Fievel Goes...: Ghana

I’ve been trying for a long time to figure out how to write about Ghana. I think it’s because I want to do the experience justice, but I don’t want it to sound cheesy. I don’t want to give the impression that I found my life’s calling in Ghana because that isn’t true. I haven’t decided to devote my life to helping the poor. It wasn’t anything quite that miraculous, but it was life-changing.

I believe that every experience a person has plays a part in who they become. These changes can be virtually unnoticeable or they can change a person’s plans entirely. It could be something as simple as a little habit that the person never shakes or the way they never look at everyday objects the same way again. Or it can be the thing that makes a person drop everything and switch majors in their last year of college because they’ve suddenly found their calling.

My experience in Ghana was the former, but it was incredibly powerful.

Growing up in the US and never having traveled outside of Europe and North America, I had never given much thought to clean water. In Ghana, I learned to think of clean water as a gift, and a good one at that. I learned that people can smile and joke and play, even though they lead lives more difficult than I could ever have imagined. I learned to trust strangers when I got lost, but I also learned to be cautious about it when I got ripped off by tricky street vendors. I also learned that getting ripped off is something that you can easily accept when you learn that the person ripping you off lives in a country where people make an average of two US dollars a day.

I did a lot of cool things in Ghana. I went to a slave dungeon, on a canopy walk through the rainforest and I visited a high school and a university where one of the SAS professors gave presentations and we got to talk to students. I got multiple takes on the female experience in Ghana when I visited the FIDA and had lunch with Amma Darko who wrote one of my newly discovered favorite books, Not without Flowers. Each and every one of these experiences had its own impact on me, but my favorite story by far is about getting lost.

I was out with three friends in Takoradi. We had set out on the first morning slathered in bug spray and sunscreen, toting Pepto and our cameras. Our mission was to see the huge circle market, which was a success. The market was packed and we were approached several times by men trying to sell us touristy souvenirs. When we were lucky, which was often, we were able to engage in interesting and genuine conversation, usually with gossipy women. My friend found herself the unwilling recipient of the affections of one Ghanaian man, who then tried to make us pay for his picture. We all bought bottled cokes and sealed packages of Fan Ice, in attempts to avoid unsanitary water and food. I was groped by a middle-aged women, who along with her friends found my startled reaction quite amusing. It’s an experience that my friend never gets tired of mentioning.

The words “sensory overload” have never been more appropriately employed.

After all of this, we were exhausted, hot, and dirty. Suddenly our little ship seemed to be calling us, and we wanted nothing more than to shower and stuff our faces, so we set off in what we believed to be the direction of the ship.

We were wrong.

We picked one of the many roads that came off of the circle market like spokes. It looked promising and familiar, until we found ourselves at a Shell gas station that we had certainly not passed on our way to the market. Feeling lost and unsure of our next move, we stopped for Fan Ice in the parking lot, where we discussed our options.

The sensory overload that awaited us back at the market was not appealing, so me made the decision to walk to the end of the road and look for a sign. This plan was not entirely successful.

We did, however, run into a very nice woman carrying a box of fruit on her head. Employing hand motions, we tried to ask her how to get to the port or how we could find a ship, but she didn’t seem to understand. Suddenly she smiled and nodded, motioning for us to follow her. Skeptical and unsure if she had truly understood, we followed.

She led us down a dusty dirt road, past burning farms and fields of cows, until we came to a fork in the road. With a smile, she told us that she was going left, but we should go right and set off without another word.

Uncertain we called out our thanks and decided to follow her direction. We ended up following that road to a beach full of kids fishing with nets. Curious, we stopped to see what they were catching. We quickly found ourselves at an impromptu photo shoot with a bunch of kids who were fascinated by our cameras and adults who were clearly humoring the children.

Smiling, we made our way along some abandoned railroad tracks until we found ourselves at the port.