat.”

We dig our fingers inside and scoop out the gooey beans that would otherwise go into making chocolate. They’re apparently too bitter to eat, but sucking on the covering of each bean makes for a delicious, sweet treat. We dispatch it in short order like a bunch of POWs.

From there, we cross swampy stretches from the recent rains and trickling rivulets originating high in the mountains. At one point, we hop the rocks across a little stream I’m told is named “Emaapenam,” which translates, inexplicably, to “Women Like Meat.” I’m too frightened to ask.

We also step gingerly over thick columns of ants. Some are large enough that we are forced run through them as if across a bed of hot coals, and that is precisely what it feels like on your skin when some inevitably find your uncovered foot or work their way up your pant leg to more juicier regions.

After an hour or so, the trail narrows. The surrounding grasses press right up against you and you have to move through with your hands in front of your face. Out of nowhere Sam, the bauxite miner who was to have met us in town, appeared. Wearing red pants and pink shirt, he moved to the front, where he wields his machete (or “cutlass” as they’re called in Ghana, which has a swashbuckling flavor I like) to clear the way.

Boadu uses his own a short time later to cut down a papaya for us.

“For later,” he says. “When we get to the cave.”

Cutlasses? Caves? Have I died and gone to “Goonies”?

(Picture: Boadu feeding Suzanne some cocoa, with Emily watching)

Digging Abompe, part 1

In Osino, we told the taxi driver, “The obruni house.” He nodded as matter of factly as if we had said, “Take us to the house that is on fire.” When you stand out as much as Suzanne, the resident Peace Corps volunteer, does in the small village of Dwenase, you might as well be on fire.

Dwenase is a small, one-street town with a dusty central roundabout. In the middle of the circle stands a mile post pointing you to the four nearest villages. It seemed a comical attempt at worldliness for a population that typically spends its entire life within a few miles of home, but I appreciated their nod to big-city ways.

At the end of the main street, just before the jungle starts, sits a small church that looks altogether like something out of a Conrad novel. One can almost hear the Ennio Morricone score in the background. These people take their God seriously. They name their stores after him, mark their taxis with his name and fear him with all the intensity of community of penitents.

Calum, Emily and I found ourselves in Dwenase, after no fewer than four vehicle changes, to visit the bauxite mines from which Global Mamas gets the materials for a line of necklaces and bracelets. Suzanne was our contact and had kindly set up the trek that would take us high into the surrounding mountains the next morning to see where the material is quarried.

An enthusiastic hostess, she greeted us with great warmth to the small compound she has called home for the last 1.5 years. Her mission has been to help Abompe establish itself as an eco-tourist destination. For our hike, she explained, we would be joined by two local young men she was training to be tour guides.

But this first afternoon we contented ourselves with relaxing and getting to know each other, and at Calum’s urging, to finding some local spirits. We ditched our bags, and after collecting Ben, one of the guides who would join us the next day, we hoofed it out into the bush to find a local palm wine tapper Suzanne new of.

We found the tappers, but unfortunately there was no wine to be had; the tree, alas, was dead. The keg was dry. The leader of the group of five or six men, who informed us of this sad fact, had but one eye and sat absently playing with a machete. I’m no forensic scientist but it seemed easy to put two and two together.

So we walked back into the village to a small, unnamed “spot” (see post of Oct. 24), delightfully adorned with creeping vines and flowers. The real attraction was they had electricity. To us, that meant cold beer. To the kids peeking through the fence from the road, it meant they had TV, which was showing a bloody Ghanaian movie at high volume when we arrived.

We had picked up George, a local beadmaker, by this point. The six of us had a few drinks, bought some more to go, and found some provisions for dinner. We then returned to Suzanne’s house. By this time, the sun was setting and the first of the symphony of night creatures had begun to sing.

As we sat on the porch, beneath a brilliant sky and facing the rocky escarpment rising in the distance, Ben worked a pair of charcoal braziers like Ghana’s Iron Chef to make us a delicious dinner of rice balls and ground nut (peanut) soup. We ate and laughed, and I was struck by how sometimes the simplest pleasures are easiest to find in the dark.

The Shalom Spot, part 2

Alas, we’d had just enough to drink to make commandeering a taxi from its reluctant driver seem like a good idea. So that’s how Renae ended up behind the wheel and the dumbstruck, and no doubt slightly scared, driver in the back seat. We would find a bar that would have us and that’s all there was to it.

Kpong, the next town over, had no idea what do with us. It was midnight, and we milled around its darkened streets, all the businesses closed by this hour, asking everyone we encountered if there were any place to get a drink. We did this for longer than you might think. We were persistent.

Then I met Elvis. Who knew the King had departed Graceland for this decidedly more rustic African backwater? But there he was. An incredibly kind and gentle man of indeterminate middle age, he took on our problem with as much earnestness as if we were searching for penicillin or the Arc of the Covenant.

He knew of a place, he said, and pointed back up the road we’d just come down. Alone now, as the abducted taxi driver had wisely escaped, we started walking. Elvis explained our predicament to each townsperson we met along the way. He would listen, nod and then point us farther up the road.

At some point, I don’t know when, a woman joined us and took the lead. So, of course, we blindly followed. After a few hundred yards, we turned down a dark dirt sidestreet. Scrofulous dogs skulked off into the shadows at our approach. The moon gave everything a silvery luster it could never match during the day. We finally stopped before a small wood structure that would’ve stored garden tools at home. Welcome to the Shalom Spot.

A small light behind the makeshift bar revealed a row of bottles. Never have five drunken fools been so happy to find more things to drink. All we could get Elvis to take for his time and trouble was a Coke. This gentle, sweet man was content merely to sit with us, listen to our nonsensical ramblings and drink his soda.

After an hour, it was time to leave and he insisted on walking us much of the mile or so back to Odumase. On the dark road, in the moonlight, we shook hands, snapping our fingers in the Ghanaian style.

He smiled. “I’m happy to meet you,” he said to Calum and me.

“We’re so happy to meet you,” I said. “Thank you for your help.”

Pleased, his smile broadened. “OK, bye bye.”

“Bye bye, Elvis,” we said.

(Picture: Calum and some of his friends, and me and Elvis, with his dukes up, in the Shalom Spot)

The Shalom Spot, part 1

Rather than venture back to Accra, which had been our plan, we returned, instead, to the Odumase house so we could keep an eye on Jeanne for the night. After suffering through the multi-hour drive in a fevered trance, she immediately took to her bed clutching a copy of The Big Book of Horrible Tropical Diseases. We all felt for her.

As we unloaded our bags and wiped off the layer of red dust that had collected on us during the drive, Shawn actually began to feel sick as well. Mostly just tired, she claimed, she took up a post in bed with a book. The rest of us, perhaps sensing our number could be up at any moment, did what any reasonable person would do: We went out for drinks.

To use the word “bar” to describe the typical drinking establishment in towns the size of Odumase is really an insult to actual bars. Usually referred to as a “spot,” as in Kwame’s Spot or Chicago Spot, they are often little more than just that, small, spartan, interchangeable nothings that are barely a step up from a lemonade stand.

The place at which we had first stopped, only to find it closed, is little more than an old shipping container that has been outfitted with a couple of crude tables. The “bar” is a Rubbermaid cooler that manages to make the beer only slightly colder than it would be if simply stacked at the foot of a nearby palm tree.

We had intended on one beer. By our third, at around 11:30, the sleepy proprietress, having weighed the relative benefits of sleep and a group of five increasingly intoxicated obronis (whites), inexplicably chose sleep. And so it was that we found ourselves bounced back into the night.

(Picture: Laura and Calum enjoy the cheap seats during our journey.)

Talking kente in Tafi Abuife

You know you’re in Tafi Abuife when you see the enormous tree at the side of the road. It looks like a frozen waterfall and seems unfortunately in an advancing state of death.

There’s nothing to immediately distinguish the village from any other. It is composed of a scattering of mud and thatch dwellings baking in the sun, wandering bunches of goats, stray chickens and the ever-present jungle, which crowds close by seemingly in wait to reclaim the patch of clear ground for itself.

Kids in shirts but no pants, or pants but no shirts, appear and look on in wonder as seven whiteys pile out of a car. Word of our arrival travels quickly and we’re barely all out and stretched when Aikins, the resident guide, appears.

The village and its evolving tourist-minded consciousness is the work of a Peace Corps volunteer who is unfortunately traveling the day we arrive. So the work of explaining the famed Ghanaian kente cloth and accompanying us around the village to see it made falls to Aikins, and his sister, Paulina. “She is just learning about be tour guide,” he tells us.

A short distance from the car, one can already hear the distinctive clack clack of many looms at work. Everyone in Tafi Abuife learns how to weave kente cloth. It is a birthright, a responsibility and a lifelong enterprise. Before a child is 10, they have already committed many of the complex designs to memory. When I asked Aikins, age 22, how many designs he knew, he puffed up his face and shook his head.

“More than 100?”

“Oh, yes, more than 100.”

“More than 200?”

“Yes.”

“More than 500?”

He waves off continuing our fun guessing game. “Too many to count,” he says.

We stroll through a cluster of mud huts as the rhythm of the weavers gets louder. In a clearing a group of six or seven work with the kind of calm speed and precision that only comes from practiced expertise. Beside the dull brown of the huts, the yellows and reds and oranges of the thread seem of a different order of brightness.

The weavers glance at us out of the corner of an eye. One, a boy of 12 or 13, sneaks a peek at me from inside the hood of his sweatshirt. Meanwhile, their feet move, their hands move, and line by laborious line the cloth is weaved. Incredibly, the looms, which to me seem no less complex than the human endocrine system, are fashioned from sticks taken directly from the surrounding forest.

Each of the numerous designs has a story. Back at the simple “visitor’s center,” which can only be called that because we happen to be visitors and happen to be inside it, Aikins describes the background of a half a dozen of the designs. Shawn and I end up buying two, one bearing what’s called the “small eye” design and a second using “the hunter’s path.” They cost a mere US$5 each.

It is many minutes after leaving the village, rumbling down the dusty road, before the pleasant, percussive rhythm of the looms begins finally to recede.

Monkey fun in Tafi Atome

The ride out from Mountain Paradise was not nearly as spine-jarring as the ride in, and our first stop proved only a short distance away. We arrived to find the guides lolling beneath a sprawling, leafy tree. It was quiet. Not a lot of monkey watchers today, it seemed. We paid our fee, secured a cluster of bananas and then without much fanfare set off for the nearby jungle.

At a shady spot on the dirt trail, our guide, Kofi, offered up the story of the sanctuary’s history. It was, he told us, the project of a Canadian named John Mason, who, upon learning that the forest’s rapid disappearance could take the resident Mona monkeys with it, worked with local authorities, communities and conservation groups to establish the small refuge. Today it is home to about 500 Mona monkeys, while providing some much-needed additional income to local residents.

At a bend in the trail Kofi called into the dense foliage and in moments it was a monkey party in the trees over our heads. Out of nowhere they appeared, bounding from branch to branch, achieving in their reckless enthusiasm a passing resemblance to our annual party in college we called “50 Ways to Lose Your Liver.”

Kofi showed how if you held out a banana, making sure to grip it tightly, a monkey would approach and then very fastidiously unpeel it, remove a piece with its small, delicate fingers and eat. We did this until the entire bunch was gone. It was thrilling to be so close and to have made this connection, separated only by a single banana. I could’ve repeated the process all day and was sorry when we were empty handed.

Unsure if these larger, walking brothers could produce more, the monkeys stuck close until we tossed the last peel into the forest and carried on down the trail. A short walk through sunlight-dappled jungle brought us finally back to the car.

(Picture: One of the littlest, and most coquettish, of Tafi Atome's residents)

On the road, part 6

It turns out Jeanne’s malingering crud is, well, malingering. When she’s out of earshot the word “malaria” is bandied about. I’m struck by how pleasant sounding a word it is. It could be a Latin dance or a tasty Italian fizzy drink. Here, in a part of the world where it continues to devastate communities, it is about as common a topic of conversation as “Brangelina” is in the states.

The trouble is malaria can apparently be a difficult thing to diagnose as the damnable disease shares symptoms with a host of other ailments, including the flu and the run-of-the-mill hangover. Even the blood test can return false or misleading results.

A long way from a physical exam, Jeanne elected to press on with the day’s schedule: visits to nearby Tafi Atome, home to a monkey sanctuary, and Tafi Abuife, a working kente village. She spends the drive sitting blankly staring out the window, only occasionally digging her hand into a bag of corn flakes.

(Picture: The nasty malaria mosquito)

On the road, part 5

Having added Jean and Laura from the Odumase house, there were now seven of us traveling in Renae’s Mazda SUV. This translates to exactly 231 damaged vertebrae courtesy of the road, or what passes for a road, that takes you to the Mountain Paradise Hotel.

To get to this idyllic hilltop spot, which sits alone above a spectacular expanse of dark green forest, you must first bounce along for an hour, long enough to nearly jar your teeth loose from your head. I have never driven down a flight of stairs, but it cannot be much different.

And if you happen to make the trip during the funeral of three local teachers, you must also pass through long processions of enthusiastic mourners who will crowd your vehicle like flood water, singing, banging their drums and dancing. Do not request “Freebird”; they don’t know it.

The place is worth the trip. A refuge from the heat of the valley, it is well looked after, comfortable and inexpensive. And even though you can wait nearly two hours for dinner, you’ve ordered spaghetti Bolognese and it will be better than you expect. Though it likely benefits some from being eaten in the dark as the Mountain Paradise has no electricity.

Whether due to the food, the washing machine of a drive or some local bit of misdirected voodoo, Jeanne falls ill. It seems to come on all of sudden and she goes pale as the oatmeal that she can’t be bothered to eat the next morning. We go to bed hoping it is temporary.

(Picture [from left to right]: Shawn, Laura [England], Jeanne [U.S.], Carmen [U.S.], Renae [U.S.], Calum [Scotland])

On the road, part 4

Where to start with a city called Ho? I mean, come on, it’s like naming your kid Dick. Despite, or because of its name, we next ventured to this capital of the Volta region, opening up a million comedic possibilities in the process.

We had actually come to visit Global Mamas’ northernmost production “facility.” This is a slightly more grandiose word than is called for to describe the simple one room that the four seamstresses occupy. But they, along with a nearby team of batikers, are just getting started and have high hopes of growing, having already begun to eye a neighboring building as a likely next move.

The madam, which is what one calls a lead seamstress in Ghana, even outside cities called Ho, is a beautiful young Togolese woman named Asana (right in picture) whose dress is bested only by her smile. This she uses, and to great effect, to fill in the holes of her halting English. Despite the language divide, she and the other women manage to convey a sense of great optimism for the future of their fledgling partnership with Global Mamas.

After an hour, we thanked them and departed. As they stood and waved, I tried to send them whatever good luck I might have to offer. They seemed so alone standing there in the door of their small shop. But the reality is they represent a great many; their success could be the difference not only for them, but for their children, their parents, their nieces and nephews, and who knows who else. So sew away, you Hos, I say, sew away.

(Picture: The seamstresses of Ho, the madam on the right)

On the road, part 3

Having seen the beads, we spent the morning learning about how they are made. It is a laborious, multi-step process that seems wholly out a scale with the price they fetch. We start at the home of Grace Adjimir.

You can find her by leaving the dirt road and following a narrow path through a field of corn and cassava until you come to a grove of stunted palm trees. You know you’re getting close when you begin to notice on the ground bits of broken glass and pieces of the clay forms used to make the beads. You also see discarded razor blades. These, we are to learn, are used to cut the cassava stalks that make the holes for the beads.

Grace’s office is a patch of red earth beneath a simple thatch roof. Here she and her nephew spend their day pounding bottles into powder, pouring the powder into forms and stoking the earthen kilns that then fire the powder into beads. When done, the beads are polished by hand against a stone. It is a process that can hardly have changed for generations, which is borne out by the deep groove in the stone.

It is hot, and the ovens spew out the acrid smoke made by the melting bottles. But no one seems to mind. They go about their business with an unhurried precision. Everything is fine. They have orders. Against the wall sit sacks full of bottles. They are healthy enough to work. This is success.

Edna Kwame, the first of the women to partner with Global Mamas six years ago, is doing well for herself. She is young and carries a confidence in her stride as she moves from the oven to the small stool where she sits to paint the cooled beads.

We make more of all this than she does. To her it is just making beads; it is what she does. It is, very likely, what she will always do. In this way, it is little different than getting up in the morning or eating fried plantains or laughing, which she does often.

“Edna is an industry all on her own,” Renae says. “She can fill orders no matter how big and is always on time. I don’t know how she does it.”

Edna pretends not to listen as paints tiny suns on a row of beads, but I can see that she is smiling.

(Picture: Edna Kwame at work)

On the road, part 2

Koforidua seems suspended, like so many Ghanaian cities, between the village life from which many of its inhabitants come and a noisome encroaching modernity. Cars move up and down the narrow streets beside farmers sitting sleepily beside a pile of dirty yams. Wandering goats stop long enough to stare dumbly at their reflections in a row of televisions in a shop front.

We had come to the city for its popular Thursday bead market. This busy collection of artisans and merchants is the principal source for the beads that go into Global Mamas’ line of jewelry. In the hour- plus we walked the market, we were stunned by the variety, dropped some more cedis and had a chance to meet a handful of the beadmakers.

Florence is a large woman with a small voice. She and her husband, Ellis, have built a successful business and these days look after the largest table in the market. It boasts beads of every conceivable design, color and size. One particular strand looks suspiciously to me like old Knicker Knockers.

Lizzy’s English is better than she lets on. At Renae’s urging, she tells us a story about how six months earlier her house had been burgled and she’d lost many strings of beads and about $300, a princely sum for a beadmaker. But when we gasped and asked what she did, she merely shrugged and smiled. “Make beads,” she said.

Happy proved to be aptly named and responded as if every question I put to her about her business tickled her to no end. Why does she make beads? (Laughter) Because her mother made beads. Why did her mother make beads? (Louder laughter) Because her grandmother made beads. This combination of practicality and good humor is as artful a cultural distinction in Ghana as the cuisine is in Italy or the impoliteness is in France.

All the women see Global Mamas as a lifesaver. By paying on time, keeping the beadmakers busy with regular orders, and offering classes on free trade and bookkeeping, the organization has enabled the women to save money and invest in their business.

The beads themselves come in two varieties: transparent and powder. Both are created largely from discarded beer bottles. I felt proud that in our short time here we’d already contributed mightily to their raw material stockpile. If you’re Irish, might I recommend the black beads: They’re taken exclusively from Guinness empties.

We spent the night in the Global Mamas volunteer house in the town of Odumasi. It is a simple, and in fact unfinished, cement block structure that despite being short on modern comforts, like a working refrigerator, proved a very nice stop. Thanks go to Jean and Laura, the two volunteers staying at the house, who greeted us with snacks and a surprisingly complete array of booze options.

(Picture: Florence’s table at the Koforidua bead market)

On the road, part 1

At 239,000 square kilometers, Ghana is just about equivalent to the size of Oregon. Over the last week and a half, we nibbled off of a corner of it. And let me assure you it’s packed with flavor and more than your daily allowance of tasty nutrients.

Carmen Iezzi, the executive director of the Fair Trade Federation, was in Ghana to meet some of her Ghana-based federation members. Renae, the Ghana half of Global Mamas and one of those members, played tour guide and kindly invited Shawn and I, as well as a couple other GM volunteers, to join them on a whirlwind tour.

We departed Accra on Thursday morning and ventured northeast toward Koforidua in the Eastern Region. Along the way we stopped in Aburi, a woodworking village where Shawn and I did our part to invigorate the local economy. I wouldn’t call it a buying frenzy, but whatever the step is before frenzy would be accurate enough for Fox News.

The road is surprisingly well maintained and takes you through some stunning country. Close your eyes and imagine “Africa” and you are likely, without perhaps being aware of it, conjuring up images of Ghana. It is green. It is lush. It is hot. The sun is as bright and insistent as a nuclear detonation. People follow the roadside, some on their way to sell the things on their head and others on their way to gather up things to deposit there.

Thirsty, we stopped for palm wine. Should you find yourself on the road between Aburi and Koforidua, and have a hankering for the sweet, frothy spirit, simply look for a table or pole with an upturned calabash. This is your sign that the “bar” is open. We filled up an empty water bottle’s worth, 1.5 liters, for 1 cedi, 50 pesewas, or about US$1.50. Think of a less fizzy wine cooler mixed with warm bathwater.

Warning: If you do visit the local palm wine vendor, and you do fill up a water bottle, keep in mind that it continues to ferment all by itself. So if you cap the bottle and, say, stop for lunch somewhere and leave the bottle in the car, and then return an hour later and look to enjoy post-meal pick-me-up, point the bottle away from your face.

(Picture: One happy wood carver in Aburi)

Out of office

Due to a trip out of town, we have to hang the "Gone fishin'" sign on the blog for a couple of days. If you just can't live without your African fix, I recommend Ryzard Kapucinski's Shadown of the Sun. It is an incredible collection of reportage from across the continent by a man with a keen eye for the telling detail. Though I warn that returning to our blog on Monday will be like pushing aside that perfectly grilled filet mignon for a return to a bowl of Fruity Pebbles.

You can also enjoy another tantalizing photo from the Kotakaraba Market butcher's shop. Bon appetit!

The man in the gold robe

I was relieved to discover, once free of the Ramadan parade, that the pictures I’d taken had, in fact, turned out. They were actually pretty good. Even though the chances seemed a bit remote that I would ever again be able to find the man who’d asked me to take them, I decided there was little harm in trying.

I learned that just upstairs from the Oceanview Internet café, which is actually a café only insofar as it offers warm bottles of Coke, a photo service could print my pictures for 1 cedi (US$1) each. I got two copies of each, and then ventured to the market.

Kotakaraba Street is the principal thoroughfare in Cape Coast. It is a busy, bustling corridor of cars, trucks, men pushing carts, goats, pedestrians, people with stuff on their heads. It can be a distinct challenge to walk as the street is narrow and what passes for a sidewalk is nothing more than a narrow strip with the honking taxis on one side and an open sewer on the other.

To make matters more complicated, as you walk this tightrope fellow pedestrians and those in the shops regularly call to you: “Obroni!” This is actually one part greeting, one part simple identification as the word means “white person.” Respond with a wave and smile and you are sure to receive the same in return, likely followed by “How are you?” But you also put yourself in jeopardy of tumbling into the trough of odiferous muck.

After passing shops selling cell phones (they are everywhere), stores peddling piles of colorful plastic tubs, hanging racks of flip flops, the occasional pharmacy, a mosque, booths selling what I take to be chicken parts, others selling banku (fermented corn meal) wrapped in banana leaves, you reach the entrance to the market.

It doesn’t look like much from the outside, but this rabbit warren of narrow paths takes you into beehive of commercial activity. Beside a stand offering hair brushes is one selling fabric beside another with piles of yams on display. And it goes on and on, around this corner, down that blind passageway.

At first I just walked, scrutinizing those in the booths for the man in the gold robe. But very soon it was clear that that approach would’ve taken forever, and likely without ever finding him. So, as everyone does when faced with a difficult situation, I approached a woman selling wigs.

“Do you know this man?” I asked, showing her the picture.

This instantly attracted a group of her fellow merchants. Inspecting the picture, they gabbled away in Fanti, each pointing off in different direction. I felt a kind of pleasant release at actually interacting with them while not being the center of attention.

“The mosque,” the woman said, pitching them again into excited Fanti.

“Out there?” I asked, confused.

They had now reached agreement and confidently gestured to, I presumed, the mosque I’d passed before reaching the market. So I thanked them, exited and chatted up a couple of sleepy guys in long robes. They pointed me back up the street toward the market.

What followed was half a dozen similar stops, each inciting different recommendation. Finally, at a store called, and I’m not kidding, God Says Phones, the young man I’d approached took a long look at the picture.

“What is your problem with this man?” he asked protectively.

“Oh, no problem,” I assured him. “I just want to give him this picture.”

This seemed to satisfy him. “He is a butcher. In the market.”

So I returned to the market. After another couple of inquiries, a young man led me to the butcher’s shop. And there he was, the man in the gold robe, only now he was holding a goat head in his hands.

You would’ve thought I’d delivered him a pile of diamonds. A greater welcome and a more appreciative recipient I could not have found. The butchers, at least 10 men, all crowded around and, amid the swarm of flies, inspected the pictures and kidded their colleague, who I now knew was called Igual (in red shirt).

I took some pictures of the guys posing with their favorite carcass and then departed with heartfelt thanks. Never have I had such fun in offal house.

Fun with fufu

The national staple across much of West Africa is cassava. This unsuspecting tuber is combined with plantain turned into a gooey, flavorless glop of starch called fufu. Its relative solidity and texture can best be compared to, well, nothing pleasant.

And it’s no easy transformation. Women toil at this time-consuming task for hours every day, mashing away in a large stone mortar using a piece of wood as big as a fence post. Sitting on low stools, they bring this monster pestle down time and again until the contents are turned into a dense, creamy mass. Walk through a Ghanaian village or town and you are nearly certain to hear that metronome of hammering.

Eaten with the hand, fufu is not intended to be chewed, but, rather, swallowed like a clot of phlegm. To chew it, or to scoop it with a spoon, is to open oneself to the jeering and ridicule of your Ghanaian friends. It is akin, perhaps, to drinking your whiskey with a straw.

Fufu is served actually dropped into bowls of soup to sit like a goopy island in a sea of ground nut, palm nut or something called “light” soup, which is largely a vegetable broth. It’s intended to give some heft to the dishes, which at most include a few pieces of okra.

Aside from the obvious drawbacks of plunging your hand into a bowl of hot soup, it can be exceedingly hard to get to your mouth without some falling and splashing into your lap. And when you do succeed, it slides down your throat, landing in your stomach like bread dough dropped from a second-floor window.

It is, in short, not a dish for a first date.

The Ramadan parade

Approximately 12 percent of the Ghanaian population is Muslim. The religion predates the arrival of all others, brought to West Africa by North African traders long before Christian missionaries decided the souls of those in the region required saving. One wonders of course at the contradiction of protecting their afterlife while deeming their current life of such inconsequent value.

Cape Coast includes a number of mosques. And while its adherents mix naturally with and blend into the pool of other faiths, they were on full and raucous display on Sept. 30 to celebrate the end of Ramadan.

After 40 days of fasting during which only tea or water is consumed from sun up to 4:30 each day, it was time to celebrate with music, a parade and lots of food. Shops were closed. The very best clothes were retrieved from the closet. Instruments were tuned.

Sitting in the Oceanview, the Internet café we use, which despite its inviting name could not view the ocean with the help of the Hubble telescope, we heard the music. At first I took it for a passing car radio or perhaps a local shop; music is as ubiquitous as the sun in Ghana.

But soon it became clear that what we were hearing was live, and it was getting closer. It grew louder and louder until many stood from their computers and hurried to the café’s two large open windows. There, on the streets behind the building, passed an enormous procession in a blur of incredible color.

Some carried instruments. A band played from the bed of a truck. Recorded music blared from speakers. And meanwhile the hundreds making up the parade throbbed like they were trying to wriggle out of their clothes. Everyone danced, clapped their hands, cheered and sang.

I hurried out the room and down the stairs with my camera and moved quickly down the street to try and catch them. But they caught me. As I tried to determine which sidestreet would get me there, the parade burst around the corner and in seconds I was swallowed up in it, a sea of grinning, sweating faces, a whorl of color and motion.

After some moments a man dressed in a gold ankle-length gown with a matching headpiece (on right in picture with red scarf) grabbed my arm and dragged me into the mass of bodies. “Come! Come!” he said. It was clear I had little choice in the matter and allowed myself to pulled forward. People danced by me. Some shouted to me and smiled and a man to my left pounded on a drum that I felt in my stomach.

“You take picture!” the man in gold shouted.

“Take picture?” I asked, unsure I’d heard him and somewhat hesitant as Ghanaians can be shy around cameras.

But by this point the man had already brought the procession to a stop. Stray bodies flowed around us like froth at a logjam. A group of perhaps 20 men formed in the middle of the road facing me. The old graying gentleman in the middle I took to be someone important and the purpose of the photograph.

I quickly directed the camera and took a picture. Or believed I had; with our camera it can be hard to tell. Already the weight of those coming up the street behind was beginning to dislodge them.

“One more!” I shouted. I snapped a second just as they gave way and the dancers gathered up my subjects and I, too, was overtaken.

“You come to the market with pictures!” the man in gold said, a smile on his dark, wet face. Then he said something else but it was lost in all the noise and he was carried down the street. I jumped free and watched it all go by and panted as if having just been spat out by a set of rapids.

Meeting the chief

Nana (not pictured at left), the Paramount Chief of Cape Coast, sat as heavily, as solidly as if carved out of a bulk of mahogany. His head is large and bald and very black against the burst of yellow and orange in his kente cloth robe. On his face he wears an expression of supreme calm that given his large size, in excess of 200 lbs and 6 feet, translates easily to power.

Despite the line of people waiting, he has agreed to see us because, well, he needs money. And, as it happens, we have it, thanks to a group of Oregon-based supporters for whom we have played messenger. The money, we surmise based on a few clues, is to go to a refurbishment of his “palace.”

Looking at it, it’s hard to imagine the place was ever actually furbished. Time and the sea air have had their way with it, giving it less a look of royalty and more the appearance of a derelict inner-city high school.

Wallace, along with Aba, joined us for the visit, their first ever to the Paramount Chief we learn. According to Wallace, the chief needs upwards of $500 million for his project. I want to ask if he’s hoping for an appearance on Pimp My Palace.

After some pleasantries, Shawn hands him the small package. He opens it to produce a stack of photographs from a recent visit to Ghana by this Portland group, which is working on developing a sister city relationship with Cape Coast, and an envelope. From this he pulls a small wad of cash, which he counts out in front of us all: $350.

The rest of the visit is awkward and somewhat stilted, with Wallace describing the chief at one point as “a kind of god on Earth.” I’m surprised to hear Wallace speak this way given earlier remarks he’s made about religion, including an especially sharp accounting of the Mormons.

As for the chief’s otherworldly status, there is a definite presence to the man. But sitting as he is on a dilapidated, soiled couch it’s hard to see much divinity on display. One thing is certain, however, and that is that the importance of his role in the community really renders that distinction beside the point.

In a culture still very much steeped in tribal tradition, and in community in which so many are illiterate and who feel little considered by the government, the chief is the most committed advocate of the common man. The line of citizens at his gate as we exit 20 minutes later attests to that. They collect there every day, all day, even following him to his house when he returns home in the evening.

As one doesn’t ask to photograph an emissary from God, I don’t have a picture. The accompanying shot is of Shawn and our Ghanaian family, Wallace and Aba Kwaw, standing before the palace gates, unrefurbished as they are.

Grasp, grin, repeat

The French have their double-cheek kiss, the Eskimos their nose rubbing and the Japanese their bow. But the Ghanaians have them all beat in the greeting category with their signature handshake. To practice it at home, follow these simple steps:

Step 1: Engage a friend, acquaintance or unsuspecting fellow obruni (white person) on the street.

Step 2: Smile and extend your right hand. Mistakenly offer the left hand and you’ve done the equivalent of handing the other person your used toilet paper.

Step 3: Clutch the other’s hand firmly in the traditional style, palm to palm and you exchange hellos. This can go on for some moments into your pleasantries about the weather or $700B bailouts.

Step 4: As you separate your hands, press your index finger against their index finger and by applying mild pressure with your thumb create the snapping sound just as if you snapping your own index finger and thumb.

And then repeat when saying goodbye. (I don't have an accompanying photo, so please enjoy this shot of some grinning kids.)

Beer in Ghana

Ghanaians love beer. I’m inclined to think that this accounts for their incredibly friendly, life-affirming manner. Wine and liquor are also available, but beer seems the national drink of choice. If you sit at a restaurant or bar and order one, it is understood that you desire the large bottle. If you prefer the standard, unambitious 12-oz bottle you must submit to the disgrace of ordering a “mini.”

As for the choices, like so many hot climates, the styles tend toward lagers. The principal brands to be found in Cape Coast, and Accra, include the following:

1. Star – This may be the de facto national beer, at least if one judges by the number of signs. It is a typical lager with nothing special to recommend it except that in large quantities it brings on a pleasant drunken feeling. But like most lagers or pilsners, it can rival the best beers in the world when served frosty cold on a 90°-degree day with near 100° humidity.
2. Club – Another predictable lager and probably the second most popular beer in this part of the country. I’m not sure a taste test could distinguish between Star and Club, or Coors for that matter. This is a beer meant for drinking in large quantities and with a hammock nearby. The shamrock logo makes me think that luck somehow figures in its appeal.
3. Stone – See #2.
4. Gulder – Though not quite as popular, I think this is probably the best of the lagers. Your mouth doesn’t forget it’s drinking it quite as quickly as it seems to with the others. It's also just a tad darker.
5. Castle Milk Stout – If you’ve followed the blog, you know this is not the first mention of this delectable brew. Though not quite as prevalent, it has nevertheless become our go-to. It has a nice rich, full flavor that doesn’t suffer as terribly as the lagers if it not available cold.

I don't include my purchase the other night of Friends Beer. This one, served in a can, is for those without a lot of time to get drunk. At 12.2% alcohol per 500ml, it only makes a brief stop in Happyland before pitching you headfirst into Passedoutville.

The Axim Beach Resort

The Axim Beach Resort had been recommended to us by a couple of the other volunteers, and they didn’t oversell it. Occupying a beautiful hill overlooking the ocean the place, built and managed by a German, offers a range of different accommodations.

We treated ourselves to a “chalet.” For US$60/night you get your own very comfortably appointed place, complete with solar-heated shower, TV, refrigerator and, incredibly, air conditioning. And a great deal of time and attention has been paid in décor and design.

We had dinner at the beach restaurant, not to be confused with the hilltop restaurant, and then relaxed with a Castle Milk Stout on the beach until the sun went down. There is nothing else here but beach and ocean, and the place seemed to have few other guests.

We whiled away the rest of the evening in air-conditioned splendor, watching a battery of horrible movies before calling it a night.

The next morning, after breakfast, we explore the rest of the grounds to see the other (read: cheaper) room options on the off chance we might return. Upon checking out, the clerk returns our change, minus 8.50 cedis.

“We don’t have change,” she says, smiling, as if this were the most natural thing.

“OK,” I say, assuming, of course, that the rest of the change will be secured through some other means. But when they casually go about their business it becomes clear that she believes her explanation is sufficient to short us the remaining money.

“Excuse me, so are you going to give us the rest of the change?” I ask.

This seems to confound them and after we remain firm on this little piece of business they rather reluctantly agree to go and try to scare up the extra cash. After nearly 20 minutes, the woman returns with 3 cedis, still 50 pesewas short. And she seems quite happy with the result. We are not as much, especially when she informs us it will cost 1 cedi to call us a tax (the hotel is a good distance from the main road). This is when Shawn loses it. This does not seem to trouble terribly either.

We then wait another 30 minutes for the taxi and begin the trip in reverse. We conclude that the transportation from place to place is equally if not more interesting than the destinations themselves. On the return, we ride with people coming from church, dressed up in their Sunday finery.

We also learn that if you catch a tro-tro on the road rather than the station you agree to as many stops as the driver can make. On our final ride from Takoradi to the Pedo station finds us sharing seats with 27 other people and a few large and unfortunately situated bags of who knows what under my feet.

The road to Axim

Axim seems relatively close on the map. What the map doesn’t reveal is the series of exchanges one must undertake to get there. We started about 11 o’clock on Saturday morning, believing the trip would put us at the beach at about 1 p.m. The least prepared travelers in Africa are surely those who remain slavishly committed to their pesky timetables.

To get anywhere, given the location of the Kwaws’ home, we must first walk the quarter mile of red-dirt road to the main road. It’s barely a road under good conditions and I wonder at its passability in the rainy season. One might be better served by an innertube.

At the main road we catch a shared taxi to the Pedo station. This costs about 50 pesewa (50¢) per person and takes maybe 15 or 20 minutes. This is not a station in the way, say, Grand Central or Gar du Nord is a station. This is a station, as far as I can discern, only because it has a handful of stationary vehicles and isn’t a car junkyard. We buy two tro-tro tickets for Takoradi, the largest city in the Eastern District of Ghana. This runs us about 2.20 cedis (about US$2) a piece.

There is no timetable; the tro-tro departs when it is full. Until then, you occupy your seat and study the head of the person in front of you. You discuss the overlooked joys of motion. You debate if the bites on your arm are from mosquitoes or some other brand of vermin and what that might mean for your prospects of continued good health.

The ride to Takoradi is comfortable and, not surprisingly, very interesting. The woman sitting next to me is transporting two chickens in a cardboard box. Every once in awhile the animals share their dissatisfaction with their travel accommodations.

Meanwhile, we pass villages of a kind we’ve not seen yet. These are bare, simple encampments of mud or thatch huts, with the occasional squat brick structure thrown in. The small network of homes is connected by uneven red dirt paths rutted and scoured over time by rain. Women bend to smoking cooking pots. Chickens peck about in the brush. Barefoot children chase a soccer ball around.

Everywhere the jungle looms, prepared, it seems, to consume any inch not diligently managed by the residents. It waits behind and bends overhead and is full of malevolent spirits.

It takes about an hour or so to get to Takoradi. In typical Ghanaian fashion two men kindly point us to the Axim station for our next connection. Tickets here are 1.80 for a large tro-tro and 2.10 for what is referred to as a small tro-tro. We splurge on the “small” and take up our seats, and wait. A string of vendors selling everything from muffins to razors to some items I can’t confidently identify stop by the open door.

This ride takes us another 1.5 hours farther east. The road begins to deteriorate some, and there seem to be more police check stations, though the purpose of these stops eludes me. At one, the policemen actually relax in stuffed armchairs sitting incongruously beneath a ramshackle thatch covering.

By now our two-hour excursion is approaching closer to four hours. As we pull into the somewhat derelict-looking Axim station, it’s about 3:30 p.m. Now we get a taxi to the hotel.