HumanPoweredTransport: Ghana Chronicles: Pt.3

Doldrums 1. At around one week in, we’re still stuck with no shipment and no clear answers as to when something might happen. The best the shipper can do is tell George that the boat is closer to Ghana than Singapore, somewhere out in the Atlantic. What is certain is this; we have no control over our situation. Sampson takes us to the central bike market, which is really just a section of the giant outdoor market near the Jamestown section of Accra. It’s madness. We shoot around a half hour of footage with the stealthy little camera, having left the main bit of machinery safely locked away at Philo’s. Now is not the time to have our gear stolen or confiscated, or to raise any questions by using more ‘pro’ looking kit. As I collect footy with the ‘tourist’ camera, I am secretly pining for how great it could be if I had the bigger rig. C’est la vie. The market is a cacophony of parts, frames, new and old bikes, mechanics and vendors. It is a brief opportunity to do something and we relish it. All too soon though, we’re back to twiddling our thumbs.
Fidgeting in this festering berg is not helping our mojo, so after countless backgammon games, marathon reading sessions, trips to the internet café, etc., we shove off for an excursion to the Aburi Mountains and the National Botanic Gardens. This amounts to shoving ourselves into a tro-tro, a van rebuilt into a small bus – the main means of transpo for all of Ghana. The Accra-to-Aburi route careens out of town and up the mountain range that rings the city and suburbs. More or less, this is basically a large hill, not really a mountain. We pass Rita Marley’s place, which is easy to spot as it’s painted top to bottom in Rasta tri-color with giant lettering announcing not only who’s house it is, but what type of recording equipment is inside. I guess the ghost of Bob keeps the thieves at bay. Hell, maybe Steven Segal lives next door. The guy really does live in Ghana, though I’m not sure exactly where. He’s releasing a reggae album too. Truth. Anyway, we chug past Rita’s and arrive at the end of the road in the town of Aburi at just a hair before sunset. I climb out of the tro-tro and turn to help an elderly lady with her bags. As I take her hand I think, man she could be my friend Konda’s grandmother – she looks a bit like her but more than that her aura is hauntingly familiar. Suddenly my cel rings (yeah we get cel service in the 3rd world – welcome to the future). It’s Konda on the phone, checking in about some business back in LA. Cosmic forces are not to be fucked with – the only thing in control of our fate here is Africa itself. Somehow I find this comforting.
We hump on up the hill into the gardens where there’s a well-recommended guesthouse. Apparently it’s taken a turn for the worse since our guidebook was penned. We’re trapped of course, because it’s dark and the nearest option for accommodation is around 3 klicks down the road. The room is one of those mold factories where you want to pull on more clothes when you walk in the door and it’s over priced. Stupid traveler move for sure, but we grit our teeth and bite the bullet. Stupid move number two, I didn’t bring enough Cedis to really cover the unexpected cost and eat a decent meal and get back down the mountain tomorrow. Some creative bargaining manages to circumvent most of the problem, though I feel like an idiot and TT is rightly miffed at my blunder. We put on clean socks, pants and shirts and crawl into our sleep sacks for a restless night. The next morning we check out the garden and it’s pretty cool. There are two giant cotton trees that are around 200 years old and inexplicably a crashed and rusted hulk of an old army chopper. We walk through the town and find some satisfaction in a number of Kodak moments. Upon return to Accra we learn that the shipment has finally reached port in Tema. Now we just need it to clear customs.

Doldrums 2. The next few days are spent with more time killing distractions that do little to distract us from the out-of-our-control factor. Games, laundry (hand washing is fun!), Camus, Hornby, Arsenal vs. Manchester United (PK’s suck! MU’s keeper sucks more!), a visit to Kokrobite Beach , a visit with a friend of a friends brother-in-law who happens to live in Accra, the discovery of a good veggie restaurant, Liverpool vs. AC Milan (never walk alone), web surfing at the net café’s, more books, more backgammon, some chess, some Kodak moments, some political dialog with D. Atsu, some social dialog with Adom Atsu, the bubbles, and each day the news that the shipment will clear customs tomorrow. A few tomorrows into this pattern, we learn it is a pan-African holiday. Everything will be closed, no chance of the shipment clearing, so we decide to check out Labadi Beach. Never in my life have I seen so much pollution in, on and around the sea. How can this seem correct to any human being? Dumping trash all around yourself while sitting on an otherwise pristine shore, wallowing in debris as it washes around you like so much canned rebel musak. No one smokes cig’s here, but they all litter like addicted fiends; food, plastic, shit. The water is unnaturally greenish brown, hissing and foamy with a disturbing tangy odor that overpowers the usual salty brine. Surf’s up!