Piece Of Africa

by Katie Lentsch (United States of America)

A leap into the unknown Ghana

Subhead: A wilderness hike that left permanent tracks Between the countries of Ghana and Togo is the lush, mountain view from the top of west Africa's highest waterfall. With a vast, hazy sky above miles of rich forest blanketing the Agumatsa Range, our two and a half hour vertical trek to the upper falls of Wli was both physically and visually breathtaking. Our Ghanaian trail guide points out to the distant scenery, saying it consists of Togo's neighboring countries Benin and Nigeria. Yet, standing at this peak and surrounded by the scent of tropical greenery and humid air, it all appears like one large, united part of the landscape. Visiting Ghana as a volunteer farmer, the experience of staying in a village was much more up close. About three hours from Ghana's capital city, Accra, the Frankadua village resembles many in the Volta region that rely on rain for fresh water and personal farms for food, but unique qualities in the culture and the people are also found. Like the village seamster, who sews yards of colorful fabrics printed with ancient tribal Adinkra symbols, into a top, loose pants or dress. Or the woman known for her late night noodles; packaged ramen available cooked by hand with spices in an iron pot and small open flame outside her stone and mud-made home for teenagers and children awake after dark. The football field, known in the U.S. as soccer, was another evening spot to socialize for youth, where the croaks of tree frogs in the nearby brush echoed over any mischief. In the Frankadua community, boundaries among the homes and the families of the village are scant. Partly due to the close proximity of each home to another, but also due to the fence-less spaces, shared clothes lines and unmarked paths around each home's plot of dirt, swept clean each morning at sunrise. Waking at sunrise to begin labor for the day was essential, especially if working on the farm. It was only a limited time before the temperature reached it's average 80 degrees in September. With the machete lent to me by the local farming program manager names Joe, the morning walk to the farm took an average twenty-five therapeutic minutes. With most family and village farms located in the hills on the edges of the village, I strolled between village homes, past the schools and chapel, onto thin, dirt trails lined with tall grass fields on either side. Flies swirled over my head as small, stray dogs tagged along, following my footsteps, but only until reaching a dip in the path opening up to a nearly knee-high swampy pond. My rubber, periwinkle rain boots covered my legs just enough as I carefully waded across the small pond to the other side, where the land steepens up toward the hills again. If they owned a pair, most of the boots worn by the male farmers were black or dark green. By the time I'd return from the farm for a breakfast of scrambled eggs with cassava fries or thick, crepe like pancakes with peanut butter and jelly, the children always made a point to comment on my boots' stand-out color. None the less, the boots did their job as I picked red chili peppers and eggplants, fed the two large hogs from their wooden pen, and learned how to sow corn by hand. The few hours or so I spent farming each morning, accompanied by Joe, surrounded me with distant landscape gifting the same lush views of trees and brush of neighboring hills, as I saw on top of Wli waterfall. From those routine, daily farm walks to the hours of hiking miles up and down Wli, eventually coming back home to the states felt a lot less distant that one would imagine. Because somehow, the time spent traveling across country borders and overseas, the imprint it makes on any nomad or volunteer doesn't disappear. The experiences and the memories are the parts of travel that remain. And, just like the vast scenery I looked out upon standing between Togo and Ghana, those parts are what begin to feel like one, united part of you.