Volta Region of Ghana

Most of my preconceptions of Africa came from the Lion King, the Air up There and National Geographic features surrounding famine stricken savanah animals desperately searching for water in a crusty pergatory. Last year in preparation for my first voyage to the motherland, I listened to Paul Simon’s Graceland, Nikose Sikele Africa, Israel Houghton’s Alive in South Africa and Toto’s Africa ad nauseum. I confess that while writing or reading on my porch listening to the rain pound on the corrugated aluminum overhead I wished that I had Toto’s Africa on my ipod or computer so that I could sing along and sing out, “God bless the rains down in Africa.” When I awoke from my early morning flight and walked down the stairs from the planed and passed the doors into Kotoko airport and saw the Akwaaba welcome signs and reminders that Ghana is the gateway to Africa, I had practically forgotten I was in Africa. As I write this I am on a six hour busride from Tamale to Kumasi and passing endless green, trees of all sorts, giant ten foot ant mounds, and clustered villages of circular earthen huts as we made the journey crossing the many flooded tributaries of the Volta River, which is the lifeblood of Ghana. One of my continued prayers is that I might always look with wonder at the works of my Creator. Africa is absolutely beautiful. Last week Michael accompanied me to Wli falls in the middle of the mountains of the Volta Region, bordering Togo. Driving on rough red dirt roads navigating potholes, the waterfalls catch you by surprise. High in the hills, one would not be expecting to see such powerful falls. I paid my six cedis (4 bucks) and Michael led me across a variety of decrepit bridges, about a 35 minute expedition crossing back and forth over the same meandering stream until we reached the falls, the largest in West Africa. Due to the recent rainfall, the falls were overflowing and the rope bridge that allows you to walk behind them was directly in the path of the raging water. Several hundred bats adorned the damp rock faces adjacent to the falls. The pool at the base eschewed a misty cloud that dominated the area, as if it needed an additional reminder that the falls ought to demand everyone’s attention. I sat with Michael and we spoke about how anyone could experience such splendor and deny a creator’s presence and necesity. I thought of the images of water from Psalms and the idea of deep crying to deep in the roar of waterfalls and as I meditated on this passage that brings me so much comfort, I thought about the Sekpele and Selee communities whom I visited the previous day having dedicated the New Testament in their language five months ago. They don’t have the privilege of picturing the writings of the Psalmists because they don’t have the funding to translate the Old Testament into their mother tongue. They desperately want to begin, again convincing themselves that I would be able to assist in convincing the Seed Company to approve the funding. I was joined at the falls by staggered clusters of white people coming to enjoy the beauty. I suspected that few Ghanaians ever visited the falls and he said that there are many waterfalls around and they don’t see it as terribly out of normal and that they don’t have the time or the resources to make the journey. This isn’t terribly surprising, but it’s rather sad. The scattered rain provided a nice contrast to the dusty smothering heat of Tema and Accra. I stayed in the simple guesthouse across the way from Michael’s house with his wife and infant son. She cooked for us, and she sure can cook. Ghanaian food is so much better than Kenyan or other types of African food. Unfortunately I don’t really enjoy fish, and so when I ate by myself I would stomach a few bites, shovel some around and possibly throw some out to the goats.

The electricy was out almost half the time and around 4 or 5 things begin to simmer down. Young adults and kids play football on the dirt fields until night falls. If they have power, they might watch or listen to the news on the one channel that comes in if you are lucky to have a satellite. (The picture doesn’t come through half the time). Every few days, they take a moto into town to check email and do errands. The three mile taxi ride costs 30 cents. Walking down the lane to get to the GILBBT office you pass many dwelling places. There are kids and moms selling different food items. Little kids walk around in tiny Chelsea Michael Essien jerseys, even up here away from much of civilization. Most kids are excited to see me and smile and wave. Hohoe sits in the shade of large mountains and has some beautiful views at sunset and early morning. Without all the distractions of television, internet and phones, I go to bed around 9 and wake up around 5 to read and prepare for the day. I finished my Liverpool book and started to read the Kite Runner. I couldn’t put it down and finished it on the trutru ride back to Accra. I sat in the front seat winding with my backpack on my lap, book in hand and headphones connected to my ipod as we made our way down the mountains through the gorgeous views and across the flood plains and the beautiful suspension bridge across the Volta River. I was laughing to myself as I fought tears at the end of the Kite Runner to keep it together so the Ghanaians didn’t think the crazy American was crying for nothing. The lack of deodorant helped bring me back to Ghana whenever the book was pulling me away to Afghanistan.