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.
