"Ghana Car"
Me looking goofy as heck on Mt. Adaklu
At the Amedzofe Falls
Wli Falls
View from Mount Afadjato
Shout out to my dad, Samuel Schubert, for being promoted to Colonel. He definitely deserved it – from what I could see, he has more professionalism, dedication, and general excellence than anyone I have seen.
To celebrate the halfway point of my stay in Ghana, I decided to take a 17 day trip around the country. I began my trip in the Volta Region, the mountainous terrain east of Lake Volta. The eight hour trip to Ho, the capital of the Volta Region, was uncharacteristically smooth- good paved roads all the way, and I even saw two families of monkeys playing on the side of the road.
The Volta Region, because of its attractive landscape comprising of jagged mountains, impressive waterfalls, and dramatic caves, is the subject of many eco-tourism projects, mostly initiated by the American peace corps. Unfortunately, a lot of these projects, now run by locals, go a month or more without seeing any visitors, but this lack of tourism is not an accurate reflection of the quality of these hiking/spelunking experiences.
The first day, after I finished climbing to the top of the Mount Adaklu, the site of an eco-tourism project about fifteen miles south of Ho, it started raining. It was a tough hike going up, especially with a 40-60 pound bag (I unwittingly took almost all my clothes and other unnecessary paraphernalia while forgetting what would prove to be the most important item, mah drugs), but the climb down was effectively a rappelling job. If there weren’t ropes down the steep rocks, I would’ve had to spend the night up on the top of the mountain because the volume of rain was such that mini-waterfalls appeared on the rocks, carrying with it rocks, branches, and even a few fish as I approached the base of the mountain. All my clothing was drenched and soon began to reek a horrific smell, but luckily, I had enough sense to bring a waterproof bag for my electronics. After hitching a ride back to town on a concrete truck, I spent two hours walking around Ho trying to find the cheapest lodging (this proved to be a typical experience, as I have become extremely frugal as now I have to budget instead of relying on parental aid), and after washing my clothes and myself, I crashed.
The next day, I went to Amedzofe, the highest village in Ghana. I climbed a mountain with beautiful views and hiked to the impressive waterfall and after chatting with a few locals in a mixture of languages about farming methods, I hiked four km down to the main road, from where I could more easily catch a ride to my next destination. Unfortunately, this hike down was not as rewarding or fun as the hikes to the waterfall and the mountain. The “trail” was steep, slippery, ant-infested, and for the last km, the trail disappeared necessitating my using my backpack to knock down the seven foot tall bush in my way. By the time that I finally descended to the road, the inside of my legs were completely red from the ant bites, but after initial extreme discomfort, the irritation ameliorated within in a day.
From the main road, I hitched a ride to Golokwati, from which I alternatively took rides on various motorcycles and walked to the town of Liati Wote, the place of a government resthouse and a staging area for a climb up the highest mountain in Ghana. On this climb, I mercifully left my colossal bag behind at the resthouse, which facilitated the steep hike considerably and made it positively a cake walk compared to the climbing Adaklu with the bag.
Afterwards, I found out that there were no tro tros going to Wli, my next destination, so I thought what the heck, and began walking the 15 miles in the baking West African sun. Maybe I should have gone to West Point after all, because I imagine that the walk is what the legendary “hell on the Hudson” march feels like, albeit my march had some great views and great experiences stopping by documentary-esque villages.
There are two paces of Ghanaian walking. Very slow or very fast. I have adapted the very fast pace, because without the handy use of motor transport readily available, I have had to walk everywhere and as I want to get to places faster, I logically began walking faster. I was able to cover the 15 miles in three and a half hours excluding stops at two villages.
After enjoying the giant, picturesque waterfall, I caught the last vehicle from Wli to the town of Hohoe. Perhaps because it was the last vehicle, it was especially crowded – I was sitting on a person’s lap while another person was sitting on my lap – but this crammed journey proved to be positively vanilla to the twelve hour odyssey the next day to Tamale.
The trip to Tamale had to be done in four legs. The first leg, between Hohoe to Nkwanta, was reasonable as far as tro tros go – crowded, sweaty, but manageable. Sometime during this four hour ride, the jungles of West Africa turned into the sahel, the flat savanna that separates the Sahara desert from the lush rain forests of the south. Initially I was planning to stay overnight in Nkwanta and spend the rest of the day exploring the surrounding area, but upon seeing the chaotic dusty town, I quickly decided against it.
The second leg from Nkwanta to Damanko was horrible. The drive supersaturated the car with passengers to the point where I started thinking ‘there is no way that this is legal.’ And sure enough, it wasn’t. About an hour in to the ride on a rocky, bumpy, dusty, dirt “road” (really, the only thing separating the road from the surrounding savanna is its relative dearth of vegetation), I started panicking. The initial comedy of the packed tro tro wore off about ten minutes into the journey as the temperature in the car easily exceeded 100 degrees by the way of body heat with about 100 % humidity with sweat from the passengers and I started feeling claustrophobic. I had hard time breathing, I couldn’t sit still to the dismay of my fellow inmates, and I started having nausea. So when we stopped at a police barrier about an hour later, I immediately relived myself of my lunch and experienced immense relief. But that relief soon turned to frustration, which consequently turned to comedy.
It turned out that the car (with seven seats) was only legally authorized to carry nine people, but the drive packed 18 people in (the police usually look the other way for this violation) but the fact that the driver was uninsured moved the police to refusing passage. Then, we had a three hour delay on a dusty roadside during which the passengers took turns in begging the police to look the other way and yelling at the driver to sign the bail – basically doing anything to try to get back on the road to the destination – until the driver, perhaps feeling the threat of a lynching, surrendered to the horde of angry Ghanaians and finally signed the bail and the order to appear at court.
The rest of the trip went smoothly. Well, not counting the time when the driver drove into a river necessitating the passengers disembarking from the car and pushing the embattled, rickety car to dry ground.
Have you ever seen a ginger black person not named Dennis Rodman? Damanko was full of them – not because of their eccentricities but because of the tremendous, epic amount of dust. Even though the rainy season has just ended up north, dust was everywhere – the whole town – the people, the huts, the clothes – had an orange complexion.
It turned out that even the second leg could not compare to the epic third leg between Damanko and Bimbilla. The car going from Damanko to Bimbilla was at least a thirty, probably closer to forty, years old cattle car. Like, literally, a cattle car. Fifteen people fit in the cattle space (twelve people sitting in the two rows to the sides and three very very unfortunate people (including me) stuck, half standing, half crouching, between the two rows with knees and elbows of the slightly more fortunate row people stabbing at every bump), seven people hanging on for life on the top of the car sitting on the luggage, and three very very fortunate people in the front. Almost as soon as we boarded the vehicle (it took fifteen minutes to stuff everyone in with everyone jostling for the row seats, while I was not aware of the horrific nature of being caught in the middle), the driver decided that the non-road was too bumpy for the vehicle to carry so many people. So, we walked for five minutes to where the non-road was relatively better and we all crammed in again.
About an hour in to this luxury ride, the tire went flat. So, we all got out again and the driver changed tires. But after we got rolling again, the spare tire punctured. Then, the driver kicked everyone out on the dusty roadside in the middle of nowhere and clattered off to the nearest place, wherever that may be, where he can change tires. We walked for about an hour until the ancient car, long past its retirement age, rattled back. This time, I decided to join the people up top (I’ve had enough of the inside of rural tro tros - with the stank of unwashed humanity and the heat radiating from them, to last a lifetime). It was considerably better – I watched the beautiful sunset over the savanna – and would have been ideal except for the fact that I kept hitting bugs and the dust was worse up on the top. What’s the point of slanted eyes if it doesn’t keep the dust out?? Also, every time we hit a crater on the non-road, which was quite often, I had weightless moments during which the only thing keeping me from falling off the car was my grip on the rope tying the luggage. It was already dark by the time I arrived in Bimbilla, so I found a lodging for less than $ 2 a night (no running water but with sporadic electricity). I ended up staying an extra day in Bimbilla as I thought that another day of tro-tro riding would just about finish me.
