Obroni Observations - An American Mom in Ghana: June 2007

We planned to drive to Bolgatanga, a relatively (270 km/167 miles) short drive from Tamale. Our driver told us it would take about 2 hours to get there, and with Sly’s meetings scheduled to start at 9:00, we headed off by 6:00 to give ourselves some time for breakfast.

When you awaken at 5:00 am in Ghana, it is very very dark, and because we don’t have access to the Weather Channel (heck, we can't get even the Accra station!), we do as most people do and simply expect each day to be much like the day before, meaning usually sunny, dry and hot. So, in anticipation of a nice day ahead, I surreptitiously packed our bathing suits, goggles, swimmies and beach towels, in the hope that we’d be able to do some swimming in a local watering hole of sorts that I had read about. As Robert Burns says in his poem, To a Mouse, “the best laid schemes of mice and men often go awry…” and this event was no different. As the sky lightened at daybreak, we could see a huge storm front heading towards us.

Now, there are two ways to look at this. On the plus side, Ghana desperately needs the rain to fill up our hydro dam at Akosombo, and the Black and White Volta Rivers in this region flow downwards to the dam. So, Hurray for rain! On the other hand, we’re on vacation (well at least the kids and I are on vacation), and well, dammit, I wanted to go swimming! So, Nertz to the rain!

Still the ride was nice and uneventful; the road was relatively free of potholes, and the scenery was not at all what I expected. I, and apparently many Ghanaians, assume that the Northern Region is very arid with little greenery. Surprise! Perhaps the recent couple of days of rain did it, but everything was lush and green and beautiful. And where the landscape changed, it was merely because we were passing by a village, which was almost entirely constructed of round mud huts.

Ghana is nothing, if not unpredictable. By the time we arrived in Bolgatanga, the sky was clearing nicely, though still a bit too overcast for my blood. As a girl who lived for her summers in Seaside Heights, NJ, I tend to look at the weather with different, New Jersey eyes, meaning, if, on a (UV) scale of 1 to 10, it ain’t at least an 8, I’m not going swimming. Thank God I didn’t tell the kids about the bathing suits.

Bolgatanga was pretty much as expected, nothing like Accra. A bit slower in pace and people, much less traffic, still way cleaner. We found a restaurant near where my husband had to work, and they opened up early for us so that we could get breakfast. Now, breakfast is thought of a bit “differently” here in Ghana. Whereas, in the States, we’d be looking forward to eggs and bacon with hash browns and toast, or a great big stack of buttermilk pancakes from IHOP, or even a bowl of Frosted Flakes with milk, here, breakfast is something you buy from a street vendor, and usually something simple like bofroot (like a zeppole, but without the powdered sugar) or porridge, or waakye (a kind of beans with rice, sometimes mixed with meat… my husband’s favorite is wli, which is cow hide… yes, I wrote cow hide. Think belt). Well, this restaurant had a very nice breakfast with eggs, toast, sausage, baked beans (okay, that’s popular with the Brits and since this is an ex-colony, I guess it makes sense) and coffee, tea or milo (hot chocolate) for less than $3. What a bargain compared to the $8 American-style breakfast I’ve had in Accra.

Once we ditched Sly at his meeting, the kids and I hopped back into the car with Forson and drove the 40 km to Paga, which is the northern-most village in Ghana at the Burkina Faso border. We didn’t even get out of the car, but at least we can say we did it.

We U-turned and drove back to the Zenga Sacred Crocodile Pond at Paga. When we got out of the car, we were greeted by the lead guide, Salifu, a nice change from the Kofi or Kwame that we usually meet, I thought. Okay, and before anyone thinks I am dissing the Kofis and Kwames of the world, let me say right off that I have my own Kofi (Michael – born on Friday) and Kwame (Sean – born on Saturday), so there. It's just that there seems to be so many of them.

Anyway, there is a fee to view the crocodiles (naturally). For adults, it is 30,000 cedis each and kids are 20,000 cedis each, so we’re talking 120,000 cedis or about $13. A word about pricing in Ghana, unless posted, it’s usually arbitrary, and several factors play into the cost, not the least of them being my obvious whiteness. Fortunately, our driver did a fairly good job of talking the “price” down and we got in for 75,000 cedis.

Salifu explained that the crocodiles that lived in the pond only came out for food, and of course, we had to buy the food. Each baby fowl, and we bought three, was 30,000 cedis, sincerely an incredibly expensive meal, for a crocodile, I mean. Michael was distressed to find that each little bird had a leg tied to a table, so that it couldn’t escape. Michael, you see, is the family savior (must be hereditary, thanks, Mom!) of baby lizards, frogs, baby birds falling from a nest and pretty much any other creature that swims, walks, crawls, flies or slithers. So I wasn’t sure how thrilled he was going to be when he realized that these cute little chicks that were tied to a table were about to be sacrificed for our viewing pleasure.

Salifu had a leg deformity (largely as a result of polio, no doubt), and slowly walked to the pond, and we all followed somewhat apprehensively behind him. The crocodiles only come out of the water for food. These are Pavlovian crocs, as the noise made by the squealing chicks is what gets them salivating (I’m not sure, but if crocodiles have no tongue, can they salivate?). So the first one emerges out of the water, and I’m told it’s one of the smaller ones. He moved so fast, it’s incredible, and I clutch at Alexandra’s hand – she’s definitely appetizer sized and I’d like NOT to have to later explain to Sly how I “lost” one of the kids. The guide tosses one of the chicks into the air, the crocodiles mouth opens up with a resounding WHOMP, much like a vacuum seal breaking, and chomps down hard. Several times. And with each chomp, the little chicken squeals pitifully. Michael wasn't sure if he should by happy that the hungry crocodile finally got a hot meal, or mourn for the baby chicken who'd miss out on the opportunity to grace a dinner plate alongside a pile of chips? Survival of the fittest – it’s a difficult lesson for an 8 year old.

So, one chick down, two to go. Salifu directs us further away from crocodile number one, and tells us that they will call in the big one next. Casually, while we’re walking, I ask, “has anyone ever been bitten by one of the crocodiles?” “Oh, no, Madam, no!” he assures me. I say, “You’re not just telling me that because I’m a foreigner, and you think that’s what I want to hear, are you?” “Oh, no, Madam” (wait for it), “well, maybe once, but only by accident.” WHAT!?! Salifu declined to elaborate, feigning a sudden inability to understand my English, and quickly strode away. GULP!

Now, from out of the water comes the Big Guy, which we’re told is a septuagenarian. For a geriatric croc, he moves fast. Really fast. And he looks very very hungry. Same routine: THROW, WHOMP, CHOMP, SQUEAL, WHIMPER (that was me, this time, since I knew what was coming, poor chicken… and, no, I am not a vegetarian). So with our crocodile friend otherwise engaged in the process of swallowing, our guide walks behind the crocodile and holding his tail, squats down and heartily pats its backside and says, “Who’s first?” Umm, who’s first for what? Dinner? It seems, part of what you get for your 30,000 cedi entrance fee is the ability to say that you sat on a crocodile! What, and hopefully lived to tell about it?

I politely decline. Okay, not so politely. I don’t remember exactly, but it was something like, “Are you crazy?” or “Do I look crazy to you?” Well, you get the gist of it. Salifu finds this incredulous. Almost every one who visits the pond sits on the crocodile. Well, not this obroni, and not her kids, either. Guess these guys have never heard of Captain Hook.

I am used to viewing these reptiles from above, across a chain linked fence, while a professional Steve Irwin type guy feeds the beast with another guide on standby, ready for impending doom. This was as close as we're getting, and believe me, once I heard the shutter click we backed quickly away.

The third chick’s passing is, by now, anti-climatic, and I really can’t wait to get out of here, especially once I’ve learned that there are over 100 crocodiles in this pond. I look on in horror as there are little children, Alexandra sized children, on the other side of the pond and they are washing clothes on the edge of the water! Are they crazy?

Despite the fact that I’ve got three cameras with me, I hardly have any pictures, as I wasn’t willing to get close enough to the crocodiles to get a half way decent picture. So, I was thankful for the postcards sold at the pavilion, at least as proof that we were there. As we were leaving (finally, thank God!), I give our guides a tip of 40,000 cedis, and considered it money well earned.

Oh, should anyone be curious, this is a very interesting website, and I wish I had seen it before I went to Zenga, and maybe I wouldn’t have been so wimpy.

http://www.wikihow.com/Survive-an-Encounter-with-Crocodile-or-Alligator

We headed south then to pick up Sly who finished early. Fortunately, I am able to report: All offspring present and accounted for. As we drive back "home" to Tamale, I reflected on the morning, and considered how lucky we were after all that we didn't get the "beach weather" I'd been hoping for and found ourselves in that little swimming hole I'd read about. Perhaps, this comes close to the "only by accident" our guide had hinted about. Hmmmm.

Tomorrow: There’s no place like home, but first we’ve got to drive there.

Although our family has lived in Ghana now for over 3-1/2 years, we've limited our in country excursions and vacations to those places that we can get to within a 3 or 4 hour drive, maximum. Which basically means, given the condition of Ghana roads, about 100 miles outside of Accra. However, with a bit of luck (and not a little maneuvering on my husband's part), we traveled to Bolgatanga for a business trip (for hubby) and some sightseeing (for me and the kids).

So, we leave our home in Tema very early on a Tuesday morning, as we're to meet our driver at 5:30 SHARP near Kotoka Airport in Accra. Now, in case you're not familiar with the Ghanaian method of timekeeping and appointment scheduling, this basically means, that as long as you arrive within a few hours of the appointed time, you're still okay. Given my American need for punctuality (my Ghanaian-born husband might say it was more my anal-ness) meant that at 5:30 a.m. we were alighting from our taxi. Lo and behold! Already there waiting for us. Our driver! So far, so good.

Our driver, Forson, drives for the Ghana Statistical Service, for which my husband is a consultant, and this assignment (which he chose) was to survey the Bolgatanga office. Okay, so it was as good an excuse as any for us to go North. The kids were off from school for mid-term holidays, and we had a nice car to drive in, with a professional driver to get us there. So, how bad could it be? Let me think. Hmmm, three kids, no TV, no DVD player, no eating in the car, 810 kilometers (or 503 miles), about 10 hours drive, scenery limited to forest, goats, mud huts, and the end of the trip, we're not in Disney World. It could be bad.

Off we go. The first two hours just flew by (of course, all the kids were sound asleep), and before we know it, we're at our first stop, the Linda Dorr Rest Stop near Koforidua. Now the concept of rest stops is exceptionally new to Ghana. The Linda Dorr is really the first of it's kind, with actual rest rooms (though you have to pay 1,000 cedis to use it, they do at least have toilet paper!), and a fairly clean restaurant/chop bar. Because we were driving in a private car, we actually could take our time here, if we wanted, When coming by bus, as we did on a recent trip to Kumasi, the driver only allows you 15 minutes. That day, after our potty run, my kids were running around like lunatics trying to decide what to buy to eat on the bus before it left without us (naturally, sausage and kebabs, and meat pies), but my husband and his sister, in that same 15 minute time limit, not only used the rest rooms, but managed to each eat a bowl of fish light soup with fufu and drink a Star beer. Talk about fast food!

After that, no more "official" rest stops. Convenience breaks are wherever and whenever the urge strikes. And good thing we're not allowed to eat or drink anything in the car (my husband's rule, not the driver's), cause not only do I have a shy bladder, but I also haven't quite mastered the position necessary to "wee wee" in the bushes, without soaking my underwear or feet. Neither has my 6 year old daughter, Alexandra, conquered this. I am sure that if any Ghanaian saw the contortionist act that we have to go through just so she can stave off wet undies, they'd laugh their heads off. Let me just say, it takes the two of us for her to go. Boys are so lucky.

Once we hit Kumasi, which was only 270 km from Accra, the kids were wide awake. The books, toys, games, cards, GameBoys got old fast. And someone (okay, it was me), accidentally reformatted the MP3 player and erased all the songs. Have I mentioned that there are only a handful of radio stations in Ghana, most in Accra, with the shortest transmission range in radio history?

Until Kumasi, the road and ride were actually pretty good. But from Kumasi north to Techiman, construction and pot holes were the name of the game. For almost one hour, Forson drove that car as though we were going through a mine field. We weaved left and right, and drove on the shoulder (if there was one), sometimes having no choice but to drive through potholes that made the car dip down so much you felt like you were on a Six Flags roller coaster. The construction only made things more exciting, since there are usually no flag men, you just dodge and weave through the trucks and the loads of gravel and sand, trying to avoid oncoming traffic who are doing the same thing, only they're coming at you. Of course, to the local taxi and tro tro drivers, the potholes and construction sites were merely "bumps in the road," and they continued to drive and weave their way through them as fast as possible. I think, perhaps, their logic is, the sooner they get through it, the better?! Naturally, my husband can't resist yelling out the window to them, "Are you crazy or what?" or, my personal favorite, "You big fool. @sshole!" Spoken in the local language, just so they'd be sure to understand him. Meanwhile, my American kids are loving this, cause, of course, they know ALL the bad words.

Then, before we knew it, we were driving through the most perilous city in all of Ghana: the infamous Kintampo. Okay, really, it's not a bad place, so my sincerest apologies to any Kintampo locals who may be reading this. It's just that whenever my husband and I are out driving, and we get cut off by another driver (which happens all the time), Sly loves to yell out, "Where did you get your license? Kintampo? Go back to your village!" It was funny driving through there, and believe it or not, we didn't get into an accident.

From Kintampo we soldiered on to Tamale, where we intended to stay overnight. Oh, for those non-Ghanaians reading this, Tamale is pronounced tah-mah-lā, not like the Mexican food, tah-ma-lē. Tamale is the capital of the Northern Region of Ghana, and it is 658 km (408 miles) from Accra. What a clean city! It was such a pleasant surprise, coming from Accra and Tema which are notoriously filthy, to see this neat, clean, uncongested city, with hardly any traffic, in large part to a special bike lane on the major roads. Most people get around on two wheels, whether by bike, moped or motorcycle. We even saw women with babies tied to their backs (though my neurotic safety-conscious self really had a problem with that, as you can imagine).

Outside of Accra (and to be truthful, even in Accra), lodging accommodations are rather hit or miss, and I guess the Norrip Guest House would be leaning more toward the miss part than the hit part.

Our "requirements" were that the rooms have:

1) Air conditioning: The A/C worked in both rooms (boys in Room 2, girls in Room 4).

2) Television: We couldn't get a single television station (scroll up and re-read what I posted about radio... ditto), still it worked. This was really not a problem, until my son, Sean, realized that there was some football premier league championship game on the next night that he, "HAD TO SEE!" Really, it's all just soccer to me. Give me a good ol' Yankees game, any day.

3) Clean bathroom: Ours was self-cleaning; the sink, the drain beneath it and the bucket beneath that all leaked constantly and left the bathroom floor covered in water (I had to wake up twice each night to empty the water bucket, else we'd step out of bed into it).

4) Swimming pool: The swimming pool was a 20 minute walk from the guest house, and it had a sickly greenish cast to it, that made me wonder had they never heard of chlorine and were all of our immunizations up to date, but, hey, it had a slide, so my kids couldn't have cared less.

5) Restaurant: Only served one kind of food - guinea fowl, and you had to order it early in the day and they'd have it ready for you by sunset. Fortunately, and most importantly, they had cold beer and soda, otherwise we'd have been so out of there.