| So, here we are. Ghana. Our plane swoops lower beneath the clouds, and my Coke flies onto my Khaki T-shirt and shorts. Ooh suddenly I want to land. I turn my attention to the view. A vast grey blob ringed with orangey- brown greets my eyes, with smaller blobs scattered around. The city of Tamale. Nice! Straining my eyes further, I glimpse Tamale airport, a tiny speck against the city, but not a tiny building. We drop lower and lower, until eventually I notice we have practically landed now, but, as always, the impact of the plane against the single tarmac runway takes me completely by surprise. It’s definitely not Stansted, but it’ll do. A sudden smack into my seat sends my head into the lunch tray. The guy behind me has been sick (again). LET ME OFF! I don’t want to be too demanding, but couldn’t I have some peace? Once the plane has slowed, the vomit sloshes forward in an oozing green puddle. I smell it, I groan, I gag, and I head for the door. I’m down the steps, and off. I really love plane flights! |  |
Jogging, I cross the single scorching hot runway. Can I feel my shoes melting? Anyway, still jogging, I enter the small airport. Oh. Dear. God. How hot is it? Thirty two degrees!?! What, AND no air con? The shock and the heat smother me in a horrible blanket; this is not a very good start. Surprisingly, the airport is quite busy. As a result I find it a bit hard to squeeze through the packed space. I feel all kinds of clothing brush against me (one felt like goat!). Eventually, I reach the luggage thingy and wait for my case, and wait, and wait. I grab a quick drink. Of course it does come, so I march out with it, stand for a taxi (it’s quite busy here too, and I’m only on the outskirts). One stops almost right away, though I wonder wy someone is hanging out of the window. Once I’m in the jeep, bus, whatever, we’re off, speeding out of the airport and towards the city centre, where a five hour drive to Mount Afadjado awaits.
Once I arrive in the city of Tamale I get on a travel bus with more tourists. While the jeep thingamabob powers through the streets, I turn my mind to my surroundings. As I presumed, there aren’t many vehicles on the winding road, but there are a fair amount of people on bikes. Stalls border the roads, while the buildings are mainly a mix of one-storey mud houses, to huge, glossy glass buildings, not unlike those in modern UK cities. The roads are a constant swap between dust and tarmac, running into one another like the sea and a beach. Before I get the chance to have too many philosophical thoughts, a yell from the driver brings me back. I hop off, grab my case and head for the bus station. It is slightly quieter here, though the heat is as awful as ever. This place smells of heat! Pushing my way through a gaudy veil of wooden beads, I hurriedly state my name to the young receptionist and go to the waiting room. Now, THIS is cramped. While the majority of space is taken up by the bulges of tourists (American, no doubt), their bags aren’t any help either. Dipping into my satchel, I pull out a ready made bag of ‘Fufu’, a delicacy to Ghana. Though I’m convinced it’s mashed poodle, I tuck in and wait for my bus.
FINALLYYYYY!!!!!! I leap off the bus and kiss the floor, then wipe the hot sand off my lips. Now you may want to know what the bus ride was like but, suffice to say, it was like the plane ride, but worse. Add more screaming babies, more loud Americans AND a driver so young and reckless he could be a rally driver; then you wouldn’t be far off. My god, from now on I travel by boat.
With all those terrible trips aside, I was in a reasonable mood, so I went for an evening walk. This is Liati Wote, a small village at the foot of Mount Afadjado, renown for its shops specialising in walking/ hiking equipment. Now I have changed into sandals, I can feel the warm smooth sand slipping gently through my aching toes. My mum would love it, but she has got a foot spa, so maybe not… . Before I am fully aware, I have made a full circle round the picturesque village. Nearly at my lodgings, is a small hut owned by a local salesman, Zephaniah. I hear shouts coming from indoors, and then see Zeph run out the door. He greets me with a warm, strong handshake; I greet him with a pathetic, tired one. Soon after I have taken a seat on my small, wooden bed, a wonderful smell of sweet, grilled cod, fresh juicy salad and mouthwatering wheat rice drags me up, through the small bamboo door, into the kitchen and into my seat at the blue plastic table. Nearby I hear the family stirring to come for tea. Then without warning, the smell becomes overpowering, forcing my head onto the table, and into the plate, which someone had sneakily placed there. I demolish it all in 2 minutes. Now honestly, that is heaven.
Waking up at 6 o clock, I gather all my belongings together and stuff them in my case. Zephaniah accompanies me to the (nearby) small plane. Most of the small villages around the mountain use it as transportation for long distances. Climbing on, I wave goodbye to Zephaniah and family while the rackety plane takes off. Though it is a shame to be leaving so soon, I am sure I will come back soon. Once I’m settled, I lay back as we zoom off to Elmina, and the next leg of my journey.
As soon as we are fully in the air, I start to feel a little nervous. The plane reeks of petrol, the wings are actually flapping like a bird and the seats are covered in God knows what. Ominous creaks are synonymous with the flight and the floor is practically just rust. I just hope I survive this hellish little pod…
After touching down recently, I catch a trobtrib thing, which rapidly approaches Elmina Castle. The streets near here are silent and the odour of heat is stronger than ever. My nose is now on fire, but at least I am actually here now. The very instant I step off the tritray whatever, it feels desolate. Barely no sound can be heard, and life seldom seen. Then again as I step forward all I can see is a massive, towering building as brown as the sand and as wide as the desert, I am now at Elmina Castle.
Once I have stepped through the (empty) entrance booth I am in a vast sand covered courtyard with bland yet scary buildings all around. Cautiously I step through the door into the stronghold and up the winding stairs. After ten minutes of seeing plain, empty rooms I freak out slightly, dashing out of the building, out of the bare courtyard, out the looming front gates and back to civilisation. Walking alongside the road I catch an (empty!) trigtram thingy and speed off to Accra, just up the coast thank God!
Halfway into the bumpy journey (it was an older tromblytrig) I caught a view which stunned me to the core. Before me was a huge, vast band of sand, stretching out of view. Opening the window, ignoring the flaked red paint, I see palm trees bend towards me, bowing like a gentleman before beginning their waltz with the wind. Jagged rocks lay still among a sapphire sea, glittering in the sun. Rock pools come into sight, filled with more sparkling water and ringed with golden, pure shells, some still home to tiny crabs. A rough but stunning vie of the sandy cliffs is the cherry on top, bathed in sunshine and shielding the fine, beige sand. Not far away is a massive metropolis known as Accra, and as the trilldebob stutters forward I wonder if this is heaven (more so than the meal I had before).
Still dazed from the beauty of the previous scene I was sure nothing could bring me back to reality this time. But then again I could be wrong. Powering through Accra, another maze of normal houses and towering glass structures, I suddenly realize that I have to get off. After getting down and falling over, I pay my driver and watch him clatter off, rasping the next destination. Luckily, I manage to purchase a bike off a poor man who was trying to nurse the district back to health after a bout of cholera had struck. With a sad smile, I think it a depressing reminder of life here, so I pay the man (who is wearing a trailing bright green tunic) I ride off on the last leg of my journey, to Makola Market.
Passing more and more random buildings, I reach the city centre, a labyrinth of alleys and houses. Then my jaw hits the floor. It is, literally, packed to the brim. Dozens of massive, brick buildings, shops and churches ringed the enormous circle of Makola Market. Horns beep, people yell, shoppers barter, cats and dogs alike yowledand screeche. All hell was let loose. Summoning up the courage, I ride in, earplugs firmly in place, and hold my breath as the chaos consumes me.
After having tons of junk presents literally thrown at me I manage to escape the madness of the market. Unfortunately the noise only escalates as some twit of a driver makes a futile attempt to pass through, demolishing two bright red and green stalls. As crockery and shampoo fly, I momentarily think how lucky we are to have Meadowhall. God Bless You! While the argument erupts into a full scale word war I spin on my heel, hop on to my bike and ride off over the tarnished tiles.
After a bumpy ride over some potholes, a squeeze down a tiny yellow alleyway and a joyride through a traffic jam, I catch the attention of a screaming triblediwing driver. Thankfully this one looks relatively new but absurdly cramped so I sell off my bike to a passing woman wearing a tight gold top and blue shorts. Now I mean no offense in this but Ghana has more different outfits than Jordan and Posh Spice put together! Once I am in the troglydap or whatever, we’re off again. Immediately I notice a very strange but familiar smell. Asking around I discover that two of the three women are wearing citrus perfume. Though it is a treat for my nose it is very heavy on the air and slightly sickly. Ironically a child sat next to me breaks out singing ‘Oranges and Lemons’. I shut my eyes and ears, then it dawns on me. The women are wearing orange. The tringtrong is yellow. Now that is just cruel.
Once the tinglybingbing has stopped I shuffle through the little door with my case and stroll the hundred metres to the airport. Incredibly this airport is actually massive compared to my past thoughts about it. Without much fuss I pass my case through the glass booth, then walk off to the terminal gate, where they say the plane will be taking off in ten minutes. Despite my irritation at being late I hurry down the rusting stairs and across the runway, nearly being flattened by a trambledong. Just as I climb the rough, brown stairs, I see one of the cabin crew lobbing my case into the hold. More like Stansted than I thought then. The very instant I am in my seat, the drab horrible intercom lady announces takeoff in 2 mins, so I lay back and think. 30 seconds later I get bored, so I whip out a magazine and start reading. Now, in others views, people might not think of Ghana as a beautiful, well balanced active country. They might not even know what or where Ghana is. But I’ll say one thing. They should. I turn the page of the magazine and see a huge advert: