On this particular morning, Maggie Armando and I got up fast, ate fast, packed fast, and got out of Wenchi, fast. It is the first and only morning of the trip that we are riding by 6 AM, when it is just getting light. We did not wait to say fare well to our wacky hosts, although in the end we were grateful and found them to be rather kind, despite the incongruities of our previous evening. The road was fast in the early morning; dramatic opaque light glowed mysteriously from behind its Harmattan veil. Characteristic of the majority of mornings on the trip, the sun rose in dull colorful beauty; I had to remind myself to watch the road after becoming absorbed in its magnificence. It is a rare occasion that you can stare into the sun without consequence, and be able to marvel at its perfect fiery roundness, almost like it’s standing naked behind frosted glass, not vulnerable but powerful. Illuminating the dying leaves in the Teak forest beside the road, coupled with the cool, dry, crisp air of dawn in the north, I was reminded of childhood memories in Vail Colorado, amongst the aspens in autumn, a treasured time of year. With nostalgia plucking my heart strings and fresh air feeding my lungs, I sped alongside my trusty companions, drunk with an unexpected happiness, a joy for life, a love for adventure and a hunger for the road. We rode for fun, the best kind of riding, highest gear cranking over and over converting euphoria into miles and miles into memories.
Mornings like that were rare on our journey, feeling fresh and strong, with cool weather, paved roads, and a serine state of mind. Flying the fastest our bikes could go, no problem, no worries, no inhibitions, just us and the road and the world to come. Laughing about the night before and relieved to be riding we pushed towards the unknown Northern region.
Upon crossing the Black Volta River, one of the biggest in Ghana and the border between the Brong Ahafo and Northern regions, we stopped in the cozy inviting river village of Bamboi. Feeling peckish we parked our bikes against some crates and sat down at a road side café, the first of its kind we had experienced in Ghana and by no means the last. Set up with three yellow benches surrounding the chef, a rack of colorful mugs and a tower of bread it was an egg sandwich production unlike we had ever seen, an oasis in the dry Savanna. Taken with milky sweet Lipton tea and the laid back attitude of Ghana we fed on our fried egg saviors, savoring the moment. From this experience a trend would develop, from the trend a habit, and from the habit an obsession. Who knew egg sandwiches and tea (or Milo) was a staple food in Ghana? The first of hundreds, this particular eggy pit stop opened our eyes to the truth and trained them, with keen precision, to locate the Kyebom Wura in every town north of the Black Volta. Refueled and feeling antsy with the ever rising sun we departed satisfied, heading deeper into the unknown. Our destination, Kwame Kwasi, what we knew about Kwame Kwasi, it was big enough to be on the map, what we didn’t know about Kwame Kwasi, it really was not big enough to be on the map. Chosen because of its convenient location in the middle of a seemingly uninhabited section of road, we figured it would be another small town, rice vendors on the street, some container stores, open gutters. Upon arrival about the only thing we noticed were two huge Baobab trees standing sentry over a haphazard spattering of stick-mud-cow dung huts and a few half naked, dust covered children. I believe all three of us were excited at this point. This small town was by far the most rural town we had stopped at and passing the night there was sure to gain memory.
Walking into the village we were greeted with the usual rush of excitement to get a glimpse of the Oburonis and a very kind, hospitable man who gave us a bench and went to fetch the chief. It was customary for us to ask the chief permission to stay in his village, this is the first time we had stayed in a village small enough to make this custom applicable and we didn’t know what to expect. An amiable older man named Eric showed up and showed us to our accommodation, no sign of the chief, no problem. We were directed to the only concrete structure in the whole village, a clinic that had been out of use (or never used) for an adequate amount of time judging by the overpowering odor of guano that assaulted your nostrils if you stood within a twenty foot radius. Eric and his elder companion diligently swept the majority of the dust and rat droppings from the floor with their palm frond brooms, a commonplace in Ghana. Breathing shallow against the stench the three of us laid our bed rolls on the concrete and stripped off our sweaty bike kits. A rustling in the roof alerted us to the fact that the small hairy winged beasts responsible for defecating on the premises were still very much at home in the rotting rafters. Upon reflection, we found this situation highly ironic. Under the impression that these three whites were unable to sleep in a mud hut, the chief put us in the only building he thought would suite our kind of people. However, the clinic was probably the least inhabitable structure in the whole village, covered in dirt, rodent feces and inhabited by a colony of bats. Spending the night in a mud hut would have been leagues more comfortable and healthier than the clinic. What could we do? Refuse the chief and tell him we wanted a hut? Perhaps this would have worked but experience taught us to accept the offerings of chiefs under any circumstances. So, we settled in and tried to feel grateful for the roof over our heads.
After some time Eric showed up to take us around town, we passed some traditional mud houses, complete with grain silos and goats, on our way to the spot (bar). Cletus’s spot it was called, about the most redneck name you can find, right in the middle of Ghana, and a source of laughter considering my Wyoming home. We were greeted by a few of the village men, relaxing in the shade under the grass roofed bar. The usual language barrier was quick to catch us, and friendly smiles full of “not understanding what anyone said” were passed around. However, one message that skillfully leaped the impossibly tall wall was the request for a round, courtesy of the guests. Of course we were not about to offend the men on the village so we purchased a four Cedi bottle of akpeteshi, also known as sodabi, agba, VC 10, original, blue kiosk, and kill me quick, which is the local moonshine in Ghana distilled from palm wine or sap from various other trees. This particular palm liquor packs a serious punch and you never know what potency you’ll get since it’s not an exact science. Anyway, despite the offer of a dizzy akpeteshi afternoon the villagers refused our offer and insisted on trading it in for various shots in a bag (the greatest invention in Ghana). Shots in a bag are just that, either a shot of gin, whiskey, or similar spirit conveniently distributed in a durable, fun sized plastic sachet perfect for shirt pockets and liver damage. “Goal”, “Score”, and “Soccer” emblazon the front of the sachets, promoting Ghana’s favorite pass time while simultaneously winning the hearts of millions of football fanatics. After everyone had picked their poison, we raised our Star beers in cheers to the sound of crickets and flies. At this moment the clash between the drinking culture of the US and the rural farming culture of northern Ghana reach a hiatus. It is customary in the US for people sharing a drink in a social setting to “cheers” their drinks to symbolize togetherness and equality and friendship. Cheersing before everyone has a drink is considered rude as is refusing to cheers your drink. In Ghana however, they expected us to drink our beers to the end while they sat and watched. I understand where they are coming from, we are guests in the village, and white, and we should enjoy our drinks with our own kind. Despite our protests it was extremely difficult convincing them to drink with us and only after repeated exaggerated insistence did we succeed. It was a good moment; an awkward forced cheers, muttered pleasantries, uncomfortable passing glances, warm beers and shots.
Back in the sun with a belly full of Stars we plodded around the packed earth ground, passing hellos and smiles to those who watched on in wonder. Eric showed us the village xylophones, two huge instruments not unlike reclining deck chairs with various sized gourds suspended under each plank. It was very interesting to see how they were constructed, bound with plant fiber twine and a skeleton of unprocessed shrubby sticks to create a well formed curvy mallet musician’s dream. Soon enough, with the sun and the day’s ride at our backs we returned to the bat cave for a siesta. Eric took our order for dinner, letting us know that rice was hard to find and the only thing they had around to eat it with was shea butter. Following some questions about the local diet we discerned that Tzert was the food of choice in Kwame Kwasi and we requested it as such instead of the scanty rice. Eric was racked with laughter in disbelief that we could possibly want or eat Tzert. After as much convincing as the cheers we persuaded him to get his wife to whip up the meal, well knowing that we had never tried it and had no idea what is was. Eric told us that it was made with corn flour and millet and served with stew and walked away chuckling to himself. Journal writing, reading and resting followed until dusk, when the real fun started.
Sitting outside our room on a wooden bench, we slowly began to notice that the noise in our roof was getting gradually louder and louder. Almost on cue a stream of bats started pouring out of a corner of the roof right above our heads, no doubt spurred by Margarita’s piercing encouragement. Hearing the commotion a well-built village man rounded the corner wearing a faded blue flowery dress and wielding and uprooted bush. The sad excuse for a drag queen proceeded to swat madly at the bats plummeting from the roof. Soon others joined, all swinging out of control at the hairy beasts. One of the poor critters didn’t have room to spread his wings, landed on the concrete at our feet, and hurriedly scurried under the door into our room, much to our elation. I edged in after it and bravely poked it with a stick until it flew out the open door. Then, looking to join the fun, I commandeered a bush from one of the men and tried out my batting arm. Of the hundreds and hundreds that came out I only managed to hit and kill four, not a bad number for an amateur home run hitter. Overall around 30 or 40 bats were collected in a sack, not all dead, and carried off to be a part of tomorrows stew. Glad I could help gather food for the village I exchanged “WTF just happened” exclamations with Maggie and Armando, who gallantly stood by screaming and taking photos, and nursed my pulled shoulder muscle. With stew on the menu I couldn’t help but wonder how many bats they had killed yesterday, my stomach grumbled.
~Frazer Tear
