We took some Nescafe in Accra and discussed the pros and cons of trying to get to Lome for New Years. It was Jan. 30th so we had one day to get there and unfortunately, in our state of care-free travelling, we had not realized it was Sunday and therefore all banks and foreign exchange bureaus were closed. Nicole had a small wad of CFC’s (currency for Burkina Faso and Togo) on hand, but we would be cutting it close and we didn’t know what the black market might be like at the border. Finally, we decided to go ahead and make our way to the border-worst case scenario we wouldn’t be able to change money and would have to stay in Afloa, the Ghanaian border town overnight until we could exchange some cedis. Finding a tro-tro to Afloa was chaotic and hectic. When we arrived at the tro-tro station there were many vans and taxis scattered everywhere amongst crowds of “helpers” and hustlers trying to take our bags and convince us to take their vehicle, or their buddy’s vehicle. We finally decided on a tro-tro that seemed legit and was nearly full, so it would be on the road quickly. The journey from Accra to Afloa was one of the most authentic, Ghanaian travelling experiences I’ve had to date. The road was really bad and our van bounced along it, nearly in tune with the Ghanaian High-Life music that was blasting on the crackly stereo system. Since it is less developed on the eastern side of Accra, our view out the window was often open savannah- red fields speckled with clusters of baobab trees. I say this journey was authentic because the tro-tro was properly run down, bulging full, topped with everything but the kitchen sink, blaring high-life music and bouncing along just like in the postcards I sent home.
The border crossing into Togo was relatively painless-for 40 GHC we had 7 days to take in this French-African country. The most complicated part of the whole endeavor seemed to be gluing the multiple postage stamps that would represent our visa into each person’s passport. Lome is actually right on the border, so we literally walked right into the city and were greeted by a hectic 500m or so of black market currency exchange operations. Once we passed this section we had a beautiful view of the ocean, lined with palm trees and open bars to our right. A soccer tournament was set up on the beach and small crowds were formed around the make-shift fields cheering. Our trusty Lonely Planet directed us to a great French hotel nearby. It had the look and feel of a European hostel, and the bar downstairs featured a real expresso machine which would mean we could finally have something other than Nescafe!
We had a great time touring around Lome and we very quickly identified what a different vibe this former French colony has from Ghana (a former British colony). It is well documented that the French left a lot more cultural influence behind in their former colonies than the Brits, and most French African countries generally still have a lot of French investment and business activity within. In Lome we could find all kinds of imports we had all been deprived of for months. We even treated ourselves to real wood-fired pizzas and barbecued chicken (not the African chicken that has no meat). Nicole and I frequented the central market, looking for deals and admiring all the different cloth.
We spent New Years Eve with another German girl and her Togolese friend. We started off with a cheap and delicious dinner of barbecued chicken and couscous followed by a fan-milk frozen yogurt. Then we headed back to the hotel and listened to the live band for awhile. All of a sudden we realized midnight was soon approaching, so we hurried to flag down some cabs and headed down to the city centre. We hopped out at a busy street corner near a couple of bars, popped our champagne, and did our own count-down. The street was packed with people
and fireworks blasted everywhere, many of them exploding on the side walk and before ever making it into the air. Taxis and vehicles honked loudly as they tried to make their way down the streets that had been overcome by New Year’s partiers. We made our way into a local "box" (means a dancing club) which I still marvel at because it was so incredibly packed, I’m not even sure how we fit in there. But we were the only foreigners so we attracted a lot of attention and soon found ourselves completely surrounded as we began to dance to the pumping music. Very quickly we were all absolutely drenched in sweat and were clearly losing the “personal space” battle, as guys continued to elbow their way into the circle we had tried to create. All of a sudden a small foreign man beside me yanked my arm and yelled that the guy who had just been dancing in front of me just stole something from my bag. I looked down and saw that indeed, the bag I had slung around my shoulder was now wide open, zipper undone. All of a sudden, it felt like I was sinking- I was no longer in this crazy, once in a lifetime New Years party, I was now stuck- surrounded wall to wall with people, unable to escape easily and unsure of what someone had just scoffed out of my bag. I tried to dig around to find my camera and my cell phone but it was too crowded to properly search and I didn’t want to draw any attention to what I was carrying. I grabbed one of my friends and made them come out of the bar with me so that I could explain what happened and try to find out what had been stolen. Upon reaching the street again, I couldn’t really find what was missing- I had purposely carried as little as possible in the bag. The only thing I couldn’t find were my ipod earphones which I assumed is what he took, thinking that there was actually an ipod on the other end. My sense of security was out the window and I wanted to move on to a new spot. Our Togolese friend had indicated we shouldn’t leave this part of the street, so we knew that we weren’t really in a safe place. It took awhile for us to regroup outside of the bar, but we all agreed it was time to move on. We cabbed down to the Las Palms Hotel where we joined another party that had a completely different scene- much more elite and much more secure. New Years in Togo was definitely an adventure!!Before leaving Togo we did a two-day trip to Kpalime, where we hiked Togo’s tallest mountain (deceiving because it’s actually only about 950m). It was a beautiful hike and we were fascinated to find avocado trees, cocoa trees, wild pineapple and many other interesting plants along the way. We also stumbled upon a couple of small villages built into the mountain that were quite different from the mud hut villages we are used to in Ghana. The descent down the mountain didn’t go quite as planned. We took well over the 4 recommended hours to reach the top of the mountain and we had now created a nearly impossible timeline to reach the bottom and catch the tro-tro back to Lome. We took the road down the mountain to make it easier on our knees, but within about 30 minutes we realized we were making very little progress. Finally, we spotted a couple of cars whizzing down the road and managed to get the second one to stop. It was Dutch family and the car was pretty packed already, but they offered to let Nicole and I hitch a ride. They said the guys could fit in the car at the front, which we would catch up to soon since they were travelling together. We paid off the two small boys that we’d hired to tour us up the mountain and awkwardly explained that we had to go, then squished Victor and Morgan into the vehicle up ahead.
From Kpalime we headed back to Lome, stayed there overnight and then crossed the border back into Afloa. It was another hectic scene of tro-tros and taxis grabbing at us, and my patience got the best of me when a guy grabbed my bag and started to try to hoist it off my shoulders. I spun around and yelled “DON’T!” several times as I shook my finger at him and scowled. He looked quite surprised and I realized I had unintentionally become “the crazy white lady” as a few women nearby started pointing and giggling. Nicole and I split from the guys at this point and headed back towards Kumasi while the Morgan and Victor decided to extend their holiday and make their way to another beach resort nearby. (Girls are always the responsible ones, haha).
Nicole and I’s journey to Kumasi was one of those times where you wake up in the morning and have to try to figure out whether it did really happen, or whether you were just having crazy dreams induced by the malaria pills. I’ll try really hard to condense this wild journey:
We bought our tickets for the Metro bus line (similar to Grey Hound) and had a couple hours to spare before leaving to Kumasi so we roamed the streets and tried all the different foods. (Mistake number one- don’t eat sketchy street food before beginning a 8+ hour bus trip). We went back to the bus to find that HUGE burlap sacks of flip flops were being jammed through the back doors of the bus (taking 3 guys to lift them because they were so heavy), and stored right behind the seats we had claimed. One after another of theses sacks were forced through the doors and piled to the roof of the back section of the bus. Some of the guys giggled as they saw our obvious concern for our spots that were getting more and more threatened by these enormous sacks. When it was clear that no more of these sacks could be jammed behind our seats, they proceeded to stuff suitcases among the gaps between them and then happily let us board the bus. We were still able to fit into our seats, but we now had the rather disconcerting thought of what would happen if we hit a big bump and one of the sacks fell on us. Things proceeded without incident until a pit stop about 3 hours later at which point I realized that the street food I tried in Afloa was not sitting too well. Two hours later, as we inched through Accra’s traffic jams, my stomach was doing flip-flops again. It was now nearly 8pm so I tried to close my eyes and force myself to ignore it and fall asleep. But my stomach couldn’t be fooled so I had to make the walk of shame to the front of the bus and plead the driver to find a pit stop as soon as possible. He tried to pull into a Shell station but the traffic was too heavy and he couldn’t make the turn. So instead, he stopped a few kilometers later in front of the Police Station and led me into the main office, proceeding to explain the problem to the men at the front desk in local dialect. They brought the cleaning lady to me and directed her to take me to a toilet. She took me to someone’s house behind the police station and asked if I could use their facility. The woman said yes, but then came back to tell us that unfortunately, her husband took the key to the toilet with him to work and he wouldn’t be back for a while. I couldn’t believe this-it was so absolutely hilarious, but it was too painful to laugh. Then the woman took me down to the “public toilet” which was a pitch dark cement structure and jammed a pack of matches in my hand. With each match stroke I barely had time to make out my surroundings but it appeared that I was in a small room with a row of squatter stalls. She recommended I try the last one because it was “better”…and I stumbled around trying to make my way before each match went out.
Our troubles were not over after the episode at the police station. The road from Accra to Kumasi was under construction and big chunks of it had been torn up. The bus bounced along it, jarring and swerving in the bad spots. This unstable movement became too much for the load crammed behind Nicole and I, and suddenly a plastic suitcase came toppling from the roof of the bus and landed on our heads, rudely awakening us from our sleep, and most likely the others near us because of the yelp I let out. A few guys nearby jammed the suitcase back up and I tried to fall back asleep, but soon the bus had come to a complete stop. We idled for about 15 minutes while people stood up and tried to see what was going on. We were in some sort of major traffic jam- buses and trucks were lined up as far as we could see. Finally, someone informed us there was an accident ahead. It was nearly half an hour before we were moving again, and at least another 20 minutes before we escaped the back to back traffic of the jammed up vehicles. “The accident” turned out to be a rolled petro truck that now lay engulfed in flames at the side of the road (a rather frightening scene).
We arrived in Kumasi at about 2am, nearly five hours later than we had expected. We flagged a cab, went back to the same guest lodge as before, but just as I was unloading my bag I realized only one shoe was in the bungy cord on my bag-the other must have fallen off in the boot of the bus. I jumped back in the cab and asked the driver to take me back to the bus as quickly as possible. He roared down the street and then we approached the one-way leading to the station, he started reversing all the way there, claiming there wasn’t time to take the other road. We were almost there and I saw the bus begin to leave the station, so I ordered the cab driver to stop, hopped out of the cab, and proceeded to run after the bus screaming “Stop! Stop!”. I think I woke up every homeless person in the street, but the bus driver did hear me and pulled over. He grinned when he saw me and led me to the boot of the bus where he pulled out my shoe. I returned to the guest lodge fell into my bunk bed, and like I said, when I woke, I really wasn’t sure whether it all really happened or whether my Malerone was to blame.
The last day of our holiday was relaxing and enjoyable. We took in the famous central market of Kumasi which is the size of a small village, and enjoyed some delicious East Indian cuisine at an expat restaurant called Vicky’s Bamboo Café. We returned home safely to Tamale via the STC bus on Sunday, Jan. 5th, loaded with new cloth, African crafts and plenty of stories to share!
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