Hatching, Matching and Dispatching - Going Home as an Expat

Open spaces, familiar smells, no mosquitoes: must be home!

One of the great things about living abroad is the sense of adventure, whether it be the new places, new cultures or personal growth.

One of the terrible things about living abroad is that one is not at home for the events great and small: births, deaths, weddings, Halloween trick-or-treating, Christmas dinner, New Year's Eve, etc.

This is all part of the chosen life. In exchange for being the crazy person who lives halfway around the world, you change your status in the minds of others. You are not there. You are out of the picture. And when you do go home, you are this week's special guest, complete with questions that you would rather not answer. "Tell me, how is that whole Ebola thing going?"

Mr. and Mrs. O have indeed gone home since they arrived so many months ago. They spent a few precious weeks spending quality time with family and friends and gorged on the things they missed most: salmon, corn on the cob, craft beer, potato chips and Netflix.

Why not write about these things? Perhaps it would be difficult to accurately convey to the reader the wonder of eating fresh strawberries. Perhaps it would betray the incredible privilege of simply hopping on a plane and visiting home at one's leisure. They are roughing it, of course.

The reasons for the visits home are the usual for expats: hatching, matching and dispatching. That is to say, births, weddings and funerals.

A good reason to go home.

The first visit was planned around summer holidays, but also a close friend's wedding, which allowed for the family to feel part of home and see lots of family and friends, including quality time with the grandparents. Yet for every wonderful wedding attended, the family has missed two and will probably miss a few more. Again, a price of the life abroad.

A not-so-good reason to go home.

The second visit was more unexpected and was for a family funeral. In this case, Mr. O still got to feel part of home and see lots of family and friends - yet for the most tragic of reasons. And there might be more missed. This too, comes with the territory.

Friends and family of Mr. and Mrs. O have also given notice that they will soon be having babies. However, it will be a while before they can see the little ones, so they will simply have to experience it virtually.

That being said, the ability to speak to a dying loved one by phone or video call and to fly home to be with family is a privilege. Once upon a time, people sailed for weeks on end to live miserable lives in a completely alien place and they would find out of a loved one's passing by letter months later. And that was it. Now, one can check on any of their friends on Facebook and see photos and videos of newborns and weddings, among a thousand other life events, both consequential and inconsequential.

It is now approaching the Christmas season, which expats seem to engage in one of two ways: 1) spend serious money and energy to go home for the holidays to be with family for a traditional Christmas in cold weather, or 2) go somewhere to completely forget about home, usually with a beach.

This year, the family has decided that with all of the recent travel home, they will be going for option 2 with like-minded friends eager for a little escapism.

That Time in Cape Town (The Revenge)

That's more like it.

A public park, complete with Vootrekker jungle gym.

The guide/ex-prisoner shows Robben Island.

Several months after the unexpected medical detour on the way to South Africa, Mr. and Mrs. O were ready to exact their revenge.Why the obsession with Cape Town? In short, it is not Africa. This is where expats tired of life in high-walled, overcrowded and polluted cities go for a break (Johannesburg included). It is practically a rite of passage for many. From the stories, it sounds like the Happiest Place on Earth. (The open spaces! The seaside! The sidewalks! The stores! The restaurants! The food! The wine! The potable water! etc)

After many months in Ghana, Cape Town is indeed like stepping into a dreamland. It is stunningly gorgeous, with the backdrop of Table Mountain, the ocean, the greenery, it makes one understand why the Dutch decided to make a home and why Afrikaaners went to atrocious lengths to hold onto it for themselves for 400 years.

For the family, it meant staying in a quality hotel where everything worked and no detail was overlooked, popping out every morning for a coffee and pastry, followed by a walk in the park and a trip to a memorable and well-executed tourist site that accommodates children (Cape Town Kids has a massive list of things to do).

Little Miss in the "Nemo" tank.

And indeed, there were many places to see. Just a few highlights:

• The V&A Waterfront: featuring seaside shopping, restaurants and other toursity places like the top-notch Two Oceans Aquarium.
• The Cape of Good Hope: a drive down to the cape is well worth it, including cliffside roads, a national park, and visiting the penguins at Boulder Beach.
• Table Mountain: the iconic backdrop to the city also has a cableway to the summit (weather permitting) and the views are much more panoramic than a humble blog can handle.  
• Robben Island Museum: the infamous island prison that housed Nelson Mandela and many other political prisoners, which is a short boat ride from Cape Town and a sobering place to visit.
• Woolworth's: not actually a tourist site, but for a Ghana resident, walking into a store to buy a gallon of fresh organic milk and local raspberries is an experience in itself.
• World of Birds: no time to drive out of town for a safari? Not going to shell out for your pre-schooler? This place has over 3,000 birds and various mammals and reptiles, including an enclosure to feed squirrel monkeys, which alone was worth the price of admission.

  

  Enjoying the views down the Cape.

  
  

There is a darker side to Cape Town as well: the effects of apartheid are still quite strong, including the legacy of enforced segregation, which means blacks mostly live in the under-developed outskirts, while the whites have the prime real estate downtown and by the sea. Security bars are everywhere and the city has been given the nickname "Rape Town" for good reason.

To get a sense of the other side of Cape Town, Mr. O took a Township Tour, which sheds some light on the non-touristy side of the city, including Langa and Gugulethu. While blacks are not required to live in them, townships are for many the only affordable option. While they do not have the physical poverty common in Ghana, there is a spiritual poverty, with astronomical rates of HIV, alcoholism, drug abuse and unemployment.

Oh hello there. Welcome to my beach.

As scary as they sound, they are also communities and municipalities (some in the hundreds of thousands). Life in the townships is undoubtedly rough, but there are also those who are working to improve life, and while tours like these are derided by many as poverty tourism, participants unanimously praise it as giving a window into an area ignored by outsiders and building intercultural understanding.

Life on the other side of Table Mountain.

After seeing both sides, there was one last obligatory stop: the supermarket. At the nearby Pick and Pay, the family stocked up on essentials of all kinds: organic fair trade coffee, instant oatmeal, fruit snacks, baking ingredients, medical supplies and other goodies. Thus, the family made sure they used all of their allotted weight on their trip back to Accra and had a happy ending to the trip.

Wedding Bells

"Sorry, I've never been to one of these weddings before."

"Ghanaian?"
"No, Presbyterian."

In two visits and almost two years, Mr. O was rather ashamed that he had never been to a local wedding. When a coworker graciously invited the office to her impending nuptuals, he jumped at the chance.

What's a wedding without a personal musician?

In Ghana, much of the social calendar revolves around three events: births, weddings and funerals. The outdooring of a newborn is rather exciting for the community, much like a baptism. The pomp and circumstance of a wedding is rivaled only by the incredible lengths that a family will go towards to send off their dearly departed. A "proper" funeral comes at the end of a month-long process including full-colour homecoming advertisements, rituals (Christian/Islamic and indigenous) and the deceased is sent off in a massive ceremony (mournful or joyful, depending on the age and social status) with lots of food, fine clothing, colourful decorations and always a sound system blasting upbeat pop tunes, perhaps to alert St. Peter of a new arrival. At the end is a massive mortuary and party bill that families will go into serious debt over, lest they look like they did not really care about their relatives deceased and living. Thus, there is a lot of money to be made in the local industries of hatching, matching and dispatching.

Let's have a look at what we are getting ourselves into.

Thus a wedding seems a bit less daunting of a proposition for an obruni. Mr. O joined a number of colleagues made the journey to nearby city of Koforidua. Perhaps it was the fresh rains greening the surrounding hills and the blue skies over the colonial-era buildings, but the place had a certain charm about it. Also, it appeared to be kept very neat and tidy for its size. (Editorial note: expat residents will not corroborate this opinion.)

The wedding itself was pleasant. The service was held in a Presbyterian hall and the stage featured not only the usual wedding setup, but a total of THIRTEEN pastors and prophets. Thankfully, there was only one emcee and one keynote sermon that went for about 45 minutes and consisted of the classic African subjects of "Why don't young people respect marriage and tradition?" and "It's Adam and Eve, not Adam and Steve".

Their moves are not found in the Roman Catholic missal.

Livening up the service was a killer church choir that had been bussed in from Winneba. Between the pastors, prophets and choir, it seemed like the hosts were quite a power couple. There was also a revered traditional musician (minstrel?) that followed the couple down the aisle. The foreigners occupied a privileged space in the audience, up front next to the chiefs (two) and mothers and aunties (too many). After the deal was sealed, the aunties in the front spontaneously got up and had a revival-style dance party in front of the altar. 

Need snappy logistics in Ghana? Hire a wedding planner.

The ceremony clocked in around three hours - some noted that Presby weddings are long even by local standards. The ensuing photos, rejigging of the hall and reception were surprisingly short for westerners who are used to marathon events going into the wee hours. There was a buffet dinner served and a few words of thanks, but no big speeches or organized dancing. The group toasted with sparkling juice and the whole thing was wrapped up by 5, as the happily-married couple sent the group off.

Traffic is Like Jazz

"Traffic in Ghana is kinda like jazz. You're all moving to your own beat, improvising, trying new things. And somehow it works." 

Recently, a colleague said to Mrs. O. This is a fairly mild assessment, but it does work.

In Ghana, driving is not for the faint of heart. Where does one begin?

It gets a little hectic at rush hour. Enjoy the view.

THE ROADS

The road less traveled: 4x4 recommended.

In Accra, all of downtown is paved, but this is the exception. For much of the country, only main roads between towns of significance are paved. So if your town is not on the way to somewhere important, you probably travel by dirt road, which washes out in the rainy season. If you are in a larger town, most of the main roads are paved - and they probably still wash out in the rainy season, leaving deep potholes that lead to a dramatic dance when vehicles try to negotiate. Even in the capital, a vehicle with decent clearance is recommended.

Some roads are just bizarre: a stretch of Independence Avenue between Flagstaff House and 37 Military Station is fully paved, but soft enough that it has developed ruts that are relatively harmless (traffic moves slowly here) but looks rather comical, as the painted lines on the road zigzag in this section.

THE VEHICLES
All vehicles in Ghana are imported (with one exception) and almost all of these are second-hand. And a vehicle will be driven until it is physically unable to to function as a means of conveyance. AND for Ghanaians a vehicle will not be repaired until actually broken down. No tune-ups, no "I hear a weird noise, let's take it to the garage to check." Doing the math, this means there are a lot of old rickety and beat-up vehicles out there and a statistically significant number of deathtraps. These take a variety of forms:

A handyman's dream.

-Private vehicles are fairly common, but again, depend greatly on the status of the owner. Accra has plenty of twenty-year old Corollas poking by, but also a few Porches and Bugattis. Sport Utility Vehicles are quite common, both for the safety of a larger vehicle and the ability to negotiate all sorts of terrain (thus having more "utility" than in the North American suburbs). There are a lot of cars on the road - and with a growing population and economy, more people are deciding that they'll look better sitting in their own vehicle than like some shmuck riding transit.

-Taxis are omnipresent and comprise all sorts of cars, with the distinctive yellow shoulders. One will often find them driving slowly and impeding traffic, as they are hunting for a potential fare. Or one will find them driving slowly as they are filled with a family of five on their way to church and also bringing a shipment of yams in the trunk. 90% of taxi drivers show little regard for the rules of the road and their own mortality.

That's probably up to code.

-Tro tros are ubiquitous in Ghana. These privately-owned transport vehicles ply a myriad of routes around and between towns, with their driver swerving in and out of lanes while their mates man the sliding side door and yell out their destination ("Madina, Madina!" "Labadi, Labadi!"), packing in people by the dozen as they go. Where a public transport system should be, tro tros have filled the void (as they have elsewhere, known as dala dalas, danfos, matataus, maxi-taxis).

-Transport trucks are quite common and by the looks of them, are best avoided. They always seem to be filled to the brim with whatever they are carrying and as if an important part is going to fall off at any moment. Due to their poor condition and heavy loads, they are often poking along at unbelievably low speeds, if not pulled over for repairs.

-Motorcycles (or motos) obey no laws but those of physics, weaving in and out of lanes, hopping on sidewalks and driving between vehicles all the way through traffic jams. In Accra, they also are the common mode of transport for machete-wielding thieves looking to steal a purse or phone and make a quick getaway. In the poorer North, they are the main way to get around and entire families might be riding on one. Three-wheeled Chinese "Moto Kings" are becoming increasingly popular as well.

THE DRIVERS

Sound advice.

From timid young learners to reckless daredevils, there is a wide spectrum of drivers on Ghanaian roads. Many will bribe to get their license (for those who have one), which adds up to a lot of people on the road in whose abilities one should have no faith in whatsoever. Consequently, the driver fatality rate is very high.

Coming from the highly-regulated driving environment of the developed world, it takes some time to adjust to local driving conditions. However, Mr. O has been noted (by Mrs. O) to have grown fairly aggressive as a driver. While practicing defensive driving for the safety of his family,  he also practices offensive driving to avoid being stuck in traffic for hours on end, using his vehicle's size when needed. This means elbows up in the traffic circle, abruptly changing lanes to avoid poorly-parked tro tros and impromptu off-roading to cut around ridiculous traffic jams in general. When returning home, Mr. O will find his ability to talk himself our of a traffic ticket will be severely tested. ("Oh chale, was that an illegal turn on to a one-way street? Sorry-o! Next time!")

THE (LACK OF) TRAFFIC ENFORCEMENT
All of this is very loosely enforced. As Jack Sparrow would say, the traffic laws are more "guidelines". The lights are obeyed, although in the case of a malfunction, instead of blinking yellow they simply shut down, leading to a Darwinian push of traffic in multiple directions.

The road signs are also mostly suggestions, except for ones warning of speed bumps, which are often jarring for even the smoothest ride. A friend has designed a helpful list of traffic signs to help navigate Ghana's roads.

This seems excessive for a traffic stop.

The largest hazard by far is the police. In the city, they are positioned at key roundabouts and intersections, ostensibly to keep traffic flowing at peak periods, but it is difficult to see how an entire truck of them parked on a corner listening to the radio achieves this goal. The police are often noted for their ubiquitous blue camouflage barreling down the road with sirens blaring for an imaginary emergency, but occasionally one is in the intersection in a shiny white coat, with matching gloves and pith helmet. (Colonial? Yes. Snappy? You bet.)

When the police do see something amiss, they will wave you to the roadside and inform you that you have committed an infraction (real or imagined - Mr. O has committed both). The law stipulates that the officer write the offender a notice, with a fine to be paid later. But who has such fancy things as ticket books? Not the burly guy who pulled you over. He would much prefer that you unlock your door (don't), let him in the vehicle (really, don't) and drive him to the police station to sort things out (seriously, bad idea). Or a little dash/coffee money/pre-Christmas bonus could let him know that you respect the law and have learned your lesson. There are a thousand combinations to this routine.

All the fun of this cat-and-mouse game is lost when traveling between towns. Anyone driving on a major road will have to slow down every 20km or so for a police barrier checkpoint. What are they checking? Who knows. But God forbid your vehicle look a little unsteady, have expired stickers or your driver look impressionable, because there is often an informal toll or penalty to be paid for the price of law and order.

All of this makes for an intimidating experience. But it all needs to be put into perspective: this is how an entire country (and much of the world) works. One of Mr. O's colleagues recently remarked, "Yeah, it's not great, but way better than Mumbai."

A Year Later, Chale

High Street abuzz with obrunis and bibinis.

This past weekend the family went for a little street art at the Chale Wote festival in James Town, one of the oldest parts of Accra. The whole family piled in and brought friends with them - apparently Mr. and Mrs. O have the reputation of being somewhat adventurous and pathfinding for the expat set.

Some of the pop-up murals produced during the weekend.

The festival did not disappoint: it is put on for Ghanaians, by Ghanaians and shows not only the rich heritage and culture of the Ga people (Accra's original inhabitants) but also the creativity and forward thinking artistry that exists in the city. Visitors were treated to art installation after art installation on the theme of Death: An Eternal Dream Into Limitless Rebirth. From colourful murals to funeral processions, the festival was a feast for the eyes.

Why yes, that is a wall of sewage on the cliffside.

Also, as a slum, James Town is also a feast for the nose: sanitation is a massive problem in the area and some of the wayward detritus washing up on Ghana's beaches originates from this part of town. Newly-arrived friends were quite taken aback by the smells, but after being in Accra for such a long time, the family is so much at home that they have simply stopped noticing when it gets funky. 

In any case, a short visit to see friends producing artistic Bolga baskets turned into a day exploring the area and taking in the experience. Part of that experience was Little Miss getting regularly mobbed by James Town children (and sometimes adults) who were constantly touching her skin and hair. It is unclear what they expected, but perhaps there could be a Touch The Obruni installation next year? Little Miss, although quite shy, was a good sport and did have fun playing with Ghanaians when not overwhelmed. Kids, of course, can be kids.

Funeral procession of plastic waste.

Little Miss makes a friend.

If any of this rings any bells to readers, this is indeed not the first time that the family has been to this annual festival. In fact, last weekend was their one-year anniversary in Ghana.

In addition to not noticing the smells and minding the mobs of children, Mr. and Mrs. O have noticed that they have indeed been feeling "at home" lately. Things have become routine, but never dull. While the travel has slowed down somewhat, going out at night with friends is a more common occurrence and they are starting to know "the scene" in Accra. Mr. O was particularly excited in the run-up to Chale Wote, knowing some of the artists and anticipating the excitement of the festival. If all goes well, the family might even be around for Chale Wote 2015 - and is already counting the days.

Flamenco dancing.

Bolga Baskets reimagined.

"Social Reality" by Ibrahim Mahama

Life and Death in full colour.

Baba the Kebab Guy

Where the magic happens.

Down the street from Mr. and Mrs. O's residence is a cluster of stalls catering to a mix of construction workers, students, day-laborers and the more adventurous expats. Some are like mini-convenience stores, whilst others sell the usual local staples of fufu, banku and tilapia. Some are semi-permanent metal and wooden structures while others are basically a folded table and an umbrella, coming down at night and avoiding any messy taxation issues - namely, the propensity of vendors to not pay them - and ensuing demolitions by the Accra Metropolitan Authority, which can be quite devastating for a micro-entrepreneur.

One business of note is Baba the Kebab Guy. Baba hails from Bolgatanga in the Upper East and has brought his specialty down south wih him. For reasons that perplex obrunis, kebab vendors are fairly scarce in Accra - but a great kebab is good any time of the day. For 50 cents, one can get a stick of beef or sausage, coated in suya spice and with a bit of onion and green pepper for flavour. So if Baba is not sold out by the time Mr. O returns from work, everyone gets a nice snack, with some fried yam or sweet potato from the lady the next stall over. The combo is fantastic.

Baba is no friend of The Man.

As you can see from the crude red paint on his sign, Baba is not a diligent taxpayer in the eyes of the AMA. Part of this is due to the byzantine bureaucratic structure for small business owners to follow and part of this is him trying to stretch his limited cedis in a city of inflated costs.

Legal troubles aside, one expects that Baba will be selling his kebabs for a long time to come.

If you are asking, yes, Baba will cater your party. A spicy beef kebab pairs well with a frosty Club lager, which will set you back about $2. And he apparently will cook goat or guinea fowl by request. Order today!

A Brief Musical Interlude

As much as Mr. and Mrs. O would like to identify with it, they are most definitely a step removed from the average Accra resident, for whom life is not all manicured gardens, pool parties and weekends at the beach. But for those who would like a colourful window into the everyday hustle of Ghanaian life (accompanied by an infectious beat and impeccable flow), have a listen to "Someway Bi" by M.anifest. If Accra had a theme song, this would be it.

(One day, there will need to be a proper introduction to dear readers to the rich musical history of Ghana. In the meantime, enjoy.)

WORLD CUP!

"Everyone's Ghanaian at World Cup!"

In the traditional area of the Ga people, there is an annual one-month period called Homokwu, in which outdoor noise is forbidden, including dancing, drumming and music. This year, it started May 12, conspicuously ending by June 12, the start of the 2014 World Cup.

The World Cup is an event anticipated and celebrated around the world, but for the people of Ghana, it has become an event of national importance as their men's team, the Black Stars, not only qualified in 2006 and 2010, but became loveable underdogs who defied expectations and made the pundits reconsider the capabilities of Africans. Indeed, its one of the few times that the world gets to know an African country, even if only its wealthy, athletic males.

For Ghana, there is no other sport (although field hockey remains perplexingly persistent). So every qualifier, friendly, injury, transfer and coaching choice is scrutinized by every Ghanaian.. Is the training adequate? Should the coach be local or European? Will the captain get enough top-level experience playing in the Emirates?

Curious characters come out of the woodwork as well. The Government of Ghana sponsors a delegation that includes politicians, national football association reps, booster club members and all sorts of hangers-on. Even curiouser, there is an unusual Ghanaian element this year, as a well-known fetish priest claimed to place a hex on Portuguese opponent (and perhaps the world's best footballer) Christiano Ronaldo.

The excitement has snared Mr. O, who became a convert and faithful follower of the Black Stars, joining the legions of fans watching the matches, whether on giant flat screens in spacious living rooms or small boxes in drinking spots and shops. He even saw them qualify in 2005 and 2013. Counting down the days (and even months) was a regular habit for him. He was quite excited, even though Ghana drew for the third time a "Group of Death" with Germany, the United States and Portugal.

For the opening match versus rivals the United States, Mr. O was in the remote Upper West Region outside a simple bar in Wa watching the match under the stars (seriously, there is almost zero outdoor light in Wa). This was the match that was considered a lock, as Ghana had beaten the US in 2006 and 2010, but the Americans were out for revenge. The Black Stars quickly got behind and spent the match trying to reclaim their mojo, losing 2-1 and missing out on key points needed to advance to the knockout stage.

For their second match, Ghana was up against the powerhouse Germany, the match the Black Stars were certain to lose. However, the plucky Ghanaians actually got ahead 2-1 before Germany equalized for a draw. In the end, Germany won every other match and the cup, so at the least, Ghana can claim that it was the only team the champions couldn't beat.

By the third and final match, it all came down to which team would have the highest total points and goal differential. Suddenly, every Ghanaian became a mathematician (someone should apply this to encourage kids to learn arithmetic). In short: if Germany beat the US and Ghana beat Portgual, the Black Stars were in. However, while Germany did its part, Ghana - or at least Asamoah Gyan - tried but came up tragically short, losing 2-1 to an anemic Portugal who was already eliminated. (Ironically, the hexed Ronaldo scored the game-winner).

And so for the first time, mighty Ghana failed to progress to the knockout round. The qualifiers overall were very exciting, with plenty of goals (Van Persie's header!) and shockers (Spain collapses! Suarez bites someone again!) and the knockouts were entertaining, although low-scoring and straightforward (Brazil's epic 7-1 loss to Germany aside). Soon enough, it will be the African Cup of Nations next year, then by 2017 qualifiers for the next World Cup. In 2014, Ghana fielded one of the youngest teams, which bodes well for the future. You can be sure that wherever he may be, Mr. O will be dusting off his lucky jersey then.


POST SCRIPT: Mr. O recently finished a highly engrossing book by British journalist Declan Hill called "The Fix: Soccer and Organized Crime". His research has yielded some very unsettling allegations of bribery against the Ghana Football Association and individual players, including allegations of match-fixing at the 2006 World Cup. Given the history of the team, some unusual playing in key matches and a public dispute over players' bonuses that ended in money flown from Ghana to Brazil, speculation on the possibility of match-fixing is rife in Mr. O's head these days.

"Say it ain't so, Gyan!"

The days are just packed

Seriously? Has it been a year already?

Where does the time go? Of course, the elderly are expected to say things like this to express their amazement at the passage of years. Yet Mr. and Mrs. O have been looking at the calendar and exclaiming the same thing. Already, it has been over ten months since their arrival. To put this in perspective, Mr. O’s life-altering stay the first time around had already wrapped up by this point (and he had much to show for it). But when one has a job, a house, friends, swimming lessons and errands, free time gets chipped away and excursions tend to be a once-a-month(ish) occasion. Driving one’s personal car, sitting in an office and living in a compound does not lend itself to wacky anecdotes like flaming tro-tros and random foreign visitors..

The output on this blog has certainly lessened in recent months. The plain truth is that the family is too busy living to stop and reflect. And that is okay. Staying in and watching a crappy movie is more boring than a random night out with strange characters, but also important for not burning out. Surfing expeditions are important, but so are children’s swimming lessons at the nearby pool.

Yet there are so many reasons to write. To document, to remember and even to give a view into a tiny corner of the world for those who would not normally see it. Mr. O has been noticing the usual African headlines: war, disease, poverty. And yet nobody talks about the sage professor teaching white kids about colonialism, the Norwegian-inspired waffle lady, or the people producing fantastic shea butter products and leather shoes. If Ghana is to be documented, it needs more voices (even whiny expat ones).

There Will Be Elephants

Mr. O's parents are quite enlightened and fairly culture-savvy. However, they also clearly stated that if they were coming to Africa, they were not leaving without seeing elephants. So, they made plans to head to the North.

Note the subtle differences in Northern Ghana.

While somewhat artificial, most separate Northern Ghana and Southern Ghana as two completely separate countries. Indeed, if the British had not claimed the land they did as the Gold Coast, they could have easily been separated as independent nations. The South is wet, jungle and dominated by Akan-speakers and Christians. The North is dry, savannah, with a very large Muslim population and several regional languages. The average resident of Bolgatanga has much more in common with their cousins over the border in Burkina Faso than to someone in Accra. So the North remains the neglected child of the nation.

In spite of this, the North has a lot going for it: unique architecture and art, disarmingly pleasant and hospitable people, fresh watermelon juice, delicious guinea fowl...

"I knew I should have taken that left turn at Ouagadougou."

Just as exciting for tourists is the chance to undertake a bona fide African safari at Mole National Park. A major caveat: the West African safari experience is quite different from its Eastern and Southern African counterparts. There is no Big Five, no luxury hotels and pampered game drives and certainly no pith helmets. That being said, there is something very cool about an ultra-cheap safari on the wrong side of Africa.

The good news is that getting there is easier than it used to be. In the good old days, Mr. O needed to take an overnight bus to get to the fledgling metropolis of Tamale, then a boneshaker tro-tro for several hours to the park. While it is still the main way to travel for the average Ghanaian, flying has become relatively cheap and convenient. One hour in the air and less than two at the airports compared to 12 hours on a bus with frigid AC and blaring Nollywood's most ridiculous films. The gravel road between Tamale and Wa is also getting a much-needed paving that is making the area significantly more accessible. So Grandpa and Grandma went for the airborne option, early on a Sunday morning. They stopped at the Gariba Lodge, whose courtyard is the ideal place to enjoy an omelet and a cup of freshly-brewed coffee.

Migrating creatures frolic at the watering hole at sunset.

They pressed onwards to Mole in a rented SUV. Notably, they saw a fellow with a camel surrounded by curious children. Somebody's uncle was apparently visiting from Mali.

On arrival at the park and eponymous Mole Motel in the mid-afternoon, they waited for lunch and observed the poolside fauna: athletic British students, not-so-athletic German forty-somethings, sunburned backpackers and - lurking just around the corner - baboons looking for an opportunity to steal a few morsels. Baboons can be quite clever, adventurous and aggressive, which is why it is best to stay near one's food and to keep their room's doors and windows locked at all times.

Cheeky monkey.

Mole is the largest protected area in the country, but it is woefully underdeveloped. There are a few regular roads for safari, but very little access into the heart of the park itself. This means both limited tourism prospects and greater difficulty for rangers to observe animals and patrol for poachers. There are also few options for viewing, although it has improved in recent years. One can go for a morning or afternoon drive in a private or park-owned vehicle, guided hikes, birding excursions and now night drives to see hyenas and civets. Accommodations are also improving: there is the nearby Mognori Eco Village homestay and after many years of talk, they are also building an upscale eco-lodge nearby.

Surprisingly difficult to see if one is not looking carefully.

Well, perhaps you DO have the right of way, sir.

The family did the afternoon safari and there was lots to see: various species of bucks, crocodiles and colourful birds -  their guide Usman had a keen eye and knew his birds, which made the birding part rather fun. They drove out for almost two hours with a convoy, staying out a bit later to look for the beautiful-yet-unassumingly-named grey kingfisher. On the way back, the group was rewarded with a private sighting of four massive elephants browsing the forest and going for a stroll in front of the vehicle. Seeing elephants at Mole is almost guaranteed, but getting that close was a real treat.

There did not appear to be an organized night drive, so the family slept. However, one of Mole's quirks is that the only public bus through nearby Larabanga comes at 04:30, so one could hear quite the ruckus of tourists packing up in the middle of the night.

The following morning, the group joined a walking tour to nearby watering holes, where elephants congregated. There were also plenty of warthog (who seem to be quite cozy with the locals) and a flock of wild guinea fowl. The walk was a nice rendez-vous before the morning sun got too hot. The pool was used afterwards to great effect.

All worth it for a photo of this adorable warthog piglet.

On the way back to Tamale to catch their flight home, Mr. O took a detour at Nyakpala to the SeKaf shea butter village and processing plant, which produces high-quality shea butter TAMA line of cosmetics for export. If Northern Ghana is to harness its economic potential, it will be in no small part due to outfits like this one that not only harvest local goods but add value, package professionally and sell internationally. In Tamale, the group also went to the craft market, which is much quieter and with less hassle than in Accra. The group also passed by Tamale's most noticeable landmark: a giant football stadium purpose-built for the 2008 African Cup of Nations, now sitting disused without a local team.

The group flew out that afternoon, making a whirlwind of a safari in 36 hours. Not a bad way to tick the quintessential box on an African trip. Grandma and Grandpa would leave a couple of days later feeling quite satisfied with their trip, between the beaches, the markets, the chop and the elephants.

Sunday Morning Surprise

Not long after Mr. and Mrs. O settled into their house in a relatively quiet and non-descript neighbourhood, they discovered one of its many quirks.

On Sunday at approximately 5:45AM, Mr. and Mrs. O heard a noise. It started like a faint heartbeat and started to steadily grow in a rhythmic fashion: drums banging, bells tapping, voices chanting. What could possibly be happening? Was this a religious experience (overzealous pentecostals)? A political demonstration (remember the start of Hotel Rwanda)?

Greatly disturbed, they jumped out of their beds and nervously peered through the iron bars of their window to try and get a view of the street over their compound walls. (If it were the rapture or civil war, at least they would be fortified)

What they saw was unexpected: joggers. Lots of them. Of all shapes, sizes and sexes. And they were going for a light jaunt down the street, merrily singing and banging away. Then two hours later, they came back the other way.

From what was gathered in the subsequent investigation, this is a running group that gathers early in the morning and jogs down towards the beach as a critical mass. Some have even seen obrunis running with them.

Now they are part of the weekly routine. Some mornings they are ridiculously loud and wake up Little Miss (who wakes up Mr. O, who enjoys his weekend sleeping in) and some mornings they are barely heard, passing through dreams seamlessly.


Addendum: This phenomenon is actually quite prevalent in Accra. One morning catching an early flight, Mr. O saw the main highway filled with runners. For young males, it is an opportunity to train or warm up before an 8AM match, play a little footy and then skip off to the usual marathon church service for the day. So Sundays are not so lazy in Ghana after all...

Kumasi Detour

Three days in Kumasi and this is the only photo taken. Shame.

While Grandma and Grandpa were maximizing their time in Ghana during the harsh northern winter, Mr. O still had work responsibilities, including a business trip to Kumasi, Ghana's second city and the capital of Ashantiland. Mr. O does seem to find his way there rather often. Being a good family man, he paid for the whole family to come along, which meant no daylong drives or AC-less rooms. Instead, they took the hour-long commuter flight and stayed at the Golden Tulip.

While Mr. O was busy working during the day, the family enjoyed their ample buffets and relaxing by the pool - save for Little Miss, who does not relax.

However, Grandma and Grandpa are not the hoity-toity type. They and Mrs. O decided to delve into the heart of Kumasi: Kejetia Market, the largest open-air market in West Africa. In a city of traders and businesspeople, this labyrinth is home to thousands of stalls selling anything imaginable under the sun, managed by market ladies and supplied by an army of porters who need to carry supplies on their heads through the constricted alleyways. While one might imagine colourful fabrics and unique local art, nowadays it is mostly cheap Chinese goods - a massive dollar store. That being said, here are some photos to colour one's imagination.

Grandma and Grandpa's enthusiasm for eschewing hotel pools for hectic local markets is quite astounding, as most people have only heard about it from their guide books or from backpackers - it's simply not a place for (sane) tourists. Yet in they went. Twice.

Otherwise, the stay at the Golden Tulip was good, although it was noted that the business-like price did not justify the ho-hum rooms. It could be worse though: behind the bed, Mrs. O found a comment card from a guest complaining that the water was out for three days. So they count their blessings.

Go West, White Man

Brenu Beach: Come for the beach, stay for the lobster.

Obligatory shot of Elmina Castle and the lagoon.

One can visit Ghana, see the garbage-strewn beaches and think that is all there is to see of the coast. However, the further you travels from the capital, the more impressed you become. The journey started at the least auspicious time of the least auspicious day of the week in Ghana (Sunday 10AM: nary a vehicle on the road). Passing by the usual hangouts of Bojo Beach, Kokrobite and Tills, the group ventured beyond the road well-traveled by obrunis. For the most part, the Accra-Takoradi road is well-maintained and not particularly daunting, as long as you don't mind letting the occasional bat-out-of-hell tro-tro overtake you while passing the occasional loaded-down, smoke belching one yourself.

Given the majority of tourists were aged under 3 or around 60, the group stopped for the first night a little past Cape Coast and Elmina at Brenu Beach Lodge. It was a handsome place on a palm-fringed beach, but was lacking character, as if one could be on a tropical beach anywhere. On the downside, the AC wasn't working and the evening was a bit toasty; on the upside, the fresh lobster was great.

Elmina: passing the Dutch hall on the left-hand side.

The next day, Mr. O and parents drove into Elmina, a fishing town dominated (once literally) by St. George's Castle. Owned by the Portuguese, then Dutch, then British, its major purpose was for trading, primarily slaves. In spite of this, a rather nondescript group called Ghana Ecotours provides tours not of the castle, but of the deeply historical town that routinely gets overlooked by conservative tourists. The fact- and philosophy-filled walking tour featured 18th and 19th century homes, colourful posubans of Asafo companies (hard to explain, but here's a crack at it), a cemetery and ended with a walk up to the hilltop Fort Coenraadsburg, all with maximum information and enthusiasm, but zero hassle. It was hands-down the best tour Mr. O had taken in two stays in Ghana.

At the hilltop fort with our guide (and fish market, saltponds).

Moving on, the group proceeded to their ultimate point, the West Coast beyond Takoradi. For those who experience the nondescript and garbage-strewn beaches around Accra, the West Coast is practically magical. Although the Gulf of Guinea current is still dangerously rough, the beaches are pristine and sparsely populated. The group settled on the Hideout at Butre Beach. It was aptly named: it required a half-hour of driving down rough palm oil plantation roads and beach trails, following the occasional sign and passing the occasional village. The Toyota's 4WD capabilities were thoroughly tested. The Hideout is at the end of the road next to a fishing village and one could easily go there and not be found (several Jimmy Hoffa jokes were made). It was supremely chilled out: private huts with fan and mosquito nets, beachside cabanas and delicious meals and cocktails. Unfortunately, turtle nesting season had passed (see you next year), but canoe tours of the nearby mangroves were patronized - the group observed plenty of colourful birds and the occasional hawk and water monitor ("crocodile", according to locals). Nearby Fanta's Folly was also observed and looked like a winner as well. Apparently they will pick up guests who fly in to Takoradi from Accra - saving several hours of driving.

Butre Beach: nary a person or piece of rubbish in sight.

A day trip to nearby Busua Beach was taken for Mr. O's most anticipated activity in Ghana: surfing. The Black Star Surf Shop is the first of its kind in Ghana and has spearheaded the nascent surf scene in Ghana. Busua's conditions were near-perfect for beginners: even at high tide, one needs only wade a short distance with the board to catch a steady wave, leaving most energy for catching and riding rather than paddling. Mr. O took an afternoon lesson with patient instructor Peter and was up on the board in no time. Mr. O has vowed that this will not be the last trip to Busua. He is not alone: the town itself is starting to heat up as a backpacker hangout and even has a classy hotel for those not fond of mosquito nets.

Up the river from Butre village in the deep dark mangrove.

Busua Beach: physical proof that Mr. O can hang ten.

On the return trip, the group missed their intended stopover at Blue Diamond near Saltpond and ended up staying the night at Tills No. 1 Beach Hotel. The place makes for a great day trip from Accra, as the beach is nice for the area, there's shade in the palm trees and the food is good. 15 years ago, it was probably quite grand, but now is a bit of faded glory: the sprawling grounds need more upkeep than they can handle (although Little Miss had a fantastic time exploring the place) and the accommodations were a bit disappointing: the water was out (it happens everywhere) and the A/C in Mr. and Mrs. O's room was not functioning. In spite of this, the next day they still received a hefty bill with no slack and instead promised better "next time" (which was extremely presumptuous). Lesson learned: stick to day trips.

Regardless, it was great to rediscover the West Coast. Mr. O had fond memories of the area and spent the preceding six months trying to convince Mrs. O that there is something far better than the garbage-strewn beaches of Greater Accra and that it was worth the travel. Next time, a flight to Takoradi would be relatively cheap and quick alternative. Hopefully they can convince their friends to make an excursion in the near future...