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)