The Village of Senya Beraku

Well, I've been on quite an adventure since last I wrote. I left yesterday, a Saturday, at 8:30 with Kelly, Ake, Patrick (who I keep wanting to call Daniel), Andrew, and Brian, and I returned with the same group at around 1:00 in the afternoon today.

Our plan was to go to the beach in Goma Feta, or something like that, however the best laid plans of mice and students often go astray. After a short taxi ride filled with unimaginable peril, we all arrived at Kadeschi--a local taxi and tro-tro station in the midst of downtown Accra (tro-tro's are the form of public transportation around here. They're like taxi vans). "Not here, here the thieves will get you." said the taxi-driver as we approached the station. The ride there was 40,000 cedies. I gave the man an extra 2,000 for able driving. (Just so you readers know, a dollar is worth about 9,200 cedis)

I enquired around for a conveyance to Winneba, the next stop on our way to the beach. Soon, we were in a long line waiting to get on a fairly nice looking bus to Winneba, where once we arrived--according to Brian--there would be a short 15 minute cab ride to Goma Feta. That turned out to be one of the many things Brian would be wrong about on the trip. Well, the bus quickly filled up and left, unfortunately without us on it.

After we stood around for another 20 minutes waiting for the next bus--it's important to keep in mind that the entire station/marketplace is staring at the only obronis (white people) within a 30 mile radius--Brian and Andrew go off to search for another ride even though we had been assured by the local populace that writhed all around us that another bus was on its way. I bought two handkerchiefs/sweat-rags for 2,000 cedis a piece, a sound investment in this hot dusty country.

Fifteen minutes after Brian and Andrew wandered off an empty tro-tro pulled up going to Winneba. However, we could not get on it on account of Brian and Andrew wandering off. We immediately made the rule that from that point on we left behind whoever was fucking up the program with their absence.

Soon, Andrew came to tell us that they had found a place where we could get to Winneba. Imagine what we said to him. Regardless, after a short walk and about an hour wait--35 to 40 minutes of which were spent in the back of a cramped mini-bus sweating our brains out and refusing the handfuls of merchandise stuck in our faces through the bus windows while we waited for the rickety vehicle to reach capacity--we were on our way.

Saturday, was my first time out of Accra and it was, in a word, redeeming. It redeemed my passion to see Africa. We zoomed, or rather, putted out of town and as if by magic Africa appeared. Mud huts, hills alive with vegetation, a few giant trees that will forever stick in my brain as symbols of Africa, and miles upon miles of bushy scrublands. Beautiful. It was redeeming in its beauty and newness--to me--and there were hills. Hills! Standing by themselves, in groups, farmed, and unfarmed. I didn't realize how long it had been since I had left Indiana. They looked like mountains to me. It was wonderful.

Despite the awe I was in as I stared out the window the ride itself can be described with two words; horribly and painful. Sitting in the cramped back corner of a mini-bus filled to capacity and with a purposeless steel plate blocking your feet from being stretched underneath the steel bench in front of you while staring out the window at the never ending parade of crashed and demolished vehicles that litter the roadside is not an experience that will be related to you in the guide book.

It is however part of the experience of traveling on a budget in West Africa.

We managed to arrive in Winneba only a hell's eternity later. Actually, it only took about two and a half hours with just a few figurative hiccups--not the literal chronic Nicole kind. The president drove by and stopped traffic, the driver needed an ice-cream bar, and somehow when we got to Winneba the people thought it was a good idea to, instead of letting everybody off at the station, start stopping every twenty feet so one person could off here and another there. Walks that would have been 5 minutes tops for the person the farthest away added at least 10 extra minutes of excruciating pain to the bus trip. I swear, we let one guy off at the entrance to the station, drove 15 more feet and stopped the bus.

Of course, before the bus even stopped the local cab-driers were rushing towards the bus "Obroni, where are you going? Take this cab." We just wanted to fucking stand up. That's where I was going; I was going to stand the fuck up, ya damn cabbies.

So, Brian, who claims to know where we're going, masterfully accepts the cabbies first offer of 120,000 cedis to take us to Bobba Fett or wherever the hell it was he thought we were going to be able to stay. 120,000 cedis! What the fuck Brian? I wonder why the cabbies run up as soon as they see white people...maybe because idiots like you take the first price offered to them. 120,000, I couldn't believe it. 120,000 could feed you for like a week over here. For the record it cost us 18,000 to get back to Campus on Sunday. Damn you Brian!

It's another 45 minute cab ride over the roughest road I've ever seen. Twice, I would have sworn we were going to have to turn back around, but we kept going. Off in the distance I spotted more of the trees that made up a fair portion of my desire to come and see Africa. Those big Lion King type tress--you know the ones I'm talking about. The big trees are so beautiful here, with their high canopy of branches and smooth grey bark. Absolutely amazing, a different world.

So, we make it to the beach! Finally! Right on! We pay the outrageous cab fees--that's two cabs at 120,000 cedis a cab. Highway robbery.

The cabbies had dropped us off at this shitty looking resort--shitty because I didnt' come to Africa to stay at a resort. I would've gone to Florida if that was the case--it was called Tillma's Beach.

We walk in, all six of us, looking like complete messes, which we were, and the desk attendants tell us that the rooms are 54 dollars a night and it is two to a room. They said dollars by the way, not cedis. They thought they had some live ones. What they didn't know is that college students are poor worldwide.

We laughed at their joke and the lady ran off to see if we could get a better deal. She did not anticipate how good the deal would have to be. "45$ per room with breakfast and you can rent an extra mattress." We knew that if that was the 2nd offer then there was no way we could afford the place and our sandals hit the dust again as we walked out to nowhere in search of better rooms.

Spirits remained high even though it had taken us so long to get where we were that we were certainly out in the middle of nowhere, and asking a local to let us sleep in their shack was beginning to look like a possibility if the other two places nearby--Sunset Beach and White Sands--were as expensive as Tillmans. Just then we saw the attendant lady running after us down the road. "30$ a room." Sorry lady, but we had to get back too. Not to mention that we, especially me, were starving.

"Sunset Beach?" We asked a local. "Nope." That place had been out of business for a good while. So we trudged through town, or rather a village side street, or maybe it was a village main street. I don't know. It was hard to say. There weren't exactly street signs. We were greeted with friendly smiles, waves, and shouts of "Obroni!" The people in this country love the word. We had a cab-driver on the way back who shouted it at every white person we passed--even though he had crammed six of us whiteys into his car.

We arrived at the gates of White Sands about a mile and a half down the road.

"Closed for renovations, Obroni."

Sweet. We trudged back through town, for once, not feeling guilty about not handing out money or gifts when asked "give me cash" or "give me 5,000" by the children. Actually, it's not very good persuasive form to stick out your hand and say "give" me anything, but we were broke, hungry, and without a place to stay so there weren't even whispers of guilt.

After we made the walk of shame back through town, we found a cab that was able to take us to a little place called "Fort Good Hope" that Kelly had noticed in Brian's travel book. Good hope, indeed.

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Okay, maybe I should fill in a few blanks here; I realize that I'm telling a story, but I have neglected to comment on the cast of characters. Firstly, I will say that I just met these people, some more recently than others, and so any opinions I have of them are incomplete and probably superficial. Secondly, I have decided to embrace this superficiality and rate the others of the group in order of likeability: 1. Kelly--she's the oldest of the group and is very "chill" as the American students say here. 2. Patrick--looks like a Daniel but isn't. This almost counted against him in the ranking because I keep wanting to call him Daniel. However, he is a very cool dude--just the right amount of both awe and detachment when confronted with the new shit you are commonly confronted with as an obroni here. 3. Ake--total bitch, but I can appreciate that in a person, and she's kinda cute in a bitchy way. 4. Andrew--a little too theatre major for me, by that stereotype I mean not enough detachment and too much video camera. For you Whiteland kids; he's a real Nate Farrar type 5. Brian--this kid. I mean, he's alright, and I guess he's well traveled , but he hits the nerd ball right out of the park every time a situation is pitched to him. That and he's kinda stupid--at least seemingly. Me. Kegen--cool, but maybe a little bit of a dick, could just be his since of humor though. But two questions for him: 1-does you even own sleeves? 2-Why don't you get your nose out of that goddamned book dude? Geez.

So that's the --oh wait, I can't believe I forgot--everybody is white except for Ake who is Japanese by ancestry, and everybody is American. That's the cast and crew of this little expedition.

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We arrive at Senya Bareku, pull up to Fort Good Hope and all of us wriggle out of the cab, and go inside to discover that their rooms are 120,000 cedis, which is 50,000 more than the guidebook says, but it is the same amount we paid for a taxi ride to nowhere so it sounds pretty cheap at this point.

The place is spectacular. It was built in 1702 by the Dutch as part of the gold trade, but was quicly converted into a slave prison. We all slept within the walls of said slave prison.

Let me set the scene: West Africa. A solid fortification sits atop a cliff over-looking a natural harbor a hundred feet below. The waves lap the rocks, which jut out beneath the castle, and threaten to wet the feet of a young boy who sits by the skeletons of three dugout canoes beached on the sandy shore. Six white people walk across the ramparts, and when they look over the short thick walls toward the harbor they see an entire fishing village begin to gather upon the sand. Boat after boat begins to dot the horizon with its colorful sails. On shore the dancing and singing has already begun. There is a funeral and there will be much merry-making this evening.

Can you fucking believe it? That's actually what we saw. That's like Indiana Jones, Marco Polo, Dr. Livingston kinda shit. It was incredible.

We got settled in our rooms, and then went to the beach. We passed through the docking area where they pulled the boat onshore--the crowd hadn't begun to gather yet. Everybody was friendly and quick with a wave. We walked to a cliff wall, set our shit down, and Andrew and Patrick lit a couple of joints they had rolled in our castle chambers. It was fucking magical.

There I was on the coast of Africa smoking a doobie and, as Andrew pointed out, the ocean was reaching out with its damp fingers to clean the dust from the road off our tired pink feetsies. Right as we finished both joints, the sun, for the first time that day, broke through the clouds and shone down on us and the harbor. At the same time at least twelve boats were visible on the choppy waters with four or five of them being close enough to see the muscled sailors clearly.

We all stood in awe for a while before we walked back, or rather started walking back. We stopped and waited and watched the hubbub and activity on the beach for another while. The children were precocious and cute although the free hands of previous obronis had obviously taught them a little begging was in order. We didn't indulge them in that way, but we did play some games.

They tried to scare us with a crab they were tormenting, but we didn't take the bait. Except for Ake who was possessed of an irrational fear of the poor little shelled beastie. I, as is in my nature, tried to save the lil'guy twice. Once overtly and once covertly. Neither successfully. First, I took the crab as it was offered--don't forget I'm stoned as shit--laughed with the kids for awhile and then put the crab in the receding tide hoping it would make a break for it. The kids were not pleased with the crab liberation attempt and they easily recaught the creature, but I was spurned for a few minutes. I was ignored until they got really into this "guess which hand the crab is in" game. When it was my turn, I put my hands behind my back and dropped the crab, and the kids were mystified for a second when both my hands were empty, but some sharp-eyed kid spotted ol'crabby before he had gone too far. Sorry guy. I tried, but I wasn't on my home turf.

The ships were in, and they were throwing fish around for the kids to scramble and fight over. One almost hit Patrick in the face. It was good fun.

I don't want to forget to mention Margaret and Chris, a Ghanaian couple who were at the castle to celebrate the funeral that coincided with our visit. As soon as Margaret saw me she told me to sit on her lap, which I did--how could I not? I didn't want to be rude, and she was kind of an African milf--and then she gave me a peck on the cheek, after asking if she could, of course. She was drunk. Chris was the guy sitting next to her whom I assume was with her. Maybe he wasn't. I dunno; didn't ask. Chris is a reporter here in Ghana. I asked him if he was covering the cocaine scandal, which is big news over here. The whole government is involved. He appreciated that, laughed, and gave me another big snapping handshake. I then asked to kiss Margaret on the cheek, received permission, kissed the fine lady, and left.

The food--fresh fish--was okay. The atmosphere was incredible, and the whole thing was storybook amazing. The castle, the stones, the boats coming in, the view from the ramparts, waves rolling in under the moonlight, and, best of all, I was really there to see it. I was really there to look out over the ancient walls of the castle out over Africa. What a Dream. To see the coast stretch out before us through the deep arched windows of an ancient fort after a day spent walking through the African bush and making our way through mud hut villages.

That was Africa. Or, rather maybe, the Africa I came to see. Up till this trip I'd been stuck in Accra the capital city, and to me a city is a city--same stench, same hustle and bustle, same pollution, same business--but a countryside is so much more. It's nature. It's an infinite complexity of natural origins, it's got a soul and a feel to it. Africa, I've been here for 18 days now, but I just saw you for the first time yesterday.

the end

-Back to the top- Enjoy.

-Kegen Dean Benson