Back from the Bush: Two Weeks in Northeast Ghana
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To travel is to disappear. At least it used to be, before blogs and cell phones plugged our movements into the ether for anyone to access and share. Keyboards and keypads have been at my fingertips for most of this journey but sometimes, I go deep enough that even the gadgets are left behind. And while it is true that an unusual span of radio silence might signify the Tranquilo Traveler’s actual demise (by shipwreck, assassins, or shark attack, most likely), it is more probable that I have simply gone beyond wires and signals.
Each of Ghana’s goals against the USA is followed by an eruption of shouts and drumming, everyone spilling out of PPAG’s Young & Wise Center to dance in the streets. So it is no surprise that when the game is over, the afternoon light golden, an entire country stops to celebrate.
There are no “sights” in Accra. None to write home about, anyway. There is a National Theatre, a museum (I think), and a zoo that we have yet to visit, but in general, I agree with our guidebook that, from a tourist’s perspective, Accra is downright “disappointing.”
It is nice to see some new landscapes, something other than the urban Accra grime. The 3-hour drive east along the coast is a long, flat expanse of lush cassava fields, pocked by red termite towers, the roadside dotted with clusters of watermelon and okra sellers. Although we are following the coast toward Togo, the ocean does not come into view until after we’ve crossed the wide Volta River, and dipped south to the coast.
Ya-ya, our helper and housemate here in Accra, calls me “Uncle,” a term of respect for one’s elders. She sometimes also calls me “Kwame” (rhymes with “Swami”), because that’s the day on which I was born: Saturday. Everyone at work calls me “Kwame Joshua.”