17 June

Even though we set the alarm for 0700 in hopes of sleeping a little later, both of us were up at 0630 after maybe about six hours of sleep.  The air conditioning in the room worked well, but we didn’t have any hot water. Apparently, there was a switch to turn it on in the main living area (unlabeled) that we should’ve found. I tried to update some files and upload photos but had very little success.

We went down to the sparse breakfast that was just toast and pre-made omelets.  There was also a pot of what looked like oatmeal, but I didn’t try it. Georgia was talking to a guy about our age.  He had a thick Southern accent and asked us if we spoke French., Apparently, he was a high school French teacher on a Fulbright Foundation Trip with about a dozen other Georgia state educators led by a professor at Savannah State.  He joined us at the breakfast table and talked almost non-stop for over a half-hour. He reminded me a lot of the character “Cam” from the “Modern Family” TV series. However, he was clearly on a luxury tour compared to what we’d already seen and I could tell that even Georgia was chuckling (and cringing) a little, but quietly.

Georges was there by 0830 and told me that the van was already there.  He was still upset about the day before’s fiasco and wanted to make sure all went well today.  

We loaded into the van and were ready to go once Eddie jumped in after his standard five-minute breakfast.  

A TransAfrica rep named Peter joined us on the bus, apparently for no other purpose than to give us a verbal apology--albeit with no explanation at all--for Saturday’s mess.  It rang hollow.

We drove first to the Manhyia Palace, home of the Ashanti king and the museum of the Ashanti Empire.  

We parked outside in a parking lot by a large field and were told that that area was used for their every 42-day ceremonies led by the king.  We then walked to the museum that was housed in a building donated by the British to the Ashanti king over 100 years ago in partial compensation for wrongs done to him and the empire.  There were several peacocks on the grounds, but several look like they’d had several of their “eye” tail feathers pulled for some reason. They squawked loudly at us, performing their role as “watch birds.”

We were escorted into a center courtyard and were supposed to watch a short video before beginning our museum tour, but another pair of tourists had just finished the video and their guide asked us to join them for the tour.

Our guide was a very knowledgeable young man in his mid- to late-20s with evident pride in his Ashanti heritage.  He gave a great tour that lasted about an hour during which he told us quite a bit about Ghana’s history through the lens of the Ashanti Empire that arose in the region in the late 17th Century.  There were displayed showing the work of the most recent kings since the Colonial Era began and especially since the Ashanti fall to the British in 1873. I hadn’t realized that the Brits sent the Ashanti king into exile in the Seychelles Islands and that the queen mother joined him and died there.  The king returned to Ashanti after 28 years of exile and became an ally of the Brits--of sorts.

Today, the Ashanti king is largely ceremonial, but still taken quite seriously.  The king still “owns” or controls the land of the Ashanti region and collects royalties on the use of the land by locals and foreigners.  He approves all land sales and purchases and is used by the government to resolve disputes in the traditional tribal areas. It was also interesting to learn that about 100 years ago, the Ashanti king had converted to Christianity and the Anglican Church and now all kings and the kingdom were associated with the Anglicans.

Like the king we met in Aniassué, the Ashanti kings are chosen from their maternal lineage, usually the eldest nephew of the king, chosen by the Queen Mother.  The Queen Mother is really the term given to the most senior woman in the king’s family and could be his mother, eldest sister or maternal aunt.

The museum did have some interesting displays of the king’s furnishings dating back 60 or more years including his first TV, first refrigerator--which supposedly still works, but wasn’t when our guide checked it.  Water was dripping from the freezer section onto the floor when the door opened. Clearly, a royal defrosting. There was a smoke alarm in the building, too, that needed its battery changed and annoyingly screeched one per minute during the tour.  I presumed that this was the first royal smoke detector and it had its original battery still.

Otherwise, they also had displays of the king’s guns, crystal, dinner servings, gramophone, etc.  It was a very enjoyable tour and highly recommended. We stopped into the gift shop where Matt, Charlie, and I each bought souvenir Kente cloth neckties.

From the museum, we went only a few blocks away to the Ketegia or Central Market of Kumasi, the largest in West Africa with over 10,000 individual stalls and covering probably 20 acres or more. First, though, the cadets stopped at a couple of ATMs for cash.

Before entering, Georges ad-libbed a little and took us up some stair of a residential building that went directly to the roof of an adjoining building so that we could see the whole market from above.

The roof was a collection of bare rebar sprouting through supporting concrete columns and a couple of shacks from people living up there.  We walked to the overlooking edge and started taking photos. Suddenly, two floors below, two women selling vegetables starting yelling at us, threatening (half-heartedly) to throw vegetables (cabbage and cucumbers) at us, upset that we were taking photos.  We laughed at all this and egged them on. They laughed at us and we could tell it was for show.

We then descended and walked in.  It was Sunday morning, which worked out well because at least half of the stalls were closed and there were not many patrons at all.  We weren’t jostled much and just had to step out of the way of passing merchants with large carrying bowls on their heads or huge bags at their side.

One of the butchery sections was still, probably, one of the worst smelling places I’ve ever experienced and I could tell that Georgia and Evan were about to gag.  Looking at the slimy tables and tree stumps used as chopping boards, it was easy to see why. We were in the “tripe and entrails” section and some of the “non-meat products” were looking a lot like part of Saturday’s (or Friday’s) sale.  Georgia asked that everyone keep moving and I had no problem obliging. People in the market varied greatly in their willingness to have their photos taken. Some were very reticent, while others openly asked or easily assented to my requests.  

We didn’t spend too much time in the market and Georges did a good job of moving us along.  We came out, miraculously, just a short distance from where we entered and walked over to the area above which we had stood on the roof.  We greeted the women who had threatened us with their vegetables and all had a good laugh. I bought a bunch of about a dozen small, ripe bananas from a woman for 3 Cedis ($0.60) and passed them out among the group.  The bananas were very tasty. I offered the rest to our driver, Dada, and he appreciated it, eating two right away.

From the market we drove to a couple of craft “villages” that were really just sets of stalls along the road in villages on a road leading out of Kumasi.  The first was a wood carving area known as Ahwiaa. Under a large wooden cabana with corrugated metal roof, about a dozen men were either working on royal-style Ghanaian/Ashanti stools or smaller items with a variety of hand tools.  They gave us a few short descriptions of the stools, including how you told the difference between a man’s and a woman’s stool: the woman’s had five “legs” connecting the seat to the base and the men’s had a single pedestal type structure between the two that was carved into the Ashanti symbol meaning, essentially, “God in All Things.”  More likely, though, they were paired up in games of Mancala or watching games being played. They were moving with incredibly speed, picking up stones from one chamber and dropping them successively into the adjoining pots one at a time, picking up the next if there were still stones in their last pot, gathering any stones they’d earned, etc.  The next player would start his turn before the last stone played by his opponent was even done rattling in its pot.

They invited us to sit down to play a few games with them which I did.  My opponent and teacher taught me the local variant and then we started.  He was very helpful in the first game, as was Becky, as I relearned a game we’d played with our sons quite often when they were growing up.  He clearly let me win the first game and, in the second job, did an even better job, I’m sure, of letting me win. Of course, he and his friends had Mancala sets for sale and after the two games we joined the cadets that were already hard at work bargaining for their latest souvenirs.

We settled on two sets--one for our grandsons and one for the brewery-- with each being a different color of stained local wood and having a giraffe or an elephant carved into the folding case.  The owner of the shop wrapped them nicely and gave us two or three extra stones.

From the wood carvers, we went to a village that specializes in Adinkra or stamped cloth.  To us, the ones for sale looked like that had been machine woven and then locally stamped with a waxy dye that might not survive for very long.  Georges told us that the most common uses for the Adinkra cloth were as robes for funerals and that we could pick out the funeral patterns because they were almost all black and red patterns, though some were black and white.

We told him that we were really interested in seeing the Kente cloth weavers in action in the next village of Bonwire, so we didn’t stay in the Adinkra area for very long.  

Bonwire was just a few miles away.  As we approached, we could see some foot looms in front or beside houses with their characteristic long, tight runs of gold thread leading to foot looms under large mango trees.  Once we arrived at the center of the town, we parked just before a narrow street by the sign that indicated that a communal workshop was at the end of the path. We walked along the road to find a typical old cinder block and stucco building in the shade of a very large tree.  Inside were at least a dozen foot looms and products from the “cooperative” that turned out to be not so cooperative.

We were immediately stampeded by the weavers as we walked around the inside wall of the building.  Only one weaver was working at the time and it was fascinating watching how fast and coordinated he was in flipping the loom with the cords strapped to his feet and passing the shuttle back and forth between the rows of thread, easily at more than once per second.

We were surprised the huge variety of patterns and colors at the center--far more than we expected or I had seen in my previous, brief visit to Ghana.  Each of the salesman brought out full-sized tablecloths, table runners, and strips ranging in size from a single strip that is about four inches wide and a meter or more long to one meter by two meter tablecloths made of stitched together strips.

The individual strips we're going for between 20 and 50 Cedis or about $4 to $11.  The Weaver's explained and showed us the difference between single, double, and triple weave fabric--the factor that had the most to do with price.

As we moved around the building, the sellers became more and more aggressive and more willing to deal.  Becky and I ultimately settled on a table runner and a unique decorative strip, but the moment you bought one item, the Weaver either wanted to sell you another at a better deal or his cooperative competitors would jump in with similar offers.

If you changed your mind and declines one offer for another, then the Weaver's would argue in an increasingly tense manner.  Frankly, it was starting to get ugly and we decided to leave. Sellers followed us all of the way to the bus, desperate to make a sale.  We told them that we didn’t have room in our baggage but that didn’t slow them down.

I bought one last strip from a guy who’d been lowering his price as we walked settling in 25 Cedis for a nice double woven piece.

You couldn't fault the weavers, really.  In a world where the equivalent of a $5 sale can make your day or week, we understood their fervor.

On leaving Austin held us up for a moment while a guy wove a bracelet for him bus-side by hand.  Austin wanted it to read Antoine and had written it on paper, but it came out as ANETONIDE--another funny story for the future.

We next drove the Anita Hotel and restaurant for a late lunch.  The dining area was very elaborate and kitschy and it reminded Becky of many hotel restaurants we’d seen in China.

We ordered drinks at our large round table, took turns cleaning up in one of the nicest washrooms we’d seen on the entire trip, and ordered lunch.

Almost everything we initially ordered was not available--a recurring Ghanaian theme-- including all of the local favorite Ghanaian dishes like “Red-Red.”

Most of us settled for pizza, but Austin got Beef Stroganoff (inexplicably available).

During the drive back to the hotel, we visited one of the oldest Ashanti shrines in the area, a restored building now made of concrete blocks, but with an authentic bamboo and thatch roof.

Inside were some old “Talking Drums,” used for centuries to connect villages at a very low bit rate.  The site also had a royal-style stool for the local king or chief and was still used for the every-42-day Akwasidae celebration.

Georges told me that the Ashanti month is 42-days and the celebration that marks the new month involves several parts. Locals are expected to bring gifts to the local king or chief and, as we learned in Aniassué with that local chief, the favored gift was a particular brand of Schnapps that came in a green bottle.  Food and livestock were also accepted, but this explained the huge pile of discarded, empty Schnapps bottles and their cardboard cases that formed a mound under the only tree in the small compound.

The site had several narrative posters about the building’s history, construction, and renovation,

We walked around the little village for a few minutes and I managed to gather a following of local kids who wanted their photos taken again and again while striking their favorite glamour or Kung Fu poses.

We returned to the hotel after getting a little lost in a nearby village causing Georges to get mildly upset with the driver, Da-da, for taking the wrong turn.  Nonetheless, we made it back to the hotel shortly before 1700 to clean up, relax, and get organized for the next day of travel.

I downloaded photos, tried to deal with the slow internet connection, and then we joined the cadets downstairs at the bar for the 1800 Brazil-Switzerland World Cup match.  I brought my laptop down and finished processing photos, but had little more success loading them. We all turned in earlier than usual to compensate still for the previous day.

18 June

Neither of us slept very well for some reason. It may have been that the air conditioning worked, too, well and we actually woke up cold a few times.

We were packed and ready before breakfast started at 0700 and met Georgia there again this I'm without her Fulbright friend from Georgia.

Following breakfast, we hauled our luggage to the lobby, checked on the others who were finishing breakfast and loaded up the van to leave just a couple of minutes late.  Google Maps told me it would be a 4.5 hour drive to our hotel in Cape Coast, but Georges said we would make some short stops along the way to see local crafts and industries.  He also said that we would be driving around Kumasi to avoid the Monday morning rush hour traffic, something Google Maps suggested as well.

Our first stop was along the road at a carpentry shop that made home furniture and coffins.  Some of the coffins were very elaborate: one shaped like a fish, another like a house, a third one rather plain.  In the back of the carpentry yard, two men were cutting long, wide raw boards into smaller sizes with a huge open saw blade, the workers not sporting any protection equipment whatsoever for eyes, ears, or appendages.

We’d already learned that funerals are a huge social status event in Ghana.  There were enormous road signs erected to announce the passing of a loved one or even the anniversary of their death.  Some posters announced funeral and after-party details as well as dress code in addition to the deceased’s age, dates of birth and death, and occupation or key survivors.

Georges told us that funerals are a means of a family demonstrating their reverence for the deceased as well as showing the community the status of the family socio-economically.

Our next stop was to a community palm oil production facility in the city of Bekwai.  We were passing through the hometown of our driver, Da-da, and he seemed to know people.  Georges asked him to stop the van on the roadside by the palm oil facility and we got out of the bus.

Georges and Da-da greeted the woman that looked like she was in charge who took us on a tour around the yard.

There huge bags of raw palm nuts on the side of the road that were the raw material. They looked like dark gray granite gravel and not nuts if you were not close-by.

The large nuts went through a coarse grinder that was really a cracker for the hard outer husk.  The result was passed through a spinning, first level grating that separated the smaller pieces of cracked husk from the inner, very hard, nearly black seed that was little bigger than an almond.  Georges took one and cracked it open with his teeth and showed a soft translucent white nut inside that reminded me somewhat of a hazelnut. I tried it, but it didn’t have too much flavor.

From this pile, the nuts and large pieces of chaff we're separated in water because the nuts floated and the chaff, strangely did not. The women seemed to mix some red dirt into the water to provide contrast for fishing out the nuts--something they used a large colander to do.

After being completely separated and cleaned, the refined nuts still in the shell were placed into big black cauldrons for roasting.

The pits we're placed on what I can only call “ground ovens,” where a hole had been dug and three supports of some kind (e.g., bricks, large rocks, a smaller pot). A fire with either charcoal or raw wood was started underneath each cauldron and then tended by women and local children.

The resulting palm nuts we're charred black and then put through a very fine grinder out of which extruded a short of oily black peanut butter with the sediment settling into the bottom.

The thick oil smelled somewhat like sesame oil but looked like motor oil.  Moments after make that comparison, the woman operating the grinding grabbed a small cup, dipped into the top layer of the product and began pouring the oil over all of the moving parts if the grinder.

Our guide explained to Georges that no part of the palm nuts is wasted.  The first layer husks are so blacksmiths to fire their forge and the sludge from the final grinding, once oil was separated from it, was sold as fish food.  We thanked the ladies for allowing us to disrupt the day, took a few more photos and jumped on to the bus.

Our next stop occurred only about 15 minutes later when Georges ordered the driver to stop, then back up.  He said that he had seen a palm wine distillery back about 100 meters, so we backed up to see it.

It looked like just about any other moonshine operation in the world with a wood shack, a covered area with about six steaming, rusty, 55 gallon barrels, and some large plastic 200L containers that, we were told held palm wine.

Georges explained that the palm trees were cut down in a small area and then the core of the trees was opened and tapped for the sap in the same way that maple trees are tapped for their sap. A container is placed under the cut portion of the trunk and the sap slowly flows into it.  The sap is very sweet with some acidity. The containers are emptied into large plastic drums, covered and allowed to ferment into palm wine. Some palm wine is consumed or sold directly, but most is triple distilled into alcohol or “gin’ as the locals called it.

The distiller explained the VERY simple process and equipment they had with a boiling barrel, a length of arched pipe, then two cooling barrels filled with water, and finally a tap out of which the distilled liquor flowed at a very steady pace.

We were offered a sample and it was very, very strong--easily on the order of 75% alcohol or more but my rough estimate.

The head of the operation said that plantation owners were paid by them to come into palm plantations and clear small patches of about 100 trees at a time.  They had a somewhat nomadic lifestyle moving from plot to plot and living on-site in a temporary shack. They could expect to spend about two months at each site after which they would have about nine 200L plastic drums filled with “refined" liquor that would sell for about 10 Cedis (USD$2.25) per liter. Or about $4,000.  It seemed to me to be a means of crop rotation that, at our level, looked fairly smart and responsible. They said that the palm trees would naturally come back in the area--they did not need to consciously replant--and that the next crop of trees would be ready for harvest in about 15 years.

The roads seemed to be getting a little better as we went South, meaning that Da-da's skills need to move through the chicane of potholes, spending the majority of his time on the right hand side of the road.

It turns out, we were actually on a toll road to Cape Coast, something I learned when we stopped at a toll station in a town just after crossing a road with a river that Georges said was stained brown with sediment from gold mining operations upstream.

While we were in line to pay our toll, the van was mobbed with ladies selling peanuts, palm nuts, and roasted plantains.  Georges asked Da-da to open the door and he quickly negotiated for a bunch of roasted plantains and peanut packages.

The plantains we're very good, sweet, and tart and Georges recommended eating them with peanuts at the same time.  The tiny roasted peanuts with their skin on we're delicious. Becky liked it all, too. I’m not sure how many of the cadets had some, but since Georges announced that we were doing directly to the Elmina Castle and not to the hotel to check-in or get lunch, I presumed this was lunch and ate a full package of peanuts and one-and-a-half plantains.

Sure enough, about an hour later, Georges asked if we wanted to stop somewhere for lunch or go straight to the Elmina Castle and we chose the latter.

We drove through part of Elmina and across the bridge in light rain. It had rained steadily for the last 45 minutes, but let up, thankfully, as we arrived.

We when exited the bus, several young men introduced themselves, asked our names and where we were from.  We could tell that they were selling large conch-like seashells and told them that we weren’t interested.

Georges handled out entry and we walked around the tunnel leading in while a few of us hit the toilets.  We joined the tour after a short tour of an adjoining museum in what was the old chapel and four others tagged along--three couples.  Our guide led us to the governor’s quarters and central area where, notoriously, previous Dutch governors had used the balcony outside their room to gaze upon the female slave quarter and choose unwilling partners for their bed.  Dungeons adjoined the area on three sides.

The castle was established in some form soon after the Portuguese arrival in the Cape Coast area in 1482.  The Portuguese used it as a base for trade with caravans and traders coming from the gold fields and Trans-Saharan routes to the north.  The Dutch took over about 150 years later in 1637 and ruled the castle and city until ceding it to the British in 1872.

During the Dutch period, many soldiers and others assigned to the castle had had relationships, including marriages to locals in the cities, resulting in mixed race children.  These children were actually educated in one of the first established western style schools in the region, inside the castle.

Our guide took us in to the many dark, damp rooms and helped us imagine the horrors and deprivations the slaves that were held, traded, and exported here must’ve been subjected to.  We visited the execution room in which recalcitrant slaves were merely imprisoned without food or water until they died, dragged out and tossed into the sea each morning. Like at Goree Island in Senegal, we saw the door of no return through which slaves were loaded like cordwood onto ships bound for the Americas. He also explained the positioning and purpose of the guns (still the original Dutch iron muzzle loaders) and explained how the castle was used during World Wars I and II as a staging and training location for African soldiers of the British Empire before they were shipped to duty in Europe for WWII and to the tropical climes of Burma and India.  Elmina castle is one of the oldest UNESCO sites and was so designated in the late 1960s, almost a decade after the Ghanaian government declared independence and took the castle from the British in 1957. He showed us not only the Door of No Return (now bricked up) through which slaves passed on their way to their voyage, but also a very large set of wooden doors they now call the “Doors of Return.” These days, African-Americans and others of the African diaspora from the Americas are invited to return to Africa through these doors, accessed from a fishing village beach below the castle.

The rain was still lightly coming down when we departed the castle, following Georges on a walking tour of the Elmina fishing village.  This was Monday afternoon and almost all of the boats were in the harbor because Tuesday is a traditional non-fishing day throughout West Africa.  Fishermen were repairing nets while ladies continued to see the morning’s catch along the wharf and little kids peed from the side of the pier or competing for the largest possible arc from the side of the boats.  As usual, the mélange of odors was so overwhelming as to cause nasal shutdown--if you could achieve that Nirvana-like state of olfactory tranquility.

The inner harbor was not unlike Saint-Louis, Senegal or any of the other fishing villages we’d toured and the boats were indistinguishable except for the Ghanaian use of national flags to designate “fleets” of pirogues.  Some sets of three or floor flew American flags, other groups sported Canadian, Japanese, or South Korean, or any number of non-descript banners that might’ve been representative of a city, district, or state.

From the port, we walked into Elmina (meaning “the mine,” referring to local gold mines) and were once again “immersed” in culture.

One of the most interesting sites was what Georges called an Asafo shrine.  Apparently, the Fanti tribespeople had once formed military (or militia} companies called “Asafo.”  The headquarters of each was called a Posuban. Over the decades, these had morphed into local community support companies or organizations that provided services like fire and security, but also served as social structure for general support of neighborhoods.  Each shrine had a meeting hall, number, specific emblems unique to the neighborhood, and a variety of fetish statues in front of the building meant to promote good fortune among the company and during its endeavors.

On the street we passed women and men at small stands selling blue cubic blocks of some obvious food item.  Georges told us that these were a form of the local polenta that was a dense mixture of ground corn and cassava flour that accompanied fish dishes and was served with a variety of spics and sauces.  Called “banku,” it was a staple item in the Fanti diet and could be found stack eight and ten high (each block was about a kg) along the roads in small stands labeled with just the first name of the lady owning the stand.

We next walked past the Dutch cemetery with some graves dating to the 17th Century.  Georges explained that, to this day, many of the names in the Cape Coast area had Dutch origins, citing examples like VanDyke, VanderPuye, etc, originating with children born of mixed race couple over the years.  The British had also assisted in this rite of increased diversity resulting in many local names like Fergus, Smith, Johnson, etc.

From the cemetery, we climbed about 120 steps up a steep hill to the Catholic cathedral area that contained the busts of bishops and church officials of similar stature dating back to the 1700s.  They seemed out of place as the foreground to a notorious slave castle across the city and the slum-like town beneath. The cathedral itself was immaculately clean and well cared for.

About this time, via Georges’s mobile phone, I received a phone call from Roberto of TransAfrica in Lomé, Togo.  He was upset that the day before I had posted on Facebook, on their website, a short narrative of how their contracted driver had left us in such a dangerous lurch in Kofikorjo on the Ivoirian border.  He said that is was their fault and that the driving company with whom they had contracted had just failed to do their job. I told him that that was no excuse and that a simple verbal apology for their negligence and poor communication was insufficient.  As I’ve stated earlier, this was easily one of the most dangerous, if not the most dangerous situation in which we’d found ourselves and cadets on a tour of this type. Roberto didn’t seem to understand that the whole issue was one of communication and that, had they been forthright and honest with Georges and us earlier in the day, expressing their lack of confidence that the driver was enroute and encouraging Georges to make alternative arrangements ASAP, we could’ve solved the problem much easier and will less delay and danger.  He seemed completely unwilling to give us anything but a verbal apology--no compensation or any other consideration. Therefore, I told him that we had nothing more to discuss, that I would not take down my post, and that he could expect a more detailed, and negative post on several sites once we returned to the US--and that others on the trip would do the same. The phone called ended abruptly.

We arrived at the Anamabo Beach Hotel and Resort at about 1700 and drove into the courtyard.  The lobby looked nice and we got our keys quickly. The rooms were single buildings and duplexes scattered in a sandy area under coconut palm trees not far from the beach.  Porters helped us get our bags across the sand and we checked into a spacious room with ensuite bath/shower. One of the staff told us that he would turn on the room’s water pump and showed us how to turn on the air conditioning.  He never mentioned, nor was there a label on the water heater switch. The rooms had no Wi-Fi and where we should’ve had a TV a bare coaxial cable jutted out of the wall from the center of a flat screen mount screwed into the plaster.

Still, we settled in the room, expecting things to be functional soon after and met on the bar’s patio overlooking the beach.  After a Club beer, we met the cadets under the restaurant cabana and took one of the large tables on the sea side of the building.  Adjacent to us was a large group of young women that we learned were nursing students from the University of Arkansas-Fayetteville just concluding a three week service visit during which they’d worked in clinics in northern Ghana.  The cadets spend some time chatting with them at the bar, but now they were having their own dinner along with two older women and one spouse whom, we later learned, were leading the trip.

We were eating early because we’d essentially skipped lunch and just had a few snacks enroute to Elmina--a pattern that was the norm throughout the trip.  It began to rain and as the rain and wind strengthened, we moved to another set of tables not so exposed. The mist from the rain felt pretty good, as did the Club beer that was selling for only 9 Cedis ($1.70) for the large 650 ml bottles.

I ordered Red-Red, a favorite local dish, as did a few others, while Georgia and Evan stuck with what now becoming their go-to Africa dish:  chicken skewers.

Georges joined us and I bought him a large Club beer.  He started talking about halfway into his beer and couldn’t stop.  We talked about the new touring company he’s forming on his own called Afrika Vera (afrikavera.com).  He told me that he thought I’d be a good tour guide and maybe his perfect rep to help him in the US organize tours from the States to come to Côte d’Ivoire, Togo, Benin, Ghana, and Burkina Faso--his focus countries.  I was flattered and quickly agreed to help, including providing him with photos from our trip for his promotional use.

The Red-Red arrived as was very good.  It was served with a large place of plain white rice and was a somewhat spicy stew of local vegetables not unlike ratatouille with chunks of bony fish.  I’ll definitely look up some recipes when we return.

After discussing his company and future with us, Georges also told us that he is a Spanish professor in Lomé when he’s not leading tours.  He told us about his family (wife and two sons ages 8 and 5) and then told us a charming story about his courtship of his wife over five years spanning his studies in Dakar and what he had to do to win her and her family over.  He told us about the wedding and we discovered that it had striking similarities to the Joseph Abakunda’s wedding to Clarisse that we attended three years earlier in Rwanda.

Georges then told us how he was working hard with Da-da to train him to be a good driver and how he needed Da-da to understand that the two of them were a team and that Da-da should ask him questions when he was lost of confused and not just turn down any old street.  We told him about Idi in Senegal and how he was, for us, the definitive tour driver.

Georges and I linked with each other via Facebook and WhatsApp and Georges showed us photos he’d taken with his cell phone of trips to northern Côte d’Ivoire and Burkina Faso.  He clearly has plans for the future and a passion for showing people the “True Africa” more than anyone we’ve met. He’s a very driven, disciplined man with a great vision and we wish him the best.

At about 2000, we returned to our room to find still no water pressure. The toilets wouldn’t even flush.  I went to the front desk and asked for help, but nothing happened. After about 30 minutes with nothing working in the room except the lights, I trudged back through the pouring rain and asked for a different room.  They gave me the keys to room 41--we were in 43--and when I arrived there was only a bare mattress on the bed with cleaning buckets on the floor. It was the same building as our original room and the toilets didn’t flush here, either.  They clearly had no clue about the state of each room. Meanwhile the cadets were having similar room problems from no air conditioning to no water pressure, to no electricity. We got most of this fixed and we were moved to a single room building (45) where, guess what, the water didn’t work.  They did manage to turn on this pump and it started to flow right away and we were shown where the water heater button was situated (no label). The room was short of towels, though, and that was remedied about 20 minutes later.

Once moved into the room, the fun wasn’t over.  The entire complex lost electricity at about 2200 and we only had flashlights on our cell phones.  Luckily, I’d already showered. The lights stayed off during the severe rainstorm and were finally restored at about 0100 when I awoke to a fully lit room (Becky had her eye mask on)

19 June

We woke at 0545 and Becky had no water pressure for her shower.  She used a few dribbles and some wet wipes to freshen up. I went to lobby to complain but nothing was done fast enough to help here.  I also took my laptop to the lobby area to use their intermittent Wi-Fi to load some photos and check work email but the connection wasn’t good enough to get much done.

Breakfast at restaurant was pretty good, with omelets, Nescafe, good fruit, and toast.  I was able to check email and was pleased to see a note from Justice that we were set for a 20 dinner in Accra.

We departed at about 0830 going to Rain Forest hike and canopy walk. Georges stopped us to watch cassava flour being made. It was in a family group compound and we could see one group peeling mounds of cassava with sharp, smallish machete looking knives by chopping with short strokes, often with babies strapped to their back, goats eating the peels. The cassava was then ground fresh and put into porous plastic bags and then as much liquid as possible was strained through the fabric before then passing the result through a sieve to eliminate bigger chunks.  Next, the cassava was dried and lightly roasted/toasted on large wrought iron flat grill plate over an open fire pit made of concrete. Logs were pushed into one side of the oven, pushed in farther as the part in the oven fire was reduced to ask.

The flour is then bagged and sold for about 2 Cedis per kilo.  Georges said the powder was used for many things: eaten straight as a snack; mixed with milk or water; cooked into something like tapioca; added as another ingredient to polenta; and even used to brew beer in place of rice or barley as the starch/sugar.  

We really enjoyed the many “Georges Stops.” At each, he contributes money or buys some of the product to help the group producing it and tells them why it’s important to allow tourists like us to witness what they do.

About 15 minutes later after crawling along some terrible wet dirt road, we arrived at the entrance to Kakum National Park.  The park looked well-developed and popular, with gift shops, restaurant, tickets required and (seemingly) mandatory guides. This was one of the few places at which we’d seen other tour buses.

We hit the toilets, Georges paid our entry fees and we met our guide--a young woman in her late 20s by my guess.  Though looking a little soft, she turned out to be in excellent shape and was one of the fastest walking guides I’ve seen.  She led us quickly into the jungle, showing us the line between second and first growth lines. Ominously, in the distance, it seemed like we heard a powerful chainsaw harvesting some of the latter.

We did maybe a total of three miles of walking on very good trails with well-labeled trees.  Our guide had been doing her job for three years and working within the park in other capacities for a total of seven. She was very knowledgeable about the many plants and trees in the park and could tell us all about their traditional uses by local tribes.

After about 20 minutes, we came to the start of the canopy walked.  She explained that though it might be a bit scary, it was well-engineered and built by a Canadian engineering firm with the assistance of the Ghanaian government.  Each bridge was supposedly strong enough to hold three elephants, but they were so narrow that the elephants would never fit on the bridge.

The canopy walk was a series of seven well-designed rope and board suspension bridges from 11 to 40 meters above jungle floor.  We convinced Becky to give it a try and she was game. Side ropes extended up from the rood base on each side coming up to our armpits or above and, near the center, we could also easily grasp the wire rope suspension sections.  There was a good deal of low-frequency vibration and some swaying, but all in all, it was fun with good stability and excellent good views

The park has lots of wildlife but they are hard to see or find, especially at midday.  We heard crashing through the branches and leaves at one point indicating the presence of a relatively large monkey (Colobus?) but only caught a glimpse of his or her silhouette and they scampered up the very tall tree and disappeared into the dense overgrowth in the second canopy.

Our guide told us that there were forest elephants, monkeys, leopards, many bird species, and even bears in the jungle but had no idea many forest elephants nor how many guests per year visited the park.  The park does have a treehouse set about 10 meters above ground-level for paying overnight guests, but Georges said that he’s done it twice with guests and they didn’t like it very much because of the many insects and how noisy the local inhabitants are at night.

From the tree house, we walked to a huge Fromager tree that was over 70 meters tall and easily 20 meters or more in circumference.

The two hour tour was quite good and we covered probably three miles of hiking with some serious ups and downs.  Luckily, we had no slips and falls despite the muddy conditions from the previous night’s rains. I passed a 10 Cedi tip to our guide and thanked her on the way out.

Next, we drove towards Cape Coast castle and stopped for coconuts on the street with a guy who had two wheelbarrows full of them and chopped them quickly with a machete.  I paid for six coconuts and our chopper then threw in a bonus. The milk was very good and the meat varied from coconut to coconut, ranging from very thin and gelatinous to the more firm, chewy type we see in fully ripe coconuts sent to the US or processed into bags for cooking.

Cape Coast castle was next.  It is significantly larger than Elmina but served many of the same purposes. After entering the main courtyard, we were introduced to the head guide who instructed us to go to the castle museum first for a self-guided 30 minute tour and then our regular tour would begin. We walked up a set of concrete and stone stairs to a balcony overlooking cannons facing east-northeast and then entered the museum.

Becky and I were impressed with some of the best written narratives we’d seen at a museum.  They were in flawless English, new, and very factual and balanced. They outlined the history of the region, city, and castle in clear terms without dwelling on blame or scapegoating.  

The dungeons and prison cells were much bigger here and the guns defending the castle were impressive.  It was roughly triangular with one side pointed at the town of Cape Coast looking up the hill to the lighthouse that dominated the landscape.  Signals from the lighthouse would alert the castle to approaching danger from the sea. The castle had a large collection of old cannonballs and the guide stated that the cannons were all the original Dutch versions.  At one point, below us on a rocky beach, we could see some abandoned cannons scattered about, rusting out over the centuries.

All in all, another excellent guide who earned a 10 Cedi tip.  The only downside was a speech he gave at the end of his tour that sounded like grubbing for a tip, if subtly expressed.  He mentioned that slavery still happened today in the world and that any time someone did something for you and you did not pay them, you were practicing a form of slavery.

On the way back to the hotel, we made another water and ATM stop, then arrived in the lobby in time to see the second half of the World Cup Match with Senegal beating Poland 2-1.  We all decided on an early dinner having again skipped lunch after the coconuts.

Becky and I adjourned next to the outdoor bar on a very nice early evening with plenty f breeze and no rain.  Carol, the leader of the nurses’ group, and her husband were there as well. We walked a little along the stone breakwater and then talked to the waitress about ordering dinner.  She took our order and said that our meals would be ready at the restaurant cabana at 1830. She did the same for the cadets. Matt wasn’t feeling well and he retired to his room while the others played beach volleyball with a very game 41-year-old Da-da.

Dinner was a fiasco.  None of us were served before 1900 and Becky couldn’t seem to get the quiche she requested.  Finally, at 1930, the waitress came over and told her that it would be “five minutes.” Five minutes later she came back and said it was “still icy.”  Becky just told her that she no longer wanted it (they’d delivered her French fries 30 minutes earlier) and I added that we weren’t paying for it. Another restaurant worker came over and told us that we wouldn’t be charged, too.  Five minutes later, the quiche came to the table via another waiter and he looked confused when we sent it back.

Meanwhile, Matt wasn’t doing well.  He was puking badly and had diarrhea.  We decided to talk to Carol and we told her Matt’s symptoms.  She said that he didn’t need antibiotics if he didn’t have a fever (we agreed) and went to her room to get some Dramamine to treat his nausea.  We all met in our room and Matt admitted that, though he taken an Azithromycin, he’d thrown it up less than thirty minutes later. Carol said that was fine--he didn’t need another.  We bought him a Sprite from the bar and gave him more Imodium. While in the room with us, he vomited (mostly dry heaves) in our bathroom

Carol mentioned the possibility of amoebic dysentery and gave us a bottle of Flagl as well as the Dramamine.  We told Matt not to take it unless he was still having issues when we returned and checked with the doctors at USAFA.

Meanwhile, back at the bar, Evan and Charlie danced and did drums with nursing students (all women) at beach show.

Matt seemed stabilized, Austin, Eddie, and Georgia had gone to bed, too, so we hit the sack early after packing for the next day’s drive to Accra.

20 June

I woke at about 0330 and checked my mobile phone to see texts from Eddie at about 2230 saying he was sick from both ends. I sent him a note to say that if we was awake he could come by and get some drugs, but got no response between then and when I got up at 0545.

I showered, packed, and then went to check on cadets. Charlie came to room saying that Austin was sick, too.

I started with Eddie and checked his temperature by hand and thought he had a significant fever. I went back to the room for drugs and the thermometer, checking on Austin on the way.

Eddie had a fever of 101.8F so we gave him a three-pack of azithromycin and told him to take one.  We gave him Loperamide (Imodium), too.

Matt still didn’t have a fever and said that the last time he threw up was at about 0300. He said he felt better, but not well.

I checked on Austin again and he was up but in the shower. I gave thermometer to Charlie and told him to take Austin’s temperature when he got out.

Next, I checked on Georgia who was downright chipper and ready for breakfast.  The three of us went to breakfast and had plain eggs with toast, fruit, and coffee.  The mango and pineapple were very, very good. I bought a Sprite for Charlie to take to Austin, too.

I spoke with Carol again and her colleague who told us we could buy Loperamide and Dramamine at pharmacies in Accra if needed, but warned us to look for products made in the UK, afraid that some Chinese or Indian-made generics might not be the real thing.  Nonetheless, they both came back to our room with packages of both to tide us over, saying their trip was almost over, too, and that they’d come “loaded for bear.” They were both very kind, helpful people. I therefore awarded each of them the Astro Coin for distinguished gallantry in the face of significant gastro-intestinal distress under very trying conditions..

During this whole kerfuffle, we did manage to have one slight dosage mix-up when we learned that Matt had given Austin an Azithromycin tablet--which I did, too, only about 45 minutes later.

I’m now in charge of all meds after this.  I presumed that two tablets wouldn’t kill him and confirmed that with Carol.  

Austin mitigated my fears of antibiotic overdose when he puked about 20 mins after taking the second pill.

We struggled to get everyone out the door as porters carried our packs over the sand. Neither front office nor bar would provide change for a 10, 20, or 50 Cedi bill, so porters didn’t get much tip.  (Getting change for larger bills has been a continuous source of frustration on this trip in EVERY country)

The Anomabo Resort is really a crappy resort that could really be quite good.  They spend too much time raking the sand, though, and not enough time making sure that the rooms are functional or that food is served in a timely fashion.  They don’t have what they claim, either (TV or Wi-Fi). The woman at front desk was plain surly when she wasn’t aloof. The credit card machine wouldn’t work for Evan paying his dinner bill, so Matt and I had to pool cash to cover him. I’m pretty sure it just went into her pocket.

We started the drive to Accra and I start reading Kwei Quartey’s “Death By His Grace,” my fifth of the Darko Dawson Ghanaian detective series and was interested to read about the role of religions, both Christian and Animist in the plot.

Matt was the last one to board the bus after a final bathroom stop.  That was good in that he said he had nothing left.

Georges very concerned about all of us.  We told him that we thought it best to go directly to the hotel and not have any stops (other than for comfort) along the way and he agreed.  We drove with Austin and Matt laid out across the aisle. Eddie was sitting up but looking bad.

Becky and I reminded all to not be hesitant to call for a stop and to have puke bags at the ready.

We drove along the coast past Fort Amsterdam, built by Dutch on a big hill, then the city-state of Mankessim, the home or capital of the Fanti people.

Forty-five minutes in, Austin asked for an emergency stop and he and Eddie jumped off and into the undergrowth on the side of the road.  Happily, it was a better safe than sorry situation they only needed to pee.

Georges asked if we wanted to stop to see a place where coffee was grown and roasted--our first Georges Stop of the day but, on Becky’s recommendation, we told him that we thought that we should just go straight to the hotel, as mentioned earlier, with the sick cadets before deciding to do anything else.  I could tell that he was disappointed, as I was, but he understood our decision and we continued.

Next, he said that we were entering the area of the ethnic group called Ga, the first to settle in the Accra area.

As we got closer to Accra, traffic picked up greatly.  Google maps said that the last 40 km would take use over 90 minutes.  In the suburbs of Accra we saw some large, modern homes on surrounding hills, passing Lake Weija on the left side.  The two lane road became a four lane divided highway after passing a toll station for the Accra region. The road turned into six lanes but then ground to a halt with hundreds of street sellers weaving in and out of the stop-and-go traffic selling food, chewing gum, windshield wiper blades, large tourist maps of Ghana and Africa, chips, water, pastries, soccer balls, toiletries, and just about anything else you can imagine. Air compressor, jumper cables, jewelry, wallets, electrical plugs and converters, dog collars and leashes, rope and nylon straps, children’s coloring books, ladies’ scarves, art work, eggs, a globe map, cleaning products for the kitchen and bath, pillows and linens, Ghanaian chocolate bars, cloth napkins, used cell phones, lottery tickets, car seat covers, steering wheels, fridge magnets, air fresheners, pens and note pads, sunglasses, earbuds, etc, etc.  We drove through Jamestown, the old colonial heart of Accra and i could tell that Georges wanted to stop here to tour, but instead we stopped at a gas station for another comfort break, ten minutes from the hotel.

We arrived at the hotel which seemed nice but had no electricity.  They said it would be on in an hour. I suggested to the group that it would be at least three hours before the power was on.  I turned out to be a little too generous with my prediction, though.

The Afia Beach Hotel and Resort is was right on the beach--albeit one strewn with plastic garbage and other refuse.  There were sitting areas and gazebos for relaxing below the hotel and a blue fence separating the hotel property from the beach itself, along with a security guard to keep anyone from encroaching on the hotel grounds.

The hotel had a series of duplex rooms on three tiers of the sloping hill, decorated with quite a few flowering plants, papaya trees, and extensive indoor and outdoor tribal art.  The dining area was open and quite nice with a tiled floor, large tables, and plugs useful for laptops and chargers. The porters and manager were very helpful and friendly, as well as happy to see us since it looked like we might’ve been the only guests--we later saw one other couple.

Eddie went to his room to sleep, as did Austin and Matt. We arranged with Georges to meet at 1330 to tour with whomever was healthy.

Meanwhile, I emailed Justice and told him that we would be available for dinner at 1800.  We eventually settled on just staying at the hotel restaurant for dinner as opposed to risking travel with our sick cadets, or leaving them behind for the evening.

The unsick met in the restaurant and ordered bowls of groundnut soup and rice, plus drinks, during which time we had a good discussion about religion, education, rights, development, economics throughout West Africa and the developing world..  The groundnut soup tasted like a slightly spicy peanut butter soup and was quite good with the large ball of rice that accompanied it. I’ll have to give that a try back in the States, along with finding good recipes for the Red-Red we’d had a couple of nights before.

We went back to the room and organized a few things.  Becky decided to stay at the hotel despite the fact that there was no electricity.  By then, she had seen enough local culture and markets and also wanted to keep an eye on our sick cadets.  Before leaving, we made sure they all had water and any necessary drugs and then Georgia, Charlie, Evan, and I joined Georges out front with Da-da and we departed.

Our first stop was the national independence monument which was very similar to the Arc de Triomphe in Paris.  It was simpler in design but had the same sort of walk-through arch in the middle and was positioned in the largest roundabout in the city.  Adjacent to the monument on the ocean side was Black Star Square, a very large open area with stadium stile seating on three sides and another large arch (or stool) like structure on the far side.  The area looked like a smaller version of Red or Tiananmen Square and was used annually for the Ghanaian Independence Day celebrations and parades. Between the square and the independence monument was what looked like a tomb of their unknown soldiers accompanied by a tall pillar or obelisk with a bronze statue of a Ghanaian soldier on top and a low dark tomb-like structure beneath it.  There was a bronze cauldron that looked like it once held a non-eternal flame, too, but we could find no other plaques or descriptions of the site.

We took photos of all of the sites there but did not take up the local guides’ suggestions to go to the top of the monument for photos.

From there we drove into the downtown area and found an ATM for Evan, Charlie, and Georgia and Georges took me into a post office where I bought a stamp and mailed a postcard from Elmina to our grandsons back in Colorado.

We continued through this older part of downtown into the colonial or old section called Jamestown, parking in a small area that was an entrance into an area dominated by cliffs down to the ocean and shacks precariously perched atop them.

Georges led us through the streets that were well-decorated with some very sophisticated and beautiful street art.  Locals were frying beignets on one corner and we stopped to chat for a moment. I asked several people if I could take their photographs and most acceded. Several locals seemed to know Georges, or he knew them and one gentleman about his age joined us a local guide, but speaking directly to Georges most of the time.

We weaved our way through the shacks and towards the water, coming out into an area with dozens of large steel oil barrels being used to cook and smoke fish as we had seen in Monrovia at Westpoint.  These, however, were in even a worse state of repair and the junk, mess, slop, and fish guts. The fish being smoked were generally whole mackerel, but some small, very long, thin silvery fish were being smoked in a unique way forming rings as the tail of each was stuck in its mouth.  Other fish included bonita and barracuda steaks and filets as well as some species I could not identify. There were stacks of wood for smoking the fish and the active cookers/smokers were attended by both men and women. We could walk out to a bare point about 75 feet above the water and look back across the small bay to the east, amazed at the enormous amount of trash simply tossed down the cliffs from the shacks, fouling the beaches and everything in sight.  At this very point was also a real pigsty with about a half-dozen large sows in wooden dens.

We continued along the edge of the cliff towards the west and came down several sets of steps and a steep hill to probably the dirtiest, most disgustingly sad fishing beach one could ever imagine.  I’ve seen less plastic at a recycling facility. You simply could not walk on the sand for all of the plastic bottles and bags. We traipsed through it, though, carefully heeding Georges’s and our guide’s warnings to “be careful where you step, because people defecate here, too.”  We were very careful.

Somehow, we managed to get to the long, old concrete and brick pier that jutted into the harbor by a solid 200 meters or so.  On both sides of the pier, colorful sea-worn pirogues of all sizes littered the beach, each with their identifying flags fluttering.  Some locals were doing repairs onboard, but most were empty.

Our guides led us out onto the pier where kids stripped naked and were actually jumping off the platform into the sandy brown breakers below, avoiding the current borne dozens of plastic bag jellyfish that lurked just beneath the surface.

We walked farther out onto the pier to see kids and adults napping on large piles of nets while small groups huddled around makeshift cook stoves sharing three bowls for lunch: the local cassava/corn polenta in one, boiled fish in another, and a spicy red dipping sauce in the third. I politely declined an offer to dine with them--even I have some limits and testing them the day before I returned to the US seemed unwise.

This was another standard “Georges Walk.”  We hooked back and onto the mainland past the anchor maker’s and outboard motor repairman’s shops as well as a couple of tiny seaside bars offering great deals on Club beer.

Maybe one of the strangest things we saw, though, hanging from a nail in front of one shop were about three old hockey skates.  I wondered what giant Goodwill bag sent to Africa had accidentally contained them buried in old T-shirts and jerseys, and what the locals must’ve thought they were when they found them.  Shoes to chop whole fish into steaks, perhaps?

We then passed our van who was waiting for us.  Georges suggested that we just keep walking down the main street to soak in more “True Africa” and we agreed--or rather, I agreed and the cadets nodded and followed.  It was clear that, 18 days in, they had seen these scenes more than a few times and there was nothing particularly new about the street that we hadn’t seen in Dakar, Banjul, Monrovia, Grand Bassam, Kumasi, or Accra.  I told them that this was their last reminder experience of all that we’d done and seen.

We picked up a dread-locked friend of Georges’s along the way who greeted him warmly and introduced himself as a local artist.  Georges was amazing at cultivating these relationships and he knew that our access to special areas and things that other tourists didn’t see were based on everyone, everywhere expecting him.  He greased some palms, bought local food, and made it clear to everyone that he was supporting their community and bringing awareness to all by leading us through their communities and streets.

We walked past the large Anglican cathedral and high school with dozens of kids in uniforms streaming out at the end of the school day, then into a parking lot that adjoined the Kwane Nkrumah Museum and Monument.  At the entrance we found the usual group of hawkers who would always ask us our names and where we were from. Today, I was Bob from Canada. They said they just wanted to chat with us, but Georges kept us moving and shoo’ed them away like the team’s horse-tail whisk.

We entered the nicely air conditioned one-room Kwame Nkrumah Museum and were joined by possibly the softest-voiced docent/guide of any museum in the world.  She was tall, slim, with very high cheekbones--very beautiful--with straightened hair in a nearly ‘60s flip. With obvious pride, she explained the life of Ghana’s first president and his and Ghana’s march to independence on 6 March 1957.  Nkrumah had been held in prison in Jamestown at the converted fort/prison for over a year for political reasons. He was born in a village in the north, but had been educated in the UK at Oxford and held faculty positions at the University of Pennsylvania in the US.  On 6 March, he and five other Ghanaians, all six featured on several of their Cedi bills and honored at a roundabout entering the Kotoba International Airport, declared Ghana’s independence. They did so wearing their prison black and white stripes on the site of the British polo grounds precisely because black Ghanaians had been previously prohibited from setting foot on this ground.

She explained Nkrumah’s Pan-African leanings and that he was allied with Nassar in Egypt--who was both Pan-Arab and Pan-African, marrying Nassar’s daughter, Fatiha.

The walls of the Museum were covered with photos of Nkrumah during his tenure as Ghana’s first president from 1960 to 1966.  They included photos with Nassar, Chou En-Lai of China, John F. Kennedy, and the famous photo of him dancing with Queen Elizabeth II in 1961 during her historic visit with Prince Phillip (which we’d seen a couple of months before in the second season of “The Crown.”

The museum also had collections of his writings in several languages as well as much of his wardrobe, office furniture, and his two pianos.  Outside, his Cadillac Coupe de Ville (steel blue) was behind glass.

Exiting the museum, our guide accompanied us to the decapitated statue of Nkrumah, vandalized in the 1966 coup d’état led by Joseph Rawlins.  Apparently, after the Rawlins regime took power, they tried to rid the nation of Nkrumah’s influence and cut off the head and the right hand of the statue--the latter because of Nkrumah’s writings.  The head is now mounted on a pedestal beside the body with a plaque mentioning that it was recovered thanks to the efforts of a “patriotic citizen.” The right hand has not been recovered.

We then proceeded to the giant monument covering the tomb of both he and his wife.  We were impressed by the fact that this seemed to be the only monument of its kind (or any kind) in West Africa that was well-maintained and operational.  There were sculptures in the fountains in front of the monument that had water spewing form them as designed, the water in the fountains was clean and plastic-free, and the grounds were well-tended and as close to immaculate as we had seen.

We exited the grounds of the monument and our friends found us with freshly braided bracelets.  We all declined even though the one with the small Canadian flag and “BOB’ on it (with matching Ghanaian flag was hard to turn down.  We just told them, and all others, that it was our last day in Ghana and we had no money left--and that was about 90% true.

We continued walking to an artists’ village that was just another tourist shopping area.  We walked down a couple of aisles, pestered by sellers, but by then we were just so tired of shopping, haggling, being presented stuff, being asked to “just look at my shop,” that we were getting a little brusque.  Georges sensed this and we didn’t spend long there. Even Charlie avoided buying anything!

We returned to the bus and Georges was very perturbed that Da-da had left the bus (locked) and was not around.  He called him quickly and I heard him ask, “what are you doing!?!” Luckily, Da-da was very nearby and materialized at the driver’s door in just seconds.

When we returned to the hotel at about 1730, the electricity was still not on.  We asked about it at the desk and we were told that it would be coming on shortly and that they would start the generator soon.  The lights came on when I was in the bathroom and suddenly, we even had Wi-Fi--but only in the lobby and restaurant. Clearly, the power being off had been their own doing.  They could’ve had power all day, but given the low occupancy of the hotel, we were sure they were just saving money until the evening when they and we would need it for lighting and air conditioning in the rooms.  Our TV still didn’t work, though.

We checked on the sick cadets and told everyone that we would be up for dinner at about 1800 and that Justice would arrive soon after.

Ordering dinner went along the lines of every other meal we had in Ghana.  Many of the items on the menu weren’t available. We would order food and it would come out randomly over the next hour.  French fries would come out in ten minutes, while a sandwich might take 90.

Georges joined us for dinner (our treat) and admitted that he wasn’t feeling well.  He thought it might be either the street coconut from the day before or the “Red-Red” from Anomabo Beach. He ordered spaghetti, while Becky had fries and I ordered the sautéed grouper filet with rice--which was outstanding.

All of the sick cadets joined us with Matt doing the best followed by Eddie.  Eddie ordered a smoothie and a milkshake and just a little of each. Austin was with us for a short time, but still was running a fever and looked miserable. He returned to his room after eating just a little.

Justice arrived finally at about 1930 and we talked for almost 90 minutes, plied by a large Club beer.  He teased the cadets about the Academy going soft with no more running the strips, no longer a requirement for all cadets to take Chemistry II or Physics II and a variety of other things.

Justice is currently finishing up medical school in Ghana at the best med school in West Africa, sponsored by his military. The plan, ultimately, is for him to become Ghana’s first flight surgeon, though he’s not sure when he will be able to complete that specialty.  He finishes med school in early September and is also expecting his first child, a girl, the same month. As he finishes his training, he’s currently in one of the “districts” north of Accra about 2.5 hours drive away. He’d driven in just to meet us, but only lived a few minutes from the hotel and was planning to spend the night here before returning.  He and Georges connected right away and Georges got his contact information so that they might connect on future visits. Like other international cadets from USAFA, Justice seemed to be doing extremely well and was very thankful for his USAFA experience. We took a parting selfie and promised to connect if/when he visited the US and we were back in West Africa.  He reinforced our strongly held belief that the international cadet program at our service academies is among the most important public foreign diplomacy efforts we have in the Department of Defense.

Finally, at about 2100, we decided to call it a night.  Georges was looking better, the cadets were trickling away to their rooms, and I had finally negotiated a USD-to-Cedi conversion that would settle our dining and drinking bills for the day and leave us with very few Cedis for the return trip.

Becky and I packed our things one last time for the next evening and tried to go to sleep. Neither of us slept well, in part because of an air conditioning unit that made noises suspiciously like a rat running around on concrete--something we checked for but never saw--plus just the overwhelming thoughts running through our mind of what we’d seen and experienced in the previous 18 days.  We couldn’t believe that we’d made it through the trip with not much more than the Kofikorjo fiasco, but were simultaneously thrilled and apprehensive about returning home and facing the challenges of my final two weeks in uniform, out-processing, and the decisions ahead.

Before I call it a night, though (at least in blog order), I need to say that Ghana has:  the worst roads and traffic we’ve seen on the trip, coupled with the most speed bumps and police checkpoints.  It does have functioning traffic lights in some areas that are ignored by all but the most responsible commercial drivers. They are merely advisory for most--except in he heart of Accra, where only moto-bikes seem to ignore he signals. Lucky for us, Da-da observes them all under the watchful eye of George.  The rich parts of Ghana match or exceed anything we saw in Côte d’Ivoire, but the slums of Accra are virtually identical in terms of depth of poverty, hygiene and living conditions, flocks of small children, and a sense (from our perspective, if not of the inhabitants) of near hopelessness. Still, the Ghanaians seem to have a spirit and energy that was strong and growing.  They have a vibrant economy, a functioning democracy, and hope of improvement that might be the strongest we saw on the trip. Now, if they could work on having a functional electric grid, which might be nice.

Of course, Becky and I awoke before the alarm.  I showered first and then we put the finishing touches on our packing.  I actually think that with all of the snacks, bags, toiletries, toilet paper, extra, abandoned socks, and other stuff we brought along, we may have been returning with less stuff than we had at departure--at least in terms of volume.  Everything fit in our bags, including the Kente cloths, mancala boards, shirts, and other souvenirs. The cadets’ bags looked similar--though Austin came with so much extra room that we wouldn’t know for sure.

Breakfast was supposed to be ready at 0600 for an 0700 departure to the airport, but that was 0600 African Time, clearly.  The restaurant was a ghost-town at 0610 and people began arriving at about 0620. Becky and I had toast with excellent ginger-orange marmalade.  Eggs never came despite the promising label under the chafing dish rack. They did have broiled tomatoes, sausage (hot dogs), fried potatoes, and fruit, which sufficed or all of us.

The cadets seemed healthy.  Austin reported that his fever had broken, Matt looked good, and even Eddie said that, despite a headache (from dehydration, no doubt) he was good, too.  However, we did hand out ibuprofen to everyone for the departure and arrival just to help make sure we didn’t have any spiked fevers that might relegate one or more of us to further scrutiny or quarantine.

We boarded the bus on time, as usual, and headed to the airport which, at this time of the day was only about a 20 minute drive.  Georges told me en route that we was already nostalgic for our group and would miss us. I told him that we felt the same way and that he’d been an awesome guide.  The night before we had discussed our itinerary with him. We were all torn between what we did and what we could’ve done. We decided that for a first trip to West Africa, that it was a very good trip.  But, he said that, now that he knew us (Becky and I, as well as what we wanted the cadets to see) he might’ve designed it a little differently, focusing on more of the cultural aspects and less on some of the standard tourist stops.  We could tell htat he “got us” and it was once again evident how much he enjoyed showing the “Real Africa” to people that truly wanted to experience the many aspects of life on the Dark Continent. We again discussed his company (Afrika Vera) and I promised to send him any and all photos he might want to set up his webpage and for promotional use by his company.

At the airport, we unloaded quickly and took a final photo of the group.  I “coined” Georges with the coveted Astro coin and then gave tip envelopes to both him and Dada.  I spend my last Cedis that way in order to avoid losing money at an exchange stall in the airport, giving Georges a combination of CFA, USD, and Cedis.

We cleared check-in and customs reasonably quickly.  Scanning and inspections were thorough and redundant.  The insides of our bags were swabbed and scanned at check-in and, even after clearing customs and immigration, and the standard TSA-style check, our carry-on bags were opened at searched at gate check-in.

Delta had announced that the flight would departing 30 minutes late, but it still managed to takeoff 40 minutes after scheduled departure which was better than the West African average.  The flight showed almost completely full on our status checks, but when we boarded we were happy to find several empty seats. I was particularly hesitant about the flight because I had the middle seat in the three-seat middle section of the Boeing 767, but when the seat to my left went empty, Becky and I claimed the row as our own.

Boarding and departure was quite a show.  The flight attendants--all African American--repeatedly told people how to load their bags into the overhead.  They had to walk up and down the aisles three times specifically pointing to people to remind them to turn off their cell phones and cease their conversations.  One attendant, about 50-some years old, just chuckled when I told her that, while the bathroom was occupied, I’d discovered that the door wasn’t latched and didn’t indicate that was the case.  She just said, “You get used to that and more on this flight.” We each had a good laugh over the thought of how many passengers would actually SIT on the toilet seat versus squatting on it. The attendants on this flight should get time-and-a-half for the amount of time they have to spend dealing with the passengers.

The flight to New York was uneventful except for several passengers that got out of their seats seconds after the wheels screeched on the runway.  We cleared customs and immigration quickly through a line set-up for the military and then just waited for our bags. Our layover time had shrunken again due to time taxiing, but he cadets still found time to get real American food.

We boarded the next flight on time, but then sat for an hour as more ground traffic cleared.  Headwinds were like, though, and we arrived generally on time at the airport. I had the number of our Colorado Spring Shuttle driver and made sure they would be ready to pick us up promptly once we had our bags in Denver.  The Delta flight to Denver had 110V electrical plugs and I took advantage of that to put together this narrative into one document and give it a once-over editing,

Winds were clearly very good, though, because we still landed almost twenty minutes early into DEN.  We gathered our bags quickly and tracked down our transportation. Just as we were board, though, a final wrench was thrown in the trip gears when I realized that I’d left my laptop in the seatback pocket of a Delta flight that in 30 minutes was headed back to JFK on the redeye.

I ran into Delta baggage claim, they called gate A29 and confirmed that it was found.  They gave me a security pass to go get it and the whole process, despite more running that I’m done in quite some time, tacked about another 40 minutes onto our return.  Our driver and the others were patient, though and we were on the road by 2350, arriving home at 0110. Georgia’s mom was there to pick her up and the others stayed the night.  We each had some cookies and milk, a couple of the cadets took late showers, and the house was open and peaceful by 0200.

22 June

Typical of Becky and me, we couldn’t sleep in.  Despite eye masks and (for me) a half of an Ambien, we woke at 0600 to the familiar shriek of our local magpie squadron.  Realizing that we might as well just get back on the MDT clock, we got up and started the first load of laundry—after one of the best showers and shaves of my life.