"Oh baby, baby, it's a wide world", or, how spring break almost broke us
Lome (Loh-may), Togo's captial city, is much like the other African cities I've visited - dirty, crowded, chaotic, hot and swarming with mopeds and mototaxis. With a significant amount of hassle and confusion, Little Sara, Zoey and I were able to cross the border, purchase visas, change our money and locate our hotel, thanks to Sara's smallsmallFrench and our general intrepidness and resourcefulness, and some help from some friendly Togolese gals who may or may not have been prostitutes.
Our afternoon in Lome was spent wandering the muddy quagmires of streets, a side effect of the rainy season, in the market area trying not to contaminate our feet or flip flops with stagnant gutter-water. We made our way towards the towering Hotel 2 de Fevrier, a solo skyscraper that stretches upwards against the skyline. We took the elevator (the first I've encountered in Africa) to the fancy 35th floor bar with a panoramic view of the city, and as we leaned back in our plush easy chairs, sipped seven dollar cocktails and speared olives with tootpicks, contemplated the disconnect between our lives as American tourists and the lives of the residents of Lome trying to eek out a living by peddling toothbrushes and plastic trinkets from a wheelbarrow or frying up yam balls on the side of the street.
By some twist of fate we met up with April and Lindsay and spent a morning with them on a pretty beach with a view of Lome's industrial yards. From there we headed north, away from the city and into the mountains, stuffing ourselves and our backpacks into the back of a tro tro, effectively molding my spinal column into an S-shape for the duration of the three hour ride. I think the reason most Ghanaians don't travel for pleasure is because it's so darned uncomfortable.
The town of Kpalime was beautiful, nestled into the crook of some low, rounded mountains, and it felt familiar - If I squinted my eyes and ignored the coconut trees I could've been somewhere in the Catskills. We stayed in a really nice hotel with a pool , and swam away our tro tro stiffness underneath a big mango tree full of bats that made sounds like squeaky bicycles. We opted to forego the AC for the sake of our wallets, which resulted in me pouring water over myself periodically throughout the night to prevent myself from bursting into flames.
The next day we took a taxi up into the hills, watching the silhouettes of spindly trees gradually come into color against the backdrop of the hazy early morning sky. We were headed to an area known for its butterflies - unfortunately we arrived at the wrong time of day, and the butterflies were still in hiding. But we arranged for one of the few English-speakers there to show us around the area - we saw avocado trees, mandarin trees, coffee, cocao, mango, banana, and little fuzzy red baby pineapples growing up from their green leafy nests.
Getting away from there proved somewhat difficult - we waited at the village's main (only) junsction for a couple of hours until finally we were picked up by a vehicle heading back to the Ghanain border, of the kind in which you might expect to find illegal immigrant workers smuggling themselves across the border. It looked like an ancient, disemboweled military vehicle.
Hohoe (Ho-hweh), in Ghana's Volta Region was our next destination, but that left us with a kind of a bitter taste in our mouths. Although on the plus side we did manage to find an establishment where we could check our email, it seemed like there was really not all that much there. We got caught in a wild African afternoon rainstorm which we quite enjoyed, but upon return to our hotel room found the desk attendant in our room rifling through our bags with Sara's money in his hand. We got there before anything was taken, but deciced to switch to a different hotel, a much shabbier one on the outskirts of the town.
The next day turned out to be the rose of the trip to counteract the previous day's thorn, though at first it seemed the opposite... we were heading to the tiny village of Liati Wote, but found that public transportation doesn't tend to pass that way. So we chartered a tro tro from these extortionist tro tro drivers, but it would've served us to take a look at the vehicle we were bargaining for first. It was one of the kind that require a running start from four men pushing behind, and the ignition was engaged by touching together two of the many exposed wires underneath the dahsboard. The floor was made of cardboard and wooden planks, the seats were either missing or not nailed down, and the passenger side door flew open mid-ride. It made a tremendous clattering down the dirt road, and we sideswiped a stalled taxi, though not at a high speed - the taxi driver was not upset once our driver explained that his brakes didn'r work quite right.
We arrived in the village greeted by waving hands of interested children going about their day's work. We contracted a guide who escorted us up Mt. Afadjato, the tallest mountain in Ghana, which in retrospect was pretty much a solid hour of sheer torture - an excessively steep trail, sweltering heat, dripping sweat, trembling muscles, and flies buzzing continuously around our heads. The view from the top was pretty spectacular, but the brutal force of the sun somewhat overpowered our sense of accomplishment and forced us to seek cover by starting back down the mountain. My quadriceps may never be the same.
Down the mountain was where it got good. We walked on a blissfully flat trail into the rainforest, and it was certainly one of the most beautiful places I have ever seen on this earth. The deeper you walk into the jungle the more it becomes larger than life, and the smaller you feel, like Alice in wonderland. The forest smelled like cucumbers and annis, and we could hear a hollow, mysterious-sounding bird call. We were surrounded everywhere by gargantuan vine-covered trees, and leaves the size of salad plates that led to leaves the size of dinner plates that led to leaves the size of serving platters and bigger. There was stream that reminded me of a particular bend on a particular wooded path in Rockwood Park, and in it were deep red colored rocks that could easily be mistaken for rubies with the water sparkling and glistening as it rushes over them.
Finally we came upon our goal: Tagbo Falls, a tremendous, sparkling waterfall that runs down from a fern-covered rocky wall. All I could say for a full five minutes was "Oh my God" and "Oh my God." "Where does the water come from I asked.."
"Heaven?" ventured Sara, and I was satisfied with that answer.
Trichtomoniasis be damned, we swam in that water and it was pure and cold and wonderful.
We toyed with the idea of doing a village homestay that night, but instead headed on to our final destination, Ho, where the golden light of the afternoon upon the gorgeous greenery of the Volta rregion and also the Freedom hotel saved our sanity. It had a gorgeous swimming pool and we walked into the room exclaiming, Look! The toilet flushes! and there's a shower curtain! and all the lights work and NINE telelvision channels!!! We ate a real meal (we'd been living mostly on bread and honey and peanut butter, with big plates of rice for dinner to supplement) and watched the rainstorm from the balcony of the bar. Living the high life.
Our afternoon in Lome was spent wandering the muddy quagmires of streets, a side effect of the rainy season, in the market area trying not to contaminate our feet or flip flops with stagnant gutter-water. We made our way towards the towering Hotel 2 de Fevrier, a solo skyscraper that stretches upwards against the skyline. We took the elevator (the first I've encountered in Africa) to the fancy 35th floor bar with a panoramic view of the city, and as we leaned back in our plush easy chairs, sipped seven dollar cocktails and speared olives with tootpicks, contemplated the disconnect between our lives as American tourists and the lives of the residents of Lome trying to eek out a living by peddling toothbrushes and plastic trinkets from a wheelbarrow or frying up yam balls on the side of the street.
By some twist of fate we met up with April and Lindsay and spent a morning with them on a pretty beach with a view of Lome's industrial yards. From there we headed north, away from the city and into the mountains, stuffing ourselves and our backpacks into the back of a tro tro, effectively molding my spinal column into an S-shape for the duration of the three hour ride. I think the reason most Ghanaians don't travel for pleasure is because it's so darned uncomfortable.
The town of Kpalime was beautiful, nestled into the crook of some low, rounded mountains, and it felt familiar - If I squinted my eyes and ignored the coconut trees I could've been somewhere in the Catskills. We stayed in a really nice hotel with a pool , and swam away our tro tro stiffness underneath a big mango tree full of bats that made sounds like squeaky bicycles. We opted to forego the AC for the sake of our wallets, which resulted in me pouring water over myself periodically throughout the night to prevent myself from bursting into flames.
The next day we took a taxi up into the hills, watching the silhouettes of spindly trees gradually come into color against the backdrop of the hazy early morning sky. We were headed to an area known for its butterflies - unfortunately we arrived at the wrong time of day, and the butterflies were still in hiding. But we arranged for one of the few English-speakers there to show us around the area - we saw avocado trees, mandarin trees, coffee, cocao, mango, banana, and little fuzzy red baby pineapples growing up from their green leafy nests.
Getting away from there proved somewhat difficult - we waited at the village's main (only) junsction for a couple of hours until finally we were picked up by a vehicle heading back to the Ghanain border, of the kind in which you might expect to find illegal immigrant workers smuggling themselves across the border. It looked like an ancient, disemboweled military vehicle.
Hohoe (Ho-hweh), in Ghana's Volta Region was our next destination, but that left us with a kind of a bitter taste in our mouths. Although on the plus side we did manage to find an establishment where we could check our email, it seemed like there was really not all that much there. We got caught in a wild African afternoon rainstorm which we quite enjoyed, but upon return to our hotel room found the desk attendant in our room rifling through our bags with Sara's money in his hand. We got there before anything was taken, but deciced to switch to a different hotel, a much shabbier one on the outskirts of the town.
The next day turned out to be the rose of the trip to counteract the previous day's thorn, though at first it seemed the opposite... we were heading to the tiny village of Liati Wote, but found that public transportation doesn't tend to pass that way. So we chartered a tro tro from these extortionist tro tro drivers, but it would've served us to take a look at the vehicle we were bargaining for first. It was one of the kind that require a running start from four men pushing behind, and the ignition was engaged by touching together two of the many exposed wires underneath the dahsboard. The floor was made of cardboard and wooden planks, the seats were either missing or not nailed down, and the passenger side door flew open mid-ride. It made a tremendous clattering down the dirt road, and we sideswiped a stalled taxi, though not at a high speed - the taxi driver was not upset once our driver explained that his brakes didn'r work quite right.
We arrived in the village greeted by waving hands of interested children going about their day's work. We contracted a guide who escorted us up Mt. Afadjato, the tallest mountain in Ghana, which in retrospect was pretty much a solid hour of sheer torture - an excessively steep trail, sweltering heat, dripping sweat, trembling muscles, and flies buzzing continuously around our heads. The view from the top was pretty spectacular, but the brutal force of the sun somewhat overpowered our sense of accomplishment and forced us to seek cover by starting back down the mountain. My quadriceps may never be the same.
Down the mountain was where it got good. We walked on a blissfully flat trail into the rainforest, and it was certainly one of the most beautiful places I have ever seen on this earth. The deeper you walk into the jungle the more it becomes larger than life, and the smaller you feel, like Alice in wonderland. The forest smelled like cucumbers and annis, and we could hear a hollow, mysterious-sounding bird call. We were surrounded everywhere by gargantuan vine-covered trees, and leaves the size of salad plates that led to leaves the size of dinner plates that led to leaves the size of serving platters and bigger. There was stream that reminded me of a particular bend on a particular wooded path in Rockwood Park, and in it were deep red colored rocks that could easily be mistaken for rubies with the water sparkling and glistening as it rushes over them.
Finally we came upon our goal: Tagbo Falls, a tremendous, sparkling waterfall that runs down from a fern-covered rocky wall. All I could say for a full five minutes was "Oh my God" and "Oh my God." "Where does the water come from I asked.."
"Heaven?" ventured Sara, and I was satisfied with that answer.
Trichtomoniasis be damned, we swam in that water and it was pure and cold and wonderful.
We toyed with the idea of doing a village homestay that night, but instead headed on to our final destination, Ho, where the golden light of the afternoon upon the gorgeous greenery of the Volta rregion and also the Freedom hotel saved our sanity. It had a gorgeous swimming pool and we walked into the room exclaiming, Look! The toilet flushes! and there's a shower curtain! and all the lights work and NINE telelvision channels!!! We ate a real meal (we'd been living mostly on bread and honey and peanut butter, with big plates of rice for dinner to supplement) and watched the rainstorm from the balcony of the bar. Living the high life.