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.
