Why Isn't Kyle Here?

They say that time flies when you're having fun, but this weekend, our first full one in Ghana, seemed to last forever because of the multitude of places we visited and things we did. I hate to demean the rest of the weekend by picking a favorite, but two days ago monkeys fed out of our hands. Wild monkeys ate bananas out of our hands. Two days ago. We have pictures. We have video. It happened.

Let me start from the beginning. Friday afternoon we left work early and struck out for Logba Alekpeti, a small village strategically located 20 minutes from Tafi Atome, the monkey sanctuary. We wanted to be close because we heard that the earlier visitors arrive, the hungrier the monkeys are and the more willing they are to be friendly. Debi took the wheel first and stubbornly disobeyed the drivers-first-peds-second driving conventions of Ghana, which made our trip out of Koforidua slow and honk-laden. Eventually, she acquiesced and we began the long drive. I sat shotgun navigating and taking (mostly awful) pictures out the window. I couldn't help but try to capture some essence of the lush, hilly rain forest and enormous termite mounds, often constructed around the trunk of a tree. The road goes through many small towns, and all highway junctions lie within major villages and represent the main intersection for that village. However, in the smaller towns the power lines never descend to give the villagers power; driving at night made this more evident because some villages were completely dark as we drove through.

We arrived in Logba Alekpeti and waffled a bit at our sleeping arrangements because we could not find a decent place to stay and Rose does not speak Ewe, the local language. Tired and concerned more for the morning excursion, we settled on a horrifyingly disgusting hotel. They were powerless and we refused to use their sheets or facilities whatsoever; a party raged on outside pretty much until we awoke; I'd describe further but you can imagine what must be true in order to run a profitable hotel while charging less than $7 per room. Glass half full: we were all more than happy to get up and out of there at 6:00, and by 6:30 we had reached Tafi Atome.

It proved to be no myth that the monkeys are more active early in the morning. Responding to our guide's calls and the black bag in his hand, which they have learned contains bananas, the periodic crashes through the upper reaches of the trees began before we had even entered the woods that border the village. No more than three minutes later, two dozen monkeys surrounded us in the trees -- it was eerily similar to the compy scenes in Jurassic Park -- waiting for a chance to leap from the bushes to our outstretched arms for a banana breakfast. As we held the banana, the monkeys peeled it with their amazingly dexterous hands and used their lower teeth to scrape bites off. I am having trouble putting into words how amazing it was to have human's (almost) closest cousin feeding from our hands. Roughly 200 sacred mono monkeys live in Tafi Atome, and we must have seen 100 of them and fed 30 of them. Debi and I agreed that our entire trip to Ghana was worth this experience alone. I only regret that my baby brother Kyle didn't make the trip with us.

Doing the monkey sanctuary first unfortunately made the rest of our trip a bit of an exhalation, but we still had a great time. From Tafi Atome, we drove north through Hohoe to Wli, where we saw and stood in (arguably) the tallest waterfall in West Africa. On the hike to the falls, we saw a long water snake, making its way between somehow unperturbed ladies doing their laundry in the stream. There were also some amazing views through the overgrowth and some serious ant trails crossing our path. At the falls, the rocks were very slick from the constant mist, but we eventually made our way into the pool (ignoring the "never go in fresh water in Africa" rule) and underneath the falls. After a refreshing dip and a small side hike to the viewpoint to see the thousands of fruit bats that perch on the falls in daytime, we were on the path back to the car.

Our next leg took us back south to Ho for the Vegus Batik market, a disappointingly small house of ladies selling some nonetheless impressive Batik (a sort of tie-dye on steroids and with artistic merit). Even I enjoyed some of the patterns (and may even get Debi to make a bedspread for me out of the loads of fabric we purchased if I quit making fun of her in the blog). While the ladies shopped I learned about the Ghanaian attitude from a man who sat on the side of the road. He explained that in Africa, we are all friends, and he could walk from Ho to Accra without anyone telling him he can't. I considered the value of correcting a few of his misconceptions about the United States, such as the legality of walking, but it was more fun to hear him wax poetic about the African spirit. In a certain sense, although this is meeting him more than halfway, he has a point. At any rate, the Kente weaving market in Ho was unfortunately closed for the weekend, so we called it quits in Ho and began the hellish journey to Ada Foah -- the beach.

Let me first state the takeaway message: if anyone visits Ghana (or any part of Africa), do not use maps that are more than one or two years dated. You will regret it. We spent an hour trying to find the correct road going south, and eventually settled on one that, according to our map, actually left from a city 20 km west of where we were. Aside from that, the road was under construction, which looked more like demolition; long story short it took us two and a half hours to drive fifty kilometers. When we finally hit tar again, the going was much easier but the moods were not, especially since in my estimation much of the sidetracking was due to an unjustified lack of trust in the navigator. I had lost us no more than ten minutes total during the trip through sometimes-mapped Ghanaian roads when all of a sudden the rest of the car turned on me and began trumping my map- and GPS-guided directions with their gut instincts. It was like closing with Joba Chamberlain when Mo Rivera sat in the pen warmed up and ready to go. Okay, last year's Mo Rivera.

We reached the beach and hit the sack, waking up this morning to dip our feet in the other side of the Atlantic. Ada Foah is located between the estuary of the Volta River and the Atlantic Ocean, so there were a great many choices of what to do. As we waited for our breakfast that took an hour and a half from order to delivery (not unusual), we were entertained by a crew of three Koreans who took at least 30 minutes of photos on the deck. We finally received and ate our breakfast, added a few beers to our tab, threw them in a borrowed ice chest, and set out on our semi-guided estuary boat tour. It was neat to see all the mangroves growing out of the water, and the many kids swimming were excited to see us as well. We could hear the frogs and crickets in the mangrove swamps over the roar of the ancient engine on our boat. The neatest part of the tour was our stop at an island rum distillery, where the islanders (all 30 or so of them) used a diesel-powered machine to crush sugar cane and distill it into a very potent rum. They then sold it to distributors who came to the island to place orders. Of course, we couldn't leave without purchasing some of the African moonshine, and it sits waiting at home in the reused water bottle we bought it in.

As we showered and prepared to head back home, Debi dropped a bat, ball and tee off with the local children and explained how to play baseball (as best she understands it). Judging by the mass of kids chasing the ball and the very short distance that "rounding the bases" entailed, she may need to venture back to Ada for the next few weeks to really teach the game. But fun was had, which is what really matters (well, that and winning). We then got on the highway headed west, where we faced the traditional obrohni traffic stop (read: extortion attempt); unfortunately for the Ghanaian police, the situation had been described to us too many times. We managed to escape without fine for Debi's open-toed shoes after she demanded that the obstinate cop lecturing her "take us to court." Apparently, this stubbornness deterred the young man, who according to Debi "wasn't even alive when she started driving," and we were let off with a warning. We reached Accra, made a quick pit stop at the mall for groceries, and then it was on to Koforidua for a good night's sleep dreaming of monkeys eating out of our hands, island rum distilleries and towering waterfalls. Wait that was real?