Best Day Ever / Worst Day Ever: Waterfalls and Red Oil

I woke up on Friday morning (3/16) with a severe hangover. We had enjoyed a triumvrate of celebrations the night before: Kevin Day, Mac's birthday, and St. Patty's Day all at once. Kevin Day is always done in top form, and this year was no exception; green beer at Champ's (yes, they even have one in Ghana) and then live reggae music at this club called Bywel's. A scandalous good time was had by all and, as confessed, I ushered in a new day with a throbbing noggen.

It was 10:30 and I was supposed to work at 9. Work had been, up until that point, much less than impressive so I had few qualms sleeping through the alarm as a birthday present to myself. The plan was to laze around the house, eat lunch, and then go to the beach. Mac and I were committed. The best laid plans, however, were no match for thunder storms. Ghana finally decided to rain on my first trip to the beach.

Not even rain can fully undermine my devotion, though, and lazing around the house went exactly according to plan. Mac and I had a leisurely book read for an hour or so, at which point I decided a nap was in good order. I retired to our camp house with every intention of a solid midday doze.

Lee, my aforementioned partner in crime, had been politely encouraging me all week to go with her to some far off boondock called Hohoe, from whence we might go see some waterfall or other. I had been politely declining all week, intent to spend my first real weekend enjoying the beach. That plan thwarted, Lee's persistence, and my self-acknowledged laziness in planning these sorts of trips for myself, combined into a last minute decision to get off my bum and go see some waterfalls. This revelation came at approximately 12 noon. The bus to Hohoe left at 3pm. I had to get a move on, Jon-Loeck-in-London style, and get move on I did.

I got to the station with 20 minutes to spare, after various in-transit misadventures including but not limited to the Episode of the Lost Key and the Most Glorious Taxi in Accra. What I didn't remember but should have realized is that Ghana operates on Ghana time, which is to say things will happen when they happen, and the bus wasn't going to arrive until 4 anyway. I met Lee at the bus station washing herself with water sachets, in perhaps a vain effort at cleanliness for the long ride. I now had time to remember how hungry and thirsty I was, having skipped lunch at Big Mama's, so I went to buy some sachets from the same woman Lee just had. The conversation went as follows:

Me: Two waters, please.

Woman: Pure water?

Me: Yes.

Woman: For washing?

Me: No, I'm thirsty.

Woman: Your friend, the girl.

Me: No, it's for me.

Here the woman turns, gets a water sachet and hands it to me.

Me: Could I actually have two, please?

Woman: Two?

Me: Yes.

Woman: For washing?

Me: No, I want to drink them.

Woman: Okay.

Now she hands me two more water sachets and my change, and I am standing there awkwardly with three sachets, only wanting two, but not wanting to unwittingly buy 2 more. And so Lee got a present, and finished her washing.

We had an hour to wait so we made ourselves comfortable. The bus station was really just an open lot in the market with some benches off to the side. I had brought some powerbars from my stash with me in lieu of lunch, two bars exactly, and as one constitutes a solid meal in itself, Lee and I had a veritable feast. To repay kindness in kind Lee offered me some bananas. She had six, and insisted we have 3 apiece. I hate bananas, except in smoothie form, I find the texture absolutely wretched, which is too bad considering their nutritional value, but as these were a smaller sort of banana, and as I thought the measure of comradery to be found in mutual gratitude to be of greater importance than my aversion to bananas, I decided to, you might say, swallow my pride, and accepted the bananas as a token of our burgeoning friendship. Lee, of course, was privy to none of these trivial concerns, and hasn't been since, and will continue to live a blissfully ignorant existence until she reads this, at which juncture I hope she will find it in her heart to forgive my deception. It really was in the best of intentions.

All that fretting and water sachets, and the prospect of a 4 hour bus ride, brought about nature's call. I went in search of a toilet, and found a grizzly old man in a kiosk with a little sign that read "Toilet 300". I assumed that meant 300 cedis, but having only a 200 coin in my pocket pleaded my case, and fortunately he waved me through with surly indifference. Curious as to what my 200 cedis had bought me, I entered a walled off clearing with a free-standing cement wall in the middle, one side for men and one side for women. Lovely. My side of the wall had a small hole in a corner, presumably to be aimed at, though previous occupants had clearly not been such skilled marksmen. I loathe to think was to be found on the other side of the wall.

Having survived this encounter with paid-for plumbing, I returned to my bag and cleansed myself with baby wipes and willed myself to hold it in for the rest of the afternoon. The bus arrived soon after, and we were happy to finally leave.

You've all heard about the trotros, but we were taking a public bus and I had, perhaps foolishly, high hopes. The bus, which might once have been the pinnacle of transport luxury, had been refitted trotro style, that is there were seats put in every conceivable and available space. By some grace of orbuni luck, however, we managed to snag the only two seats on the bus with any leg room, with the only catch that we had the emergency exit in front of us in the form of a steep drop into a rickety old door. Potential danger aside, we were quite satisfied. We were finally on our way, and Lee even had her ipod to entertain us for a while.

The bus ride out was surprisingly pleasant. There were all the bumps and thumps and fits and starts that were to be expected, but scenery against the setting sun was beautiful and we were jamming out to Lee's pick of Australian bands and we were, I believe, enjoying a feeling accomplishment at having made it out of the hustle and bustle of Accra.

There really are hawkers everywhere in Ghana, and travellers in traffic make for an especially captive audience. Whenever we stopped, or even slowed down enough, the bus was swarmed with all manner of hawkers. It's really difficult to explain without visual reference how overwhelming this can be, especially when they aren't shy about opening the door at my feet to really make sure that no means no and I really don't want that loaf of bread. I think also they take extra pleasure in bewildered obruni. I should have bought the loaf of bread, though, because a few hours later I was feeling the hunger pangs and would have paid handsomely for it. Lee placated my hunger, bless her heart, with another banana.

Another fun aspect of bus rides is that if people are upset about something they have no reservations about letting everyone know. About two hours into the ride a woman started yelling, presumably at the driver, in Twi, and soon she was echoed by several other people. I thought she was yelling at him to slow down because we were careening down the road at high speed and the door in front of me had already opened once of its own accord, revealing the fast moving pavement that belied imminent danger. What she was actually yelling about, though, was the need for a toilet break, and apparently several other people felt the same way. So stop we did on a lovely stretch of road with scenic tropical forest/serengeti/rolling hills to either side. With the sunset right on the horizon, Lee and I stepped off the bus to enjoy the view.

If you or I were going to pee on the side of the road, I assume our first inclination would be to find a little spot to ourselves and do our business as discreetly as possible. But maybe you don't subscribe to this particular brand of modesty, in which case you'd be perfectly at home in Ghana. I stepped off the bus and saw a woman doubled over not 2 or 3 meters away. I thought she was sick and my first instinct was to approach her and see what I could do, but two steps into the rescue I became aware of a whole line of women along the road in similar fashion. The men, too, were relieving themselves freely where there was space to be found. I don't know, in hindsight, why I was surprised at all, but needless to say I u-turned and enjoyed the landscape from the other side of the road.

The rest of the road trip occurred almost without incident. Almost. The sun had gone down and we were traveling in the night on some bush roads. We were both starting to nod off when suddenly the bus swerved violently and the hit the brakes. Instinctively Lee and I grabbed, in vain, for the non-existing chairs in front of us to brace our inertia; fie, oh moment of dawning comprehension, you are a terrible mistress. I tumbled on to the top step of the emergency exit but luckily Lee somehow managed to cling for dear life to the crevice in the window. Having narrowly avoided certain injury, we decided to reassess our seating arrangement.

The bus had been gradually emptying as people got off along the way, and there were finally enough free seats for Lee and I to space out and relax. She insisted I move first and, feeling sleepy, I concurred and moved to a new seat. My inner gentleman was subdued by echo of St.Patrick, who was quickly catching up with me. Sometime after a short catnap, however, I looked up to find Lee, with her eyes closed in the pretense of sleep, but clearly and consciously bracing herself against the window in fear of another accident. Refreshed, I was finally able to offer a belated rescue.

We met two Danish girls on the bus going to the same hostel as we were, so we shared a taxi there and ate dinner together. At the hostel there was a choice between air-conditioned and non-air-conditioned rooms, and as the price difference was a whopping $3, I decided a little splurge was in order. This seemingly innocuous decision, however, may have proved to be my ultimate downfall. Explanation to follow shortly; more importantly, it did not at the moment take away at all from the best day ever living up to its namesake.

The room was a happy occasion. We were treated to the luxuries of a private bathroom with a private shower and running water. The bed was large and soft (no stray beams to sink into or poking against my back) and covered with psychedelic tie-dye sheets and bedspread, which, by that point, fit my mood perfectly. I was enamored. I got to go to sleep clean and actually stay clean while sleeping for the first time in a few weeks.

The problem was that, in my enthusiasm, I cranked the AC as high as it could go, and also gave Lee the pleasure of the bed sheet. My unshakable gentility demanded it of me. I had been sleeping without a sheet for weeks anyway so I didn't think much of it. I woke up the next morning shivering and with that infamously familiar tickle in the back of my throat that is the typical harbinger of an ensuing illness. For further reference to end of that sad story, please relate yourself to my previous work, Tropical Disease is a Surly Wench. But this saga is one of triumph, so I'll make no further reference to it here.

Breakfast was as delectable as dinner had been: real toast with real butter and real scrambled eggs. Real tea with fake cream to wash it down. We started out early, clearly at Lee's behest for anyone that knows me even a little, and we were actually done and done and on the road by 7am. From Hohoe we had to make our way to Wli, and this is one of the few journeys I've come across in Ghana where trotro was not an option. At the station in Hohoe we found a shared taxi to take us there, though we quickly found out that the definition of standard maximum occupancy miraculously doubles and triples once you're outside the capital. In a four-door car we fit four across the back and two plus the driver in the front. Among our distinguished co-occupants we had the dubious pleasure of a man who claimed to be Yassar Arafat. He could not, for the life of him, take a decent photo for us. The driver, Albert, was a nice enough guy, though completely unsympathetic to our obruni discomfort at the over-stuffed state of the car. The other passengers were relatively forgettable, that is until they started arguing.

They were arguing in Aweh, another language spoken mostly in the eastern Volta Region. I couldn't make out anything they were saying, but considering the vehemence with which they were arguing, I can only assume it was nothing less than an attempt to tackle one of the most pressing scientific/philosophical/religious debates of our time. One the one side there was Yassar, who I assumed was making a grand case for the inevitable discovery of the Unified Theory of Physics, ala string theory or some derivative thereabouts. His opponent, whose name I didn't catch but for descriptive purposes I'll name Blue Shirt, was apparently of the school of thought that the theories of gravity and quantum mechanics were simply too irreconcilable to ever be compromised. Yassar, evidently a deeply religious man, claimed that if there was indeed a God, which every good Ghanaian believes no matter the church of faith, that so omniscient and omnipotent a being could never, would never, allow for such an imperfection in logic to govern the universe. Yassar made a striking case, and Blue Shirt was duly impressed, though reluctant to admit any fault, so I did him the great favor of changing the subject by squealing like school girl because a rather large and offensive looking bug had invaded the car. The woman to my side flicked it away with a sigh, and the car was largely silent after that. Lee, in her obstinate common sense, seems to think they had actually been arguing about some obscure Volta politicians. I like the story better my way, however, so I'm going to let it stand.

We finally made it to the base camp of the falls, a cement building at the end of a cul-de-sac. We were already running low on funds (all the more frustrating after the indignant abuse I received from my air-conditioning splurge) so we passed ourselves off as student visitors. I've run this scam many times in my life, but usually it involves flashing my driver's license with authority to Asians with poor English. The wildlife officer at Wli was no such patsy, but fortune smiled upon me and he didn't call my bluff, so we got off with our reduced fees and were on our way.

The walk to the falls was a pleasant forty minutes through luscious African jungle. It was very early and we were pretty much the only visitors around. A few local women were washing clothes in the stream that snaked along besides the foot path, and while they were a bit rude about picture-taking their children had no such reservations. At some point during the photo shoot Lee yelped suddenly from behind me, causing me in turn to yelp and do a bit of an unhappy dance. Apparently I had stepped on a critter of the slimy slithering sort, which fortunately reacted defensively rather than offensively to my intrusion.

Moving on, we observed many wonderful flora and fauna, including beautiful dancing butterflies of every color and also lovely flowers of many shapes and sizes. Needless to say, it was a far cry from the drab of Accra and we soaked in all of it. Before long we made it to the start of a clearing, and we ran like school children on christmas towards the sound of rushing water.

The Wli waterfall, reportedly the largest in West Africa, was by far worth all the hassle getting there and will easily maintain for a long time its place as one of the top 5 spots ever visited in my humble journeys. The place was simply majestic, and any further written description would fail to do it justice, so I beg the readership to be patient with me a bit longer until I can supply you with some photographic evidence.

The best part of it all was that we had it all to ourselves for a good hour. Lee and I kind of moseyed off in our own directions to enjoy the serenity in our own way. I found a little spot on a small footbridge to sit and write and sunbathe for good while. I finally worked up the resolve to venture into the waterfall itself, and after a few encouraging words from Lee about freshwater parasites, I donned my bathing gear and hit the water.

I was soaked to the bone long before I ever got close to the waterfall. The blast radius from the spray was a few meters out, and getting closer it felt like walking upwind in a hurricane. In short, it was totally sweet. "Heaps awesome," as my aussie friend is fond of saying. After posing for some manly shots dutifully recorded by Lee and taking all the pummeling I could from the waterfall, I eventually made it back to solid ground and let the sun do its good work. By now some other visitors had started to trickle in the form of two white girls who were able to gallavant into the falls with significantly less trepadition than msyelf, somewhat damaging my masculine sensibilities.

The hour was now 11 and my belly was demanding its recompense. With some regret we began our journey back out. On the way we passed many a tour group, and so again I owe Lee a large degree of thanks for her fore thought in making the travel arrangements. It simply would not have been the same experience with 40 or 50 other people milling around. We also passed our Danish friends coming in, so we had a short hello-how-are-you-good-glad-to-hear-it-have-a-nice-life conversation and parted ways.

We walked through Wli town wondering how we'd ever get back to Hohoe; it was Sunday and smaller villages become veritable ghost towns on the Sabbath. Fortune smiled upon us yet again, however, because just as we were asking for directions our same old cabbie rolled up with two empty seats going back to town. The ride back was as comfortable as it had been the first time around, though slightly less entertaining, and we made it back to town relatively expediently (the engine did overheat once and we pulled over for a bit).

Back in town we returned to the Taste Lodge for lunch. We were now extrememly low on funds, but a solid meal was a priority, and we were able to work it out that we could afford two meals, two sodas, and two tickets back to Accra almost exactly, and that's what we did.

Around 2 or 3pm we set off for a trotro home, and at the station we were greeted by cries to join our "friend" on one particular trotro. We were a bit confused as to who else would know of us in Hohoe, but soon realized that our "friend" was in fact none other than the only other white guy at the station. Clearly, all obruni look the same, and they all must be friends. Upon meeting Oliver the Welschman (I could not restrain myself from a tactless Dicken's reference) we were happy to spend the ride back trading Ghanaian anecdotes with a fresh face. It was a conference of English-speaking nations with an American, an Australian, and a Briton coming together to laugh and cry about our month(s) in Africa. It was a touching ceremony and I learned many things, such as the fact that Australia has never formaly declared independence from Great Britain and is still, on some technical level, a colony, a fact which greatly amused me and which I will never let Lee live down. Oliver was a pretty witty guy himself, and bemoaned to me the horrible practicality of American English (we say, among other things, flashlight instead of torch, and elevator instead of lift). I returned that superpowers can speak however they please, and good-natured patriotism was enjoyed by all.

And that, in short, was my best day ever (well, a 24-hour period) in Ghana. Now, in horrible prolifity, is a recount of my worst.

The power was off when we got back from quiz night at champs, so I slept, if you can call it that, in pools of sweat. I woke up, had breakfast, and determined that it was a new day and it would be a good one. It was Friday besides, and Friday always makes me happy.

The trotros were against me though, and I waited over an hour before taking the wrong trotro. En route, I realized my lunch was spilling all over me from a hole in the bottom of the bag; red oil all over my white shirt and favorite green shorts. Now seething, I finally got to work after a two hour commute. As the trotro drove away I did my pocket check, only to discover my cell phone was missing. Utterly defeated, I arrived at work to find most people had taken the day off anyway, and my assistance was largely unrequired.

I decided to comfort myself the only way a well-trained Western consumer knows how: I went a bought myself things. I got a new phone (it had to be replaced anyway as it didn't belong to me) and a sweet Ghana t-shirt, a smoothie and a pizza. Misery loves company, and I happened to run into Amanda, my housemate, down in Osu and found had suffered a similar fate at the hands of red oil and malfunctioning bags. I felt slightly better by the end of the day, having been helped by a trip to Happy Yourself Spot, but that morning alone was enough to put that day down as the worst ever in Ghana.

My glass is half full, though, and things have only gone up since then. More trials, tribulations, diatribes and day-trips to come.