the obruni experience: getting there is half the fun

Next Monday's column (July 21). Stuff in brackets will not appear in the actual column but I have added for you, my dear reader, who will probably appreciate it more than my Ghanaian audience:

Others have said it many times before, but I will say it again: life isn’t about the destination, it’s about the journey. Every day I spend in Ghana, I’m reminded of the truth in that old saying. My most memorable experiences here have all involved the unexpected and the unplanned.

Last weekend was no exception. The group of Americans I came to Ghana with took a trip to Mole National Park. We had heard, of course, that the trip is long, dusty and possibly dangerous. We knew that we would spend more time traveling than actually experiencing Mole. But we also knew that going on a safari was a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity that we couldn’t pass up.

So on Saturday morning, after spending the night in Kumasi, we piled into our chartered bus again for the long trip to Mole. We had arranged to switch buses and drivers 60 km outside of the park, because the owner of our first chartered bus didn’t want it traveling down such bad roads.

After many long but comfortable hours on our nice Chinese bus, we arrived at the juncture where we were supposed to switch vehicles. Confused, we looked around. There were definitely no other buses in sight. Instead, a van pulled up and out stepped an excited-looking man wearing flashy sunglasses that would have been more fitting on a professional cyclist.

The man identified himself as Mr. Fatal, who was indeed the same ominously-named person who was supposed to take us to Mole. He started loading our things eagerly into the van, while a crowd of local children begged for change.

Mathematically, the group of 14 obronis, our Ghanaian guide from Accra, Mr. Fatal and the driver should not have been able to fit into the van with all of our luggage. But by some form of obviously ancient Ghanaian magic, we did it. I was jammed into the very backseat with three of my friends.

The van had windows, but they didn’t open. The air conditioning in the van functioned so poorly that in the very back we could not feel it at all. Within minutes, the four of us in the last row were drenched in sweat. Outside the car, red dust swirled as though we were trekking across the surface of Mars.

Then the van idled to a halt. The driver and Mr. Fatal debated something loudly in Twi before opening the doors to let us out. Stepping out into the searing equatorial sunlight felt like stepping into a freezer. I realized that the back seat of the van must have been 10 degrees warmer (that's Celsius, meaning approx 20 degrees warmer Fahrenheit) than it was outside.

Outside the car were several small children. These did not beg, however, they just stared at us, silent and expressionless, as we emerged thankfully from our oven on wheels. We must have looked ridiculous; pasty white intruders sopping with perspiration, led by a bizarrely enthusiastic Ghanaian wearing shades that challenged the very sun with its own reflection.

After trying fruitlessly and awkwardly to engage the children in conversation for quite some time, an older boy of about twelve gestured for us to follow him. Mr. Fatal and the driver ignored us and scuttled around on the ground under the van, trying to figure out what had caused the breakdown.

Accompanied by the small crowd of still-silent children, we stopped under the shady relief of a mango tree. Benches and chairs were produced as if conjured from the cool, sun-dappled air around us and we settled down to wait for our van to be fixed.

(Except for me, who by now had to pee very very badly. Through Sonny, our Ghanaian guide from Accra's interpretation, we told a village man that I needed a bathroom. Michelle and Sonny went with me.

I was led to a rather nice cement building and into a tiny room. I had been expecting something like this, except this was even more perplexing than I thought. A cement room with not even a hole in the ground - instead, a sort-of drain leading from the wall to the outside. But the way the ground was sloped, it would never drain.

I called Michelle over. Perplexed, we decided there had been a miscommunication. I hadn't wanted to change, I'd wanted to pee... but no, we asked Sonny, and this was it...

I really regretted asking for a toilet now. The field outside looked so much more appealing. I've already mastered "the hover" - I do not trust seat covers here - but peeing in a room with no drainage went against all of my instincts.

Semi-victoriously I emerged from the bathroom and then covered for Michelle while she did the sensible thing and used the field - never again asking for a toilet when there is a perfectly fine field, I'll tell you that. Then we tramped back to the mango tree where our friends had made some small progress with the locals.)

Two hours later, we had finally established some sort of rapport with our adorable but shy little hosts. Some of us were clustered close to the dirt, where we played a particularly competitive game of “Hangman,” an American spelling game we all remembered from primary school. Another group watched as some of the local girls drew pictures in the dirt with sticks and giggled amongst themselves.

After reaching the conclusion that the van had somehow lost most of its oil, Mr. Fatal and a mechanically-inclined member of our group (Nick) repaired the leak as best as they could before acquiring new oil for the engine from a nearby village. Back in business, we bid our small friends goodbye and sorted ourselves back into our seats.
The road was not as bumpy as expected. Cheered by our recent mango-tree break, my backseat comrades and I faced our tribulations with great heart. We began singing choruses of any and every song we could remember. (Jay-Z, Bob Dylan, The Beatles and Disney all featured prominently) As we sang, the car got hotter. The air got dustier. We sweated more and poured the remnants of our water bottles onto each other as we had seen elephants at watering holes do on the Discovery Channel in the same sweltering African heat.

Soon I realized that the back of the van was broken. The Martian dust was clearly getting in through the cracks in the back doors, and the backseat-dwellers formed the first line of defense. The others in my row looked increasingly orange as the minutes passed, and I realized that I too must be covered in a layer of sticky, sweaty red dust. Laughing at our ridiculous appearances, we swiped still more dust from the seat behind us and painted stripes on our faces like badges of honor.
When we finally arrived at the Mole Motel, the four of us in the backseat were nearly delirious. In the last few minutes I spent in the car I felt as though I would pass out from the heat. Then the driver threw the back doors of the van open and I felt the gloriously fresh air on my skin. I turned around and smiled at the driver, who stopped and stared at my new red complexion, before making a guilty expression and going to mutter something to Mr. Fatal. Apparently, the dust in the back was so bad not because the van’s doors were broken but because they were open, a possibility my friends and I had not considered when wondering at the magnificent (recreation of the American) dustbowl swirling in the backseat.

The view from the patio of the motel was spectacular. Instead of the endless dusty red of the road to Mole was the endless expanse of pristine green forests and ponds. The breathtaking beauty of my surroundings was enhanced by the promise of a dip in the pool and the ice-cold Club beer in my hand. The sun shone through the clouds as though heaven itself had opened up before me.

I understand now that Mole was so beautiful to me then not only because of its inherent splendor, but because of the experiences that led me to that moment.

We did see elephants the next day, as well as warthogs, baboons and antelope. Ask me what I remember of Mole in ten years, though, and I already know what I will imagine: an overheated van barreling down a rusty road, a mango tree shading our hospitable young companions, tears of laughter and beads of sweat running down the faces of my friends and one fabulous, jaw-dropping view of paradise that I will never, ever forget.