In the canopy

Saturday morning, back in the Trotro. This time we don‘t drop for the monkeys but continue until we see the big sign for Kakum National Park. Through the entrance gate we walk a short distance along a road past a lodge and a picnic area before we reach the visitor‘s centre. There are many tourists here, waiting for a tour of the popular canopy walk. We all get a card on a thread around our necks identifying us as Non-Ghanaian students, adults respectively and then the tour starts. A chubby Ghanaian woman introduces herself as Kate, our guide and leads the way along a well-prepared path through the forest. Soon we reach the entrance to the canopy and climb up the stairs. Visitors who are afraid of heights, should turn left after the first bridge and take the shortcut, Kate explains. The long way is across seven bridges, pending up to 40 metres above the ground. One by one, camera ready, we step onto the bridge. It is wobbly. Between the bridges are platforms where we can stop and take our pictures. All we see is forest. Tall green trees in every direction. That is why it is called the canopy walk. Ilse, Morgan and I are the last in the group and when we arrive at the last platform, most of the tourist are already ready to go. Everyone who is interested can join the Nature walk now. The group becomes very small. The canopy seems to be the only thing visitor‘s are interested in. Good for us though, as we continue the tour along smaller paths. Kate stops now and then, explains how locals use or used leaves or the bark of trees to cure asthma, head aches or impotence. The bark of one tree they use to increase the appetite, Kate says. That is what women take if they want to grow fat. I recognise some trees from Ankasa, but here everything is less gigantic. We pass one enormous tree though and Kate gives us some minutes to take our pictures. This park is perfectly set up for tourists. 

After the tour, Ilse, Morgan and I go to Hans Cottage Botel for lunch. It is a hotel with a pool and a restaurant - and crocodiles. The restaurant is suspended above a lagoon, where they float in the water. Some are also laying on a terrace where we can come closer to them. A woman keeps us from coming too close. We can take pictures, but if we want to  touch a crocodile and take a picture with one of them, we have to pay. She is not really friendly. I am not very excited about these creatures, to be honest. It is a little bit scary though when they suddenly start walking in your direction when they haven‘t moved for ages. In the middle of the lagoon is a tiny island with a tree and this tree‘s branches are full of nests. These spherical nests are inhabited by the same birds we saw at the monkey sanctuary. Small, colourful and very noisy - weaverbirds. This is definitely an exceptional place. 

After seven years

Friday afternoon, Ilse, Morgan and I take a Trotro to Kakum. We tell the driver we want to go to the monkey sanctuary and he nods. However, he misses the place and we are lucky we saw the sign ourselves and can make him stop after a while. He apologises and helps us get a taxi back. It is already occupied by two men but we can squeeze in. Ilse and Morgan in the front, I join the men in the back. Then a third guy comes running towards the car. The men tell him to enter the car on their side but when he sees me, the obroni, he wants to sit next to me. They laugh. I don‘t understand what they are saying but I can imagine and laugh with them. The taxi drives off and my neighbour start asking for my name and my number. He is unlucky though, we soon arrive at the monkey sanctuary and alight. 

At first we think we have bad luck because the gate is locked, but then a white lady walks towards us. Annette and her husband Dennis are the Dutch owners of the monkey sanctuary. Annette shows us around because Dennis is at the hospital. He has malaria, two different kinds at once, she says. Seven years ago they came to Ghana, fell in love with the place and wanted to build up a guesthouse and restaurant and later have some animals. The guesthouse is not finished and neither is the restaurant but the animals have some. They care for sick animals, animals left behind by mothers or whose mothers were killed by hunters. They have monkeys, turtles, crocodiles, snakes, parrots... and their trees are inhabited by hundreds of weaver birds. The place is like a little zoo - in and out of the house. The preserves and cages are placed on the slope of a hill. From the top of the hill, we have a fantastic view. Everything is green, we learn that what we see in the distance is Kakum, the National Park. After our round of the sanctuary, we sit together for a cool drink and a chat. Since the Dutch couple arrived in Ghana, they have not been back to their home. They haven‘t seen much of Ghana either. It has only been work. And it must be difficult work. No electricity. Annette says that even after seven years, she doesn‘t trust the locals in the neighbouring village. They had something like a war with the chief. But there must be something that makes them stay. Dennis comes back from the hospital and he doesn‘t look good. He looks tired. But still they look happy and content. I think nothing could make them leave. They try to get volunteers now to get more time for themselves and to travel. Not back to Holland, though. To Spain maybe, Germany. And definitely through Ghana.

Visitors at New Life

Vacation started. The school is deserted, it is very quiet when I reach the orphanage. Some kids are watching TV, some are making bracelets with other volunteers who organised a creative day. I read with Ruby for a while. It is too hot to play bat ball yet. The older boys have gone somewhere, some girls are washing clothes in the shadow of a tree. I sit at Ellen‘s shop with the youngest boys Dansu and Kweku. They are very sweet today, hold hands, help Ellen and talk a lot. I would give much to understand what they are saying. 

I am playing football with Anthony and Nelson when suddenly a taxi drives onto the compound. First a woman gets out of the car, then a man in a suit. I ask Ruth next to me who that is. A pastor. Nelson is sent to inform James who then calls all the children. They are quiet now and assemble in the hall. The pastor begins to speak. That it is God‘s work that they are alive, that they can live here at New Life. He holds a bible in his hands but doesn‘t use it. He wants to pray with the children. There are many mighty men and women, he says. But there is only one Almighty God. The children repeat his words. Only God helps them. They must ask and pray for his continuous help. Only because of God volunteers are coming. He, the only one Almighty God, sends them. There is no man or woman that gave you your life. It is all God‘s work. I see how the pastor‘s eyes fall onto a picture with a religious saying on the wall. Caring and Sharing is the work of God. At once he incorporates it into his preaching and uses it repeatedly. The kids answer the pastor‘s praying shouting Amen and Hallelujah. If it is not loud enough, the pastor repeats his words with an even louder voice until the kids shout their Amen. Ask for Gods help continuously. There are many mighty men and women. But there is only one Almighty God. Don‘t loose your faith and your trust in him, the one Almighty God. As for him, you are all here in this home. - I am feeling sick and want to go outside. How will they ever help themselves if they always hear things like this? That is where answers like „God will help me“ come from. The preaching feels like brain washing to me. The pastor telling the children to use their voices to pray, the children murmuring with strained faces, eyes closed tightly. Finally the pastor has finished and the children can go back to their games. Now it is time for the donation. First, the pastor hands over a big black plastic back to Ellen with some formal words which appears weird in this informal setting. The same is repeated with the envelope. The pastor is careful to get a good picture, shaking hands with Ellen, handing over his donation, holding his pose for a bit. I can hardly smile when he shakes my hand before he leaves again and quickly go outside to play bat.

This is the first time, the praying felt bad like that. It is a very different picture I saw a few days ago. I stay at the orphanage for the night and prepare my mattress when I hear singing in the hall. Everyone gathered in the hall, forming a big circle. One starts a song and the rest joins. When one song is finished, someone else starts. Sometimes they say something in Fanti. The children enjoy themselves, laugh and clap their hands. I wonder how they can know all these songs. The singing becomes more and more cheerful. Some start to dance, jump in the air. The circle breaks up as more and more want to dance in the middle. I am surprised when I see even the shyer children starting songs or giving the rhythm. It goes on and on. James has difficulties ending the fun and sending everybody back to preps.

Ride along the beach

Tuesday, April 5. After a night at the orphanage, Kristina and I go to Coconut Grove in Elmina to relax beside the pool for a bit. The sky is blue, the waves roll in making a nice sound with a soporific effect on our minds. Every time we are heated up by the sun, we let the water in the pool cool us down again. Freshly squeezed orange juice. Too good to be true. For lunch we have the special Coconut Grove Chicken Curry. Some more time at the pool, then we go to meet Hassan. He takes care of the horses here and Kristina worked with him sometimes. He already prepared the horses for a ride so we just climb into the saddle - not him, he doesn‘t need a saddle - and set off. I remember the basics of riding but I am glad I don‘t have to do much. Tiger just follows her colleagues. Along the beach we ride, with a great view over the coast and the ocean. Water splashes up our legs when the horses walk through the waves. The sun shines down on us. We gallop a short distance and I manage not to fall down. It is a little bit wobbly on the sand and the ground is a little bit sloping but I enjoy the ride more than a little bit. The one hour is over far too quickly.

To the beat of African drums

It is Friday evening and we go out to Oasis, a restaurant close to the beach. We heard that there is a drumming performance at 8 pm. Some drums are already standing on the stage but we can‘t see anybody who could play them. Ghanaian time runs differently. Half an hour later, a group arrives. They form a circle, holding hands, pray together and prepare for the performance. Some put on blue shirts, some very short violet shorts. All of them wear the same necklaces. Then the drumming starts. They drum and sing, sometimes scream like birds. Two men and two women in the violet clothes begin to dance, stamping, shaking what their mothers gave them. I wonder how anyone can move their bodies in such a way. Now and then the drumming rises to an apparent final climax but it goes on and on. The dancers leave the stage, we see them resting behind the drummers, discussing who is going to do the next dance and then they come on the stage again. Their bodies become darker with sweat. Their dances tell stories, men in canoes meet, women go to the market, men ask women to dance. A short break and the second part begins. Gymnastics, acrobatics, I am not sure how to call it. They flip over, perform somersaults in quick succession, jump on each other‘s shoulders, stand on each other‘s heads. Their bodies are glistening in the dim light. I can see every single muscle. They are beautiful, I can‘t stop looking at them. A final pyramid and then the performance is over. The dancers and drummers change back to their normal clothes and look like everybody else again. Who could tell now what they can do. Again they come together and pray before one after the other, they leave. 

Ghana vs England

Everybody talks about it, bets are placed. Tuesday, March 29. Ghana is having a football match with England. We move our weekly meeting of all volunteers from the office to a gas station to watch the match. Rows of chairs are put up facing the TV and another group facing a bigger screen. Two officials keep the gathering men from standing in front of the chairs. There are almost only men, all excited to see the match, chatting and shouting if somebody passes the screen. They cheer when the ball is passed between the Ghanaian players and time flies by quickly. England scores. Some British volunteers start shouting and get shouts and laughing back. Half-time. Time for drinks and talking. I sit next to other Germans and when a Ghanaian behind us notices he begins to talk about Hitler but we are not in a mood for a discussion like that. The second half starts and I stop concentrating on the match. I just enjoy the atmosphere and the cheering and cursing of the fans although I don‘t understand what they are saying. The match is almost over when suddenly the watching men scream, jump in the air, hug each other and take off their shirts. Score for Ghana. The match is over, 1:1 and everybody is cheering. They behave as if they had won the world cup. I can‘t imagine their reaction if they had actually beaten the British team. 

Wli Falls

Saturday, March 26. After breakfast, Ilse and I pack our things and go to get a bus to Accra. At the station they tell us they are short of gas. We will have to wait for maybe one hour. Although they assure us not to be talking in Ghanaian time, we remain sceptic but for once it is really one hour. The bus brings us safely to the capital where we get a taxi to the next station to meet Anwen. Tudu bus station is a busy place. Too many people plus cars. We follow a guy carrying Anwen‘s bag through the chaos. A Trotro pushes through the crowd and separates Ilse from us. We can‘t go back so we wait until we see her again. Shouts from everywhere, people squeezing past the cars. A woman has her nails coloured in all this mess. We get to a Trotro, take our seats and soon it leaves to Hohoe in the Volta Region. The journey takes more than four hours. The landscape becomes more green and  more hilly until we even see green mountains. As soon as we get out of the Trotro and stretch our legs, taxi drivers direct us to their cars. It is always worse when you have big bags with you. At least we really need a car to take us for the last 13 km to the village Wli. We came to see the Wli Falls, which are said to be the highest waterfalls in West Africa. After a short rest in the hotel, we walk along the street to the wildlife office to arrange a tour to the falls for the next morning. People on the street smile at us and welcome us. The landscape is beautiful. Mountains covered with green forest. We can see waterfalls in the distance. 

The next morning, we get up early to meet our guide. He is an old man but we our soon to find out how fit he still is. The first part of the hike is easy, along a nice path over nine bridges. Then we get sticks and the climbing starts. Our guide is fast and we can hardly stop and look around but our eyes are focused on the ground, concentrating on roots and stones that can help us handle the ascent. When we look up we have a stunning view. Below us is Wli, bigger than expected. We see the red road coming from Hohoe cutting through all the green. Behind the mountains on the other side of the valley lies Togo. We could actually walk there. However, our destination is a different one. So we continue the hike. Butterflies buzz around us, the sounds of birds and insects fill the air and of course the rushing of the water getting closer and closer. Now and then we can see the fall through the leaves of banana trees and all the other plants. A few more metres up the mountain, then we descent to the pool. We are covered in sweat and savour the freshness around the waterfall. Water drops swirl in the air, cooling us down. Our guide climbs up the rocks on the bottom of the fall and takes a refreshing shower. There are two other groups with their guides and we leave shortly after each other. One of the groups we soon overtake, hurrying after our guide. The descent is almost more difficult as the ground is partly slippery but Ilse and I take our time, enjoying the fascinating surroundings. When we reach the lower fall, I can‘t wait to get into the water. A big group of students is gathering at the pool, having fun in the water wearing all their clothes but at this moment I don‘t mind. Anwen and I get into the water and are at once grabbed by a number of guys. They take our hands, turn us so that our backs face the falls and pull us under the falling water. But for them, I wouldn‘t have gone there. The water is coming hard but the boys know where to go. As a countermove we smile and laugh for their pictures with us. I don‘t mind them here. After a while they leave and the place gets very quite except for the rushing water. On the rocks next to the water hundreds of bats are hanging head first. We recognise what these dots are only when they fly through the air. It is a peaceful spot. We sit next to the water and let the sun shine on our faces. Only when we get hungry we leave to spent the rest of the day relaxing at the hotel.

I sit in front of the hotel‘s entrance gate on a bench when a Trotro passes and a man alights. He greets me and says he will come back in a minute for a chat if I allow him to. He doesn‘t come back but a second guy, Noah comes to pick me up and leads me to their house, just the one next to the hotel. He brings a chair and asks me to take a seat in the shadow below a big mango tree. The parents welcome me in their house. While Cyril, the first guy, is working in the house, I have a nice conversation with Noah. He studies in Tamale where he lives with an uncle and came to the Volta Region to visit his home village, Wli. His uncle doesn‘t want him to come here but he can‘t just forget his home, he says. He invites me and my friends to come back later and he would go out with us. At dusk I say goodbye. Ilse and Anwen don‘t know where I am. Cyril walks me back to the street and asks for my number. I tell him I lost my phone and he insists on giving me his so that I can call him as soon as I have a new phone. „I will miss you. My heart beats faster when I see you.“ and so on. I promise him he won‘t miss me and go back to the hotel. At dinner with Ilse and Anwen another guest talks to us who was at funeral nearby and decided to take the opportunity to see the falls. He is still wearing the white and grey patterned shirt. He tells us stories about his work, the business he does with somebody in the US with big machines, like excavators. We don‘t really know why he is telling us this. Back in our room somebody knocks at our door. Somebody is asking for Lisi, we are told. I go outside and find Cyril. He bought me a dress. I get Anwen and Ilse to help me. We are going to bed early, we say. We will leave early next morning. He thanks us for our time, for telling him our names and leaves, insisting on me accepting the dress. Now I definitely can‘t go back to Noah to tell him we are not going out. That is all too weird. 

Monday morning, we really leave early. The plan was to do a second hike and visit some caves nearby but we don‘t have enough money left. We don‘t want to be stuck somewhere, not able to pay the next Trotro. On our way through the village we meet our guide again. You always meet people twice here. I am glad I don‘t see Cyril again. We don‘t wait long for a Trotro to Hoehoe as it is market day today. In Hoehoe we have to wait longer but eventually the car is full and the driver decides to leave. I can‘t move my legs so I appreciate the few stops we make at a fuel station and when a little boy has to pee. I even appreciate it when we all have to get out of the car to pass an immigration point. The officers only look at our volunteer‘s IDs for a moment and let us pass. In Accra we drop from the Trotro before we enter the crazy Tudu station and quickly find a bus to Cape Coast. Unfortunately traffic is really bad. The trip seems longer than on our way there on Saturday. We are hungry and tired when we reach Cape Coast. As the bus stops, we and our bags are already spotted by taxi drivers. The door opens and they reach for our bags, shouting competitively at us. I only laugh. „We are taxi drivers. We are taxi drivers. Where are you going?“ We tell them we know what they are but they are not listening so we accept our defeat and follow one of them who took Anwen‘s bag. He and another driver have a little fight when they realise we are only going to take one car. Despite all this Cape Coast feels like home sweet home after the long trip.

Where the slaves waited

I didn‘t know I could sleep that long here. Despite the usual noise outside I sleep until 8:30 am - I must have been really tired. After this long rest, Melanie, Ilse and I use our Saturday to visit St George‘s Castle in the nearby town Elmina. The castle is a Unesco heritage site, built by the Portuguese in 1482, captured by the Dutch, then given to the British and its storerooms usually hosted hundreds of slaves waiting to be shipped of to the New World. It is an impressive sight even from the distance when we see its white walls peeping through the palm trees on our way along the coast to Elmina. Getting out of the car we are at once surrounded by locals who spotted us as tourists. While we wait for Marijke to join us, competing kids offer us oranges. We enter the castle over the bridge across the moat and after paying the various fees are let to the museum. The museum is placed in a building in the castle‘s courtyard and consists of one room with information boards. They inform visitors about Elmina‘s past, the local way of salt making and the impact Europeans had on the area. Some ten minutes later, we are called to do the tour through the castle. The guide leads us to the grim dungeons for the female slaves on the ground floor and then up to where the officers lived and to the balcony from where they selected their partner for the night. We see the Condemn Cell and go through the Door of No Return. Luckily nowadays people are allowed to return through the Door of No Return. From the upper floor of the castle we have a great view over Elmina, the beach, the fishing harbour and to the next hill with Fort St Jago. This is where we want to go next. Leaving the castle, we are again captured by young men selling bracelets, necklaces and other souvenirs. They urge us to buy something to support their education. I am getting irritated. As we walk through the harbour across to the Fort, one of the orange selling kids follows us. He left his goods somewhere and guides us now. From the top of the hill, in front of Fort St Jargo, we look over Elmina and back to the castle on top of the other hill. White walls against blue sky. It is hot. Nevertheless we continue our scouting and go to the Dutch Cemetery, a few fenced square metres with graves of former soldiers who died during their service at the castle. The cemetery lies on the foot of another hill with a big Catholic Church. We climb the stairs to the top and meet children playing football. They want us to play with them and their limp ball until they ask us for money to buy a new ball. Next we want to see a little art and crafts market. To get there we walk along the beach where we again have a nice view to the castle situated on the cliffs above the sea. Built on the sand are shacks, children are running around and women are cooking. The children want us to take pictures of them instead of the castle. I bend down to show a group of them their photo and a wave wets my trousers. In fact with every other wave water washes through the paths between the shacks and floods the rooms. I wonder how families can live there. Our little guide shows us the way back to the road. He says he knows how to get to the market but we can‘t find it. We wander through the busy streets, looking for pineapple. For the first time, we cannot see any but only bananas and oranges. We definitely entered an area where the normal tourists visiting the castle don‘t go. Fishing nets everywhere, locals doing their work. Finally, we get tired and decide to go back. We feel how our shoulders and faces are burning from walking through the sun-burned streets and decide it is enough. We got an extensive impression of this colourful little town and its people.

Sunday, time for the second castle, Cape Coast Castle. This time, we enter through the front door and join a tour that has already started. The castle is similar to the one in Elmina, the guide even uses some same jokes. He shows us the room the Europeans used as church, just above the dungeons. Heaven up here, hell down there. I can imagine hell down there. The tunnel from the dungeons to the sea is blocked with thick walls now, erected after the prohibition of slavery by the British but we can peep in at a few places. Again we leave through the Door of No Return and return. After the tour we wander around the castle on our own. It is bigger than St George‘s Castle. We find a room where a man sells his bright paintings. From the top of the castle we look down on the strip of beach where men are working on their fishing boats. It is fun to watch them. For lunch we go to the restaurant next door. On the beach we overlook, boys are fighting. A few minutes later, they practice acrobatics, balancing on each other‘s shoulders. When they notice us watching them, they make signs to us to give them food. I am in a adventurous mood and order Banku with Okro Stew, Ghanaian food. I try and it tastes not too bad but then I get a fright. Dipping the Banku in the stew, I come across a crab sticking out of the bowl. I didn‘t expect that. Ilse finds more fish in the stew but I don‘t look to closely. I have seen enough. The crab could have been alive. Next time, I‘ll try something different. The sun feels even hotter today but that doesn‘t stop us from wandering through the streets again. We go back to the fishing boats but something is different. We can hardly pass through the boats to get to the back of the castle. Then we see that the flood has come. The boats are pulled further up the sand and only few are working on their nets. Instead, everybody is in the water, playing with balls and having fun. They just go into the water with all their clothes. Walking along the streets through the shacks we pass lots of young men all soaked wet. They just come back from their swim and ask us to join them but we continue back to the main streets, cross the market and walk up a hill to overlook Cape Coast. On the roofs we see clothes drying. To avoid being baked in the sun, we take a car back to the house and relax the rest of the day in the shade.  

Free Friday

I slept in the orphanage, so I come back in the morning and have the whole day to myself. First, I visit a patient with Anwen. Francis is an old man who got hit by a bike years ago. His hip is dislocated and Anwen does some exercises with him and massages the hip. As she is about to leave Ghana, I offered to take her place but when we meet Francis at his house, his wife tells us he is going to his home village. Francis does not feel well recently. Her answer to our question when he will be back is very vague. I don‘t have the impression they plan for him to come back. They give Anwen a dress as a thank you present. To be true I am glad I am not likely to do Anwen‘s job.

Next, I follow Anwen to the hospital where she was working. It looks nice from the outside and also the physio department is very neat. I can‘t see the wards I heard bad stories about but all doesn‘t look as bad as in the hospital in Tamale.

On our way back we pass by a seamstress Sofia and Agnes recommended. Her shop is right on our junction. Anwen wants her dress to be made fit for her and I want a dress similar to hers. Koko measures me. She doesn‘t talk much, not like the other seamstresses I met, but she tells us to come back soon. I often see her work late in the evening.

This evening, a Canadian girl is having a St Patrick‘s Day Party on her roof. When we get there, it is very quiet. There is music, but nobody is dancing, some are talking. I have a conversation with Annette about the people here in Ghana. It is a little bit sad.  Annette counts her last days in Ghana. Jessica tries to convince some guests to play a drinking game. Some are dancing now. I felt like dancing earlier but not anymore. Then on of the guys of the house asks me why I don‘t dance, so I join them and let the African songs move my body. 

Ankasa

The Trotro drives along a red, dusty road. It is a bumpy road but we got the front seats next to the driver and enjoy ourselves. We pass villages where children smile and wave at us. Apparently they don‘t see many Obronis here. A bridge has to be crossed and we are glad when we make it to the other side. I peep at the tachometer. 0 miles per hour. I am not surprised. Very few cars have functioning tachometers. The quotations written at the back of most cars like „In the hands of good“ are probably meant literally. At least this car‘s windscreen is still whole so we can enjoy the view without hindrances. In a bigger village called T1 Melanie and I change to a taxi. We drop at Ankasa junction and walk the remaining 6 km. It is hot, we are soon dripping from sweat. The few passing people welcome us friendly, we see colourful butterflies and cocoa trees. When we finally reach our destination, the gate to the Ankasa Nature Reserve, a slice of rainforest, we are tired but happy. The gatekeeper offers us seats in his two-square-metre big room. He is a bit slow, this park did not experience the forecast invasion of tourists yet. Yes, we can sleep in the park, tours can be arranged. The only problem is how to get to the camp. A driver just left to get something in the nearest town and the camp is 8km further in the forest. We could walk and in the morning a guide could take us for a tour. I had hoped for a little bit more help from the park rangers but now I don‘t mind. We decide to walk. It is shady in the evergreen jungle and we have time. So on we go along the in parts muddy terracotta track. It is green, very green. We hear birds and insects, butterflies and dragon flies buzz around us. We hear a car approaching from behind, a jeep with the open back crammed with young men. They stop and without much questioning heave us onto the car. The one who helps me says ,This one I will take to paradise.‘, calls me wife and holds me closely but for once I am glad he does. Otherwise I would fall backwards from the car as it clatters through muddy potholes. The men turn out to be missionaries who camp in the park while they visit the neighbouring villages. They invite us to eat with them, but we are not staying at the same camp so we continue with just the driver to our final destination. The camp consists of four houses, two for the men who live here and work in the forest and two for tourists with two double-bed rooms each. There even is a little kitchen and proper washrooms. Freeman, a twenty-years old man, introduces himself as our guide. He takes us on a little walk to a bamboo forest. The bamboo forms a cathedral over a depression with a stream running through it. Sometimes the missionaries come here to perform services. It is a lovely, peaceful place. We rest on a bench, listen to distant screams of monkeys and talk. About life in Ghana, extended families, education and the work in the jungle. We continue our walk along the one bigger road. A jungle hotel is under construction but until now only a few roofs on posts have been erected. Right through the forest runs the power line that connects Ghana with Cote d‘Ivoire. If we cut this, it would be dark in the Ivory Coast. And we would be in jail. So we don‘t. Freeman picks up a fruit for us to try and asks us if we want coconut. I wonder whether he will climb up the thin trunk with his bare feet as I have seen a man climbing the palm tree in our neighbouring courtyard, but he doesn‘t. With a long stick he reaches to the top of a palm tree and picks two coconuts, cuts them with his machete and gives them to us to drink. This is real coconut. The only hint of animals we saw were traces of an elephant, that is trampled plants and felled trees, but nevertheless we are contented when we come back to the camp. Fireflies glow in the dark, songs from a radio fill the air and fortunately no mosquitos. We eat the flesh of our coconuts for dinner, and enjoy the calm darkness before it is time to sleep.

Next morning, we get up early. The driver we met the other day, picks up the pastor who stays in the room next to ours and numbers are exchanged. We are given the contact of this community‘s pastor in Cape Coast and are told how to find him. They leave and Melanie and I start for the tour with Freeman. The narrow paths lead us through the bamboo forest, up a slope and then I loose my orientation and just follow Freeman. The trees around us are huge, there are lianes everywhere. It truly is jungle. We learn about the silk and cotton tree and the arrogant tree, in whose roots we can hide in case we are attacked by an elephant. We don‘t see an elephant but we are attacked by something equally destructive: soldier ants. They are big and they bite. Freeman helps us pick them from our feet. I feel stupid because I didn‘t bring good shoes. We have to cross streams and as this nature reserve is not made up for tourists, there are no bridges. Freeman cuts some sticks and we balance across the water on old trunks. I feel small in this jungle, next to the giant trees and thick ropes of lianes. Humble even compared to the young plants with tiny leaves and the relatively small soldier ants. They are all so much more powerful. We hear a tree falling in the distance and I have the image of an elephant running towards us in my head, but Freeman asks if we heard the dead tree falling. Then he stops because he heard something else. Something similar to a big squirrel is jumping in the canopy above us. We watch it for a while until it disappears into the forest. 

Back at the camp a man is waiting to take us to the main road where we can catch a car. He only has a motorbike so he takes one by one. Melanie is the first to go so I wait listening to the birds, the monkeys and the radio. Freeman is cutting one of the other worker‘s hair. It is already really short but they still spend a long time, combing it, contemplating it in a piece of a broken mirror. The motorbike is back and now it is my turn to race along the muddy track. Sometimes, the driver pushes the bike through potholes, only to pick up speed up to 60 km/h before having to slow down again. We pass the gate, say goodbye to the gatekeeper and continue through the sun to the main road, where Melanie is waiting. Our chauffeur helps us getting a taxi, collects his money and heads back. The taxi brings us to a junction where we are supposed to wait for a Trotro to Takoradi. Quite a few cars pass, but in the wrong direction. We fear that we will have to wait for a long time and taxi drivers offer to take us in their cars. One man wants to take us on his bicycle which he calls car. Another man laughs at him, pointing out his bad clothes to us. In fact, he wears the same clothes. Finally, the right Trotro passes and we even meet Ilse and Marijke. Before we reach Takoradi, we have to pass a police stop with an inland immigration point. Officers tell us to alight and follow them to the office where they want to see our passports. None of us brought a passport, but luckily we all have our volunteer‘s ID. After some consideration, it is accepted and we are dismissed. The rest of the journey runs smoothly and we arrive in Cape Coast tired but in a good mood.

Nzulezu, the stilt village

March 12. Coming home from the orphanage, I just have something to eat and take a shower before I leave again. Melanie, Ilse, Marijke and I want to visit Nzulezu, a stilt village west of Takoradi, suspended above the freshwater Amansuri Lagoon. We find a Trotro to Takoradi and ask the driver to drop us at the right station to change to onward travel to Beyin. At the station, we are directed to the correct Trotro but it takes a while for it to fill. From every side we are offered food, water, CDs, sun glasses ... The boy next to me starts a conversation. He is from Cote d‘Ivoire, going back to his Ghanaian home village to wait for the situation in Cote d‘Ivoire to improve. Past 3 pm we arrive in Beyin where we have to take a canoe to the stilt village. A guy in the Trotro offers to take us to the visitor centre and I hope he is not one of these fake guides who demand a tip for a service we never asked for. At the reception we pay the entrance fee, canoe transport, return fee and camera fee to a bored looking woman. We are also asked to buy a bottle of the local gin to give to the chief so that he will tell us the history of the village but we refuse. The guy from the Trotro, Charles, turns out to be our guide for the trip. He and another boy, Emmanuel - called Machine by Charles as he pushes the boat - take us to the village in a canoe. The boat has a hole and one of us has to bale out the boat during the trip but it is not big enough to make us sink. We paddle through a channel with water lilies before we enter the lagoon. I am glad about the clouds today as we glide across the water. Locals in their small canoes overtake us. When we approach the village, I see two boys putting out a fishing net from their canoe. At Nzulezu we are directly handed over to a guesthouse owner. He gives us two simple rooms with two beds each, walls covered with newspapers, looking out on the lagoon. Charles takes us through the village. There is one main road made of small wooden stakes from where short streets leave to the right and to the left. Each of these streets belong to one family. It is a little bit rickety to walk on the pegs. The water beneath us is dirty, the part facing the edge of the lagoon muddy. Chicken and sheep can walk there. Some parts dry up during the dry season. There is even a playground for the children where sticks are rammed into the ground to form goals. Pictures are not welcome here. We have to ask permission if we want to take one. The villagers are laying around, some women are pounding fufu, a group of men are playing cards. Canoes are gliding on the water. Here is the school, here the church still under construction, there a shop selling biscuits and water. Now please make a donation to the chief. If you don‘t, he won‘t mind, but please it is for the school children. We are directed to four plastic chairs in front of a table. Behind it sits the son of the chief - the chief himself died four months ago. We have to write our names in a visitors book with the donated amount stated behind each name. It is a rather awkward situation, the son of the chief trying to make us speak the local language. Back at the guesthouse while we wait for our dinner, I go for a swim in the lagoon. The water is orange-brown like in the mudbath where I was some years ago. Maybe it is not a good idea and none of the others joins me but the other option would be a bucket shower with the same water. We are told there is no problem in swimming here. The locals use the water as well, they even drink it. If the water was a big health issue here, the 500 locals wouldn‘t have survived all these years, I tell myself afterwards. It gets dark and someone brings us a small lamp. It attracts insects that wriggle on my plate when I finish my food. I get something to cover me. 

Later, Charles and Emmanuel take us to a place where we can see crocodiles. This time we are accompanied by a small boy who helps paddling. The canoe glides through the dark water, only lit by the stars and our weak torchlights. It is very quiet. After a few minutes we arrive at a mooring from where we walk 500 metres through jungle along a path of wooden planks until we reach a pond. I hear a crocodile hissing but we can‘t see any. After ten minutes, Marijke says it is useless to wait. She wants to go back. We wait a little while and then give in. The little boy fell asleep, so we wake him up. Within seconds he is on his feet, hurrying along the rickety path without staggering. The walk back to the boat seems shorter. We get into the canoe, float back to the village and instantly go to bed. The night is relatively quiet except for a radio blaring all night long.

When I look outside the next morning, the lagoon shines with the morning sun. Locals are passing in their canoes. Ilse takes a sip of the water she bought yesterday, makes a face and spits it out again. It is spirit, she says but Charles explains it is the local gin - 99% alcohol. He brings the bottle back and exchanges it for water. After breakfast, Melanie, Ilse and I want to see how the gin is made. Marijke stays at the guesthouse. We cross the lagoon and enter channels guiding us through jungle. An old man is collecting the fishing traps he had laid out. On a platform next to the water channel we meet a young man laying beside a fire. On the fire is a container with the juice collected from palm trees. They boil it, then it is led through pipes in the water where it is cooled down until the liquid drips into a second container. This is repeated three times before the 99% are reached. On the platform are more containers with the less alcoholic palm wine. Charles pours it into a cup, takes some gulps and hands it over to Emmanuel who refills it again. The other night Charles explained to us that the people in the village don‘t drink the strong gin very much as it is too dangerous for their life on the water. Instead, they drink the wine, I guess. We go back, pick up Marijke and continue across the lagoon to Beyin. On our way, Charles tells us how the people settled here. He talks about warring tribes, wanderings and a spirit in form of a snail who told the people where to settle. He picks some water lilies and makes necklaces out of them. We reach the mooring, climb out of the boat and say goodbye to out guides - giving them a tip which is probably too high. To get something to eat, we go to Beyin Beach Resort, bungalows under beautiful, high palm trees with a beautiful, white beach. Marijke and Ilse booked a room there to stay for the night but Melanie and I want to see more so we soon leave to catch a Trotro.