Ghana: Relatively turd free.

We were warned Ghana might be a hard way to end our time in Africa. After South Africa’s western lifestyle and Namibia’s vast unspoiled open spaces, Ghana’s open sewers, trash piles and mayhem on the road would be a shocking transition. The warnings were right. We stepped out of the airport at Accra and were assailed by heat, humidity, pushy cab drivers and new odors that were somewhat less than appealing. Ghana typically has three smells; turd, burning, and burning turd. We had the good fortune of staying with friends in their comfortable home in the nice part of town. We got a good night of sleep and were ready to explore.
On our first full day in a month back on the north side of the equator, I was still recovering from some lower GI issues from our last day in Namibia. I think some undercooked breakfast meats got the best of me. We decided to take a short walk through some of the neighborhoods, then head down to the shore and stop by the craft markets. We walked over broken sidewalks, dodged speeding taxis and jumped the sewers that were deep enough to swallow a fully grown man, and undoubtedly have on many occasions. We walked past roadside fruit vendors, women carrying glass sided boxes of meat pies on their heads, and random farm animals. The shops were emblazoned with names like the Holy Christian Air Conditioning Repair and Blessed Jesus Auto Shop, reflections of the strong, yet sometimes superficial Christianity that is prevalent in the county.
There was an odd feeling of bustle in the air yet most people had nowhere to be. There were only a very few white faced tourists, most with their noses shoved into their guidebooks (something we try never to do in public). We left them behind when we turned in to one of Accra’s more typical neighborhoods.
The homes made of block and tin were small and tightly packed. Some had been brightly painted while others showed naked cement. All had the gnash of a city without the luxury of environmental or health standards. Looking off the main road, you could only see ten meters before the twisting paths between the structures filled with chickens, car parts, roofing material and drying clothing. People sat in the shade of their neighbors’ homes cleaning clothes, playing with their children, or preparing food. The aroma of their cooking fires and frying plantains was a welcome change. Despite the clutter, the streets were clean and showed a sense of pride among the merger surrounding.
We were the only tourists in this place. Our pasty skin stood out yet there was no tension, no feeling of being in the wrong part of town. Other than the occasional call “obruni, obruni!” the Ghanaian word for white folk, there was little attention paid to us. Sometimes it would be sung to us “buy buy obruni buy buy”. We felt a comfort in this neighborhood that we often miss in DC.
When we finally found the market, we discovered we were in the wrong place. We had wandered into the general bazaar where the locals shopped. Amongst the sea of brightly colored umbrellas there were blue jeans hanging from trees, fly swatters, snack food and hundreds of business suits. We speculated that a shipping container from some eastern industrial hub had washed up on shore spilling blue blazers, slacks, and sports jackets all over the beach. There were also shoes, or at least one shoe of each type in an effort to thwart would-be thieves. We didn’t see a single chain store in the entire country. Why would you need them with everything you could imagine in this one place? Take that Wal-Mart!
On our first evening in Ghana, we were treated to one the many football games that were being held in Accra as part of the African Cup of Nations. Ivory Coast bested Mali three to nothing. The stadium was raucous and loud despite only being half full. Later in the week Ghana would play Nigeria to a fully packed stadium. Many of the US expats feared potential violence and aggressive fans and watched from home or their neighborhood bar.

The next day we took a cab to the craft market. I was still feeling under the weather and grumpy when the highly aggressive salesmen and women greeted us. There are hundreds of stalls full of carving, bad t-shirts, woven and printed cloth, baskets and all sorts of tribal masks. We had come to add to our collection of ceremonial masks. Round after round of vendors came to us trying to pry free a few of our tourist dollars. Sara was nice and declined each one of them. I was cranky and ignored their onslaught. Their opening lines were fairly scripted. Something like “Good price for you” or “I’ll make you a special deal”. We felt honored that all of these people thought so much of us that they were going to help us save our hard earned money. Then there was a different approach from what we initially thought was a roving vendor. A young guy came up and started to walk with us. He asked us where we were from. Sara announced, “Washington DC.” “Ha Ha! Taxation without representation!” he blurted out with a jovial laugh that shook his whole body. Then he walked on. We stood looking at each other slack jawed. Guess the Ghanaians know more about US domestic politics than most Americans do!
With four days left in Africa we decided to hit the road again. Driving in Ghana can be a bit hairy and we’d spent the past month driving thousands of kilometers on the wrong side of the road. We decided to hire a local cab driver for an overnight trip to Cape Coast. For about the price of a standard car rental in the US, we have a clean car with a great local driver who seems to know everyone we pass. As we pull out of Accra, I notice the gas gage reads empty, very empty. On we drive. After a couple of hours of driving we stop for “gas”. Either this cab gets fantastic mileage, the fuel gauge is broken, or it’s powered by a flux capacitor. I was wrong on all three options. We pull into one of Ghana’s many natural gas stations. Our cab has been modified to run on gasoline or compressed LP gas. Much like cell phones eliminating the need for clear-cutting forest for telephone poles, natural gas in cars is helping Ghana leapfrog technologies of the modern world (pictured is one of Ghana’s more typical petrol stations and its proud owner).
Cape Coast is the site of one of the few remaining forts once used in the slave trade. Hundreds of thousands of Africans were taken from their homeland through these holding facilities, never to return to their native soil. The captives endured walks as long as three months from the interior to the coast chained together at the neck. They were housed in brutal conditions in the forts, forced to live in dark, hot packed group cells and fight for food. Large numbers died before leaving on the slave ships, even more died at sea. Roughly 85% of the slaves would perish before reaching their final destination. Being in these buildings was a haunting experience.

Today the slave forts attract thousands of tourists a year; many are African-Americans tying to get in touch with their roots. While the inside of the fort conveys a sense of doom, outside is a flurry of activity. Men sit mending nets in the shade of the high walls, while brightly painted fishing boats line the shore by the hundreds. The hulls of the boat are hewn out of large trees much like the dugout canoes of Botswana and the Caprivi. The gunnels are raised with one or two large planks above the waterline. Many have outboard motors rigged to the sides, while others are propelled by sails made of any scrap of fabric at hand. Some of the craft reach sixty feet in length. This construction makes for a very stable large volume boat that is extremely heavy. Large groups of men labor with thick rope to pull these hulks from the water, rolling them over logs or pieces of pipe.
In the evening we found our beachfront lodge at the end of a long potholed road. We sat down to dinner in a structure with no walls and fully open to the beautiful white sandy beach. As it turns out this was one of Ghana’s “relatively turd free” beaches. Our guide book ranked the beaches as “turd free” ”relatively turd free” and…”don’t go there!” In the morning we found the beach to be avoided.

At 5 am I was on the beach collecting sand dollars by the dozen. For several weeks around the New Year, a condition called Harmatan season occurs in West Africa. Sands from the Sahara blow south and nearly block out the sun. An eerie haze hangs in the air, and the sun waits until late in the morning to reveal itself. Half a mile up the beach through the laden air, I saw boats setting nets in the calm morning ocean.

The town of Anomabu is a short walk along the shore. Ghost crabs skitter along the beach and hide in their holes. We can see the men on the beach starting to pull in the nets, the sounds of their work songs soft above the tumble of the waves.
As we stray from the grounds of our lodge, the beach develops a more pocked texture. From a distance it looks like the heavy footprints of the men hauling nets or pulling boats from the water. As we get closer to the town it becomes apparent that we are standing in the middle of a beachfront loo. As we move forward, the occasional droppings turn into a minefield of poo. The high tide line is marked with a winding trail of excrement that follows the undulating line of the breaking waves. Then it stops. The beach becomes relatively clean. At this point the beach has turned from toilet to a hive of activity. The nets set earlier in the day are being pulled in. Hundreds of meters out in the sea a small float with a bush tied to the top of it as a marker inches towards shore as the men and boys heave and draw. Inches at a time they sing, pull, sing, pull, in a slow rhythm that goes on for hours. In contrast to the beach we leave behind, the town of Anomabu is as spotlessly clean as any beach town we’ve ever seen. Ghana is blessed with hard working people that take a great deal of pride in their appearance and that of their homes and communities. Unfortunately there is virtually no infrastructure, no trash collection, no public sewer system, and little in the way of public health programs. Despite the lack of government help the Ghanaians are doing quite well by West African standards. The beachfront bathroom is the best place for them to take care of business. It may be unsightly to western eyes, but it is concentrated into an area that is cleaned by the sea and doesn’t spoil their fresh water sources.

From Anomabu we travel inland to Kakum National Park, home of Africa’s only treetop canopy walk. Funded by USAID with help from Canada, this six hundred meter trail of steel cable, netting, and aluminum winds its way through the rainforest at heights up to thirty meters off the forest floor. In the morning monkeys can be seen using the walkway on their travels through the forest canopy. Above the lofty trail, the trees continue skyward to reach heights of one hundred meters or more. This is an old forest.
Back in the car to Accra for a night of sleep, then we set off to the east to the small town of Ada where a riverfront villa can be yours for the night for a mere $5. On our way we do a little shopping at a fish market where the assertive saleswomen work with their children strapped to their backs. It was a bit unsettling to watch them cut the heads from the fish with large knives they beat violently with long pieces of pipe, but the fish is very fresh.
Our home for the night in Ada is a simple two roomed bungalow with a beautiful covered dock jutting out into the Volta River. The world goes by on the river. Locals bathe, while others fish and carry goods to and from the market, just downstream. It’s a relaxing place to sit and watch the world go by.
Eventually we pry ourselves out of our chairs for a walk in the beach front village of Ada. The ocean has been eating away at the village’s beach and there are many abandoned structures on the empty shore. Locals speak of structures they were born in being reclaimed by the sea. We find a graveyard cut in half, the south side gone, washed away with headstones and vaults strewn on the beach. Miles of coastline stand empty without being protected by parklands or overbuilt with hotels or beach front bars. Most of the inhabited structures close to the beach are built from local materials, thatch and wood, easily relocated or replaced.
On the edge of the village local women dry sardines in the sun. Occasionally, sneaky goats munch the crunchy fish left unattended. Much like other villages we’ve encountered in Ghana, Ada is spotless with well kept homes, clean dirt streets and friendly people.
Finally we’ve run out of time and head back to the city for our evening flight off the continent. The Ghana-Nigeria soccer game is on and the streets are empty. We arrive at the airport during halftime. Everyone who can is clustered around large TVs hung from the ceilings on bars and at the ticket counters. Security is patchy at best. We check in and find a bar to watch the second half of the game in. Ghana remains solidly in the lead for most of the second half and the cheers go up when the clock ticks to zero. Local fans and travelers alike jump, yell and hug in a post victory frenzy as we head for our gate. It was the most fitting end to our trip. Ghana turned out to be a magnificent land of proud people doing quite well for themselves despite their challenges. From many hands pulling fishing nets from the sea, to cheering on their national team Ghana seems like a country united. There will always be political discontent and levels of strife but when compared to the recent events in Kenya and the ongoing crisis in Darfur, Ghana stands out as a country on the right track, successful, progressive and proud. Go see for yourself.