Stuck in the Mud: A Story of Ghana

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The four of us carefully tip toe into a handmade mahogany canoe. We push off the bank and onto a swollen Black Volta river in the northwestern corner of Ghana. Herons, parrots, swallows and many more species I don’t know the names of fly overhead. They cross the flat river and perch on trees in Burkina Faso. The river marks the border here, and as beautifully still as it is, it acts like a mirror, reflecting the low sun into a burning glare onto our cheeks.

Karuna, our guide and a ranger at the Wechiau Hippo Sanctuary, sits in the front. He is tall – 6’ – 5” I’d guess – and very lean. In his heavily accented English, he doesn’t instill confidence that we’ll see the hippos today.

“The hippos push into the tributaries during the wet season. They can’t be on the main river when it’s up so high.” He tells us.

The sides of the river are branches of shrubs and trees. We won’t be able to explore any of the tributaries.

“When was the last time you saw one Karuna?”  I ask.

Pulling at the water with his leaf shaped paddle he replies, “Not since July.”

Deflating wouldn’t quite do the feeling justice. With Karuna’s response, we just had to laugh.

‘Why in the hell would we come out here then?’ I thought to myself angrily.

 

 

We had spent the previous three hours swerving around in a minibus on increasingly bad roads to reach the sanctuary. A sour smell of fuel accompanied the loud rattling that came with each pothole we unsuccessfully avoided. We cringed as we came dangerously close to hitting the schoolkids and women walking on the side of the street. We went into the day expecting to have a good chance of seeing hippos and thus, the arduous journey became part of the adventure. To see one of the most powerful animals, after such a tough journey. What a treat that would be.

But we didn’t even have a chance.

The rhythmic paddling is then broken by the whine of our minibus’s engine. To make things worse, just a hundred yards from the river, our back tire sank deep into the soft mud. That type of minibus had no business being on the dirt path.

The thought of our three-hour return trip coupled with the unknown amount of time to get unstuck, dominate our thoughts. There are more pressing issues though, the milky brown river water is now four inches deep inside the canoe. The three of us towards the middle, start bailing the water with yellow plastic containers that were cut in half. We struggle to be present. Even on the shady side of the river, tucked under the trees of Burkina Faso, the stark beauty passes us by.

 

 

When we get back to the bank and off load up the slick bank, something changes. Gripping vegetation, we skate up the mud. No body falls. That, in itself, is a win and the positive feeling shifts my perspective. Somehow everything feels fitting. Every African travel adventure needs equal parts difficulty and magic. So after Karuna shows us a giant green millipede, we each pick up a long stick and walk amongst hundreds of dragonflies back to the van.

We arrive at the Toyota and find the situation is significantly worse. Both the driver’s side tires have sunk deeply into the mud. Five other young men have shown up to help and their deference to Karuna shows quickly that our ranger is in charge. He speaks directions to the group in Wa – one of the 250 languages spoken in Ghana. There is nothing but tall grasses and trees around. The closest earthen home is about 400 yards away. The color in the air starts to warm as the sun reaches the horizon. Crickets start to sing.

 

 

With three powerful swings of a cutlass, Karuna slashes the long sticks into smaller pieces. Another man grabs a hoe and begins digging out around the tire. As we rock the Toyota, Karuna pushes the sticks under the tire in a soup of muddy water. He pulls out his hands and the contrast between his dark black skin and the reddish muddy water that drips off his elbow, is beautiful. We rock and push at the back of the van as our driver tries to throttle out of the trough. The van isn’t budging.

We’re going to be here a while.

 

 

We decide to walk around the area and end up walking up to a Ghanaian infrastructure staple: the hand operated well pump. It is the place to be at this hour. School children and moms take turns pumping water into tin basins under the outreached arms of a giant tree. The basins are then hoisted onto the heads of the villagers and walked back to their mud walled homes one by one. We approach the pump and as positive as I am, it’s awkward. It is a dichotomy of color. It’s not frequent that cultural moments are so black and white literally and figuratively. Both groups were immediately aware of the differences: skin color, language, income level, access to travel and technology. So there we are, four white people in our western wear, looking for some sense of comfort in a novel environment. The dark Ghanaians looking back at us in amazement.

Word must have spread that our vehicle is stuck but it is apparent that there isn’t much interaction between white westerners and the people of remote Wala land. All I can do is smile.

“Helllooooo.” I innocently say as we approach the wet concrete pad where the pump sits.

“Hi”, a few of the kids utter.

“Is it OK if I pump?” I ask as I gesture the motion. A few giggles spring up in the crowd.

A young woman of maybe 15 years old, moves to the side, inviting me to grab one side of the handle. I awkwardly bend in the back and try to match the cadence of my instructor.

“Like this?” I ask.

“No.” She responds. Laughter erupts. My cheeks start hurting from smiling.

I look back at my mom, wife and mother-in law who are smiling back in front of the tree’s silhouette and think to myself, ‘what an amazing moment.’ I continue pumping for a few more minutes and then walk under one of the arms of the tree. It reminds me of the tree Forrest and Jenny climbed in Forrest Gump. The sun has just fallen below the horizon and the clouds are beautifully painted in oranges and reds. The red color is so much deeper near the equator. The sliver of a new moon starts shining ever brighter in the darkening blue sky. The headlights of two tricycles and a motorcycle bounce down the path, only to veer off down towards the minibus. The temperature is amazing and a light breeze brings even greater comfort. The insect noises get louder and more numerous. Laughter and conversations in Wa pour from the pumping pad out to me and lay to rest on the gently swaying grasses. I soak it in. I know this will be a story I’ll tell to many.

A memory for the rest of my life.

 

 

I walk back to the pump.

“You know Bob Marley?” I ask the group, which is growing smaller with each basin of water taken back to the village. I am met with blank stares.

“Bob Marley?” I ask again.

I select Three Little Birds, push the volume all the way up on my phone and sit on the ground. I start singing along, “Don’t worry about a thing, cause every little thing is going to be alright.” His words carrying more meaning this time than ever before.

Lightening bugs blink in the grass. The new moon is already falling from the zenith. The stars are spectacular. The Milky Way is bright. We sit for another half an hour with the steel drums and the Jamaican’s singing, playing through the phone.

 

 

It’s getting very dark so we decide to check on the status of the van. Walking down the dirt path, the thought of a cobra slithering at my feet causes momentary panic.

“Let’s use our phone flashlights!” I half yell, projecting my fear on the group.

As we get closer to the river, we begin getting eaten up by bugs.

“Does anyone have repellant?” Holly asks.

“I’ve got DEET!” My mom proudly replies as she describes where in the backpack it is. We are all thankful for the motherly preparedness.

We pass by a tricycle full of about 15 women piled in the back. Most of them are wearing school uniforms and head scarves, Islam is the predominant religion in this area. I deduce that they are all waiting quietly for the man who drives the tricycle to finish getting the van unstuck. I instantly feel guilty. Our issue has become much larger than us. Being stuck is now borne by twenty or thirty men and women of the village. In some ways, it feels like shared humanity but it’s just a normal day for them and they will get home three hours late.

Through the darkness, we near the van and start to find plastic flip flops dotting the side of the path. With the help of the white beams of the headlights and red glow of the rear lights, I count 19 men and boys helping with the cause. Clad in colorful t-shirts, polos, rolled up jeans and shorts, they likely represent all the manpower of the village.

The vehicle remains in the rut but has moved backwards about 15 feet. We exhale, as we know there is still more time to be spent in the remote savanna of Ghana. It’s already 8:00 PM and our moms, who have been saintly positive ever since the situation started to deteriorate, are growing tired. I want to protect them but the fact remains, there really aren’t any other options.

We just have to wait it out.

 

 

I walk around the car and take a few more photos to document the progress. It seems like with all the manpower we should be able to push the van out. I ask our driver Ema his thoughts. Ema is tall and has a tiny waist. He is from the northeast corner of Ghana and doesn’t speak Wa, so the power dynamic is interesting.

“It’s high centered on the mud. So we can’t go straight.” Ema replies.

Karuna yells something in Wala and the men assemble by the back quarter panel. All of the men in the village arrange themselves and start pushing and pulling the van. The back tire eases its way up and out of the rut. There is a victorious chant and we are all clapping. The power of these thin Ghanaians is incredible. Ema then makes a twelve point turn to get the minibus facing the right direction.

“We can walk down to the main road.” We suggest.

“No, no, just get in.” Karuna says.

Karuna and seven of the younger men and boys pile in with us. The odor of effort and sweat start to mix with the stale minibus air. We setoff and slowly bump our way forward.

“Go left, GO LEFT!” Karuna yells in English to Ema, just twenty yards down the path.

The revs immediately increase. Our back passenger spins without traction and the tire sinks into another soft spot.

We are stuck again.

We pile out of the minibus and collectively sigh. Everyone piling into the mini-bus was a terrible idea but we had lost focus in the celebration of getting unstuck. Several of the most powerful men have already left on their motorcycles and tricycles. We wait under the stars for them to return. Each time I look up, I’m not nearly as disappointed about being stuck in the bush.

“May I draw your attention please.” Our tour guide Aziz says to us. “I’m really sorry about all of this. It’s quite embarrassing. Thank you for your patience.”

Aziz has been our main point of contact since we arrived in northern Ghana by plane yesterday. He is clad in a Bob Marley shirt, sandals and a white knit cap that held his dreads. He has an ease about him and his energy has been very calming throughout the day but he doesn’t seem prepared for this type of situation.

“We understand Aziz. We’ll get through it.” We reply.

The men come back to the minibus and repeat the same rocking process over thirty minutes. After a final push, Karuna looks at his foot. A flashlight reveals his toenail is missing and blood is leaking from his foot. He had stepped on the cutlass, which hid in the grass. The flashlight quickly passes over other feet and something is said in Wa.

“Scorpion!”

 

 

Several of the men scurry to the other side of the path, throw on their flip flops and start their walk back to their homes. We all breathe a sigh of relief. A scorpion sting would have made it very scary, very quickly.

The van now free, Karuna jumps in and closes the door. We don’t say a word as we slowly rattle our way down the path. It’s hot and stuffy but we can’t roll down the windows because dust is being kicked up from the tricycle in front of us. Ema wants to pass them but Aziz quickly stops him.

“They don’t have any lights. Just stay back and help light the path.”

We stop to wait for more women to cram into the bed of the tricycle. One releases a tiny baby off her back, steps onto the tricycle and then effortlessly envelops the baby back onto her.

Her normal amazes us.

We continue on and all we can see out the windshield is a cloud of dust and the white head scarves swaying from side to. I want the AC to be turned but it doesn’t feel right to break the silence for a question of comfort. I refrain.

After twenty minutes we arrive to the small concrete building where we got our lifejackets and met Karuna six hours earlier.

“We hope your toe heals well Karuna. Thank you for all your help.” We say as he leaves the van. Our words feel completely inadequate and he doesn’t reply. It’s hard to know what is going through his head but I’m sure his pain is intense.

Aziz speaks a few final words with Karuna in Wa and then rolls the door shut. We begin our long journey back, first south, then east. Ema turns on the AC, we exchange a couple words and I lay down on one of the benches. I can see the stars twinkling above me through the window. There are no street lights in this part of the world to pollute the black of a natural night sky.

The beauty of the stars is surreal.

 

 

“May I draw your attention please.” Aziz says again, just ten minutes into our drive. We right ourselves and listen in.

“Again we are very sorry about the embarrassing situation, it’s not a good…”

“It’s OK Aziz.” Kayla interjects.

“We have a phrase for this in the USA, shit happens.” My mom adds.

“Thanks. Thanks.” Aziz graciously replies. “I’ve also just got service and heard word from my brother that my father has collapsed. So I’m sorry but I’ll need to leave you and try to get on a bus back home.”

“Oh my God Aziz,” we all say, delayed. We are stunned by the calm way he delivered such dramatic and terrifying news.

“Of course, do what you need to do.” Holly and Kayla say together.

Aziz explains that he will need to go two hours further north to reach his home town. Ema flashes his lights at a larger bus coming towards us, we slow down and pull alongside. The window rolls down, a quick exchange of words, then we speed up again. Another quick flashing, another slow down and exchange. Aziz’s door opens, “I’ll be back later in the morning after your first activities.”

“Aziz, do what you need to do, don’t worry about us.” We say.

Through the hand prints of mud on the rear windshield, we see Aziz cross the street and go to the bus. We continue driving south, Aziz heading north.

“If we hadn’t gotten stuck, we’d be back in Mole now.” I say, referencing the National Park where we are staying three nights.

“That would be 5 hours driving for Aziz.” Kayla says.

“And who knows if there are any buses available at that time.” I reply.

“I hope he’s OK.” Holly says, referencing his father.

“I think getting stuck in the mud was a blessing.” My mom concludes.

We all nod our head in agreement. We have another two hours in the minibus but we have it easy, our family is healthy and together. We spend the rest of the journey swerving around hedgehogs, chameleons and potholes. We slowdown in the villages, so that the goat population can stand up and run off of the warm road where they sleep.

We arrive back to the Mole Motel, say a quick goodnight and head to Room #8. There are three warthogs sleeping in the entrance to Room #7 and three more sleeping in the entrance to room #9. My mom and I stop and smile as the somehow adorable boars cuddle together.

“What if they had been sleeping in our alcove? What would we do?” My mom asks.

“Who knows.” I say back, “I’m just glad they chose odd numbers tonight.”

 

 

I lay in bed exhausted and think about what a challenging day it’s been. Having expectations and reality not align so definitively is not easy.

We, as US Americans, expect things to work out, buses to be on-time, condensate lines for an AC unit to be plumbed (not dripping into a puddle on the floor), Plan Bs to be thought of, these kind of things. It’s difficult to suppress the urge to want ‘fix’ things or suggest, ‘This is how it should be’, when we see problems.

The fact is, things are in difficult in Ghana. The economy is tiny in comparison to the US and expanding it requires incurring huge quantities of economic and cultural debt. The limited options have severe side effects and thus the infrastructure is poor. Engines break down. The education system is limited and access to it, isn’t universal. The environment is abundant but harshly competitive. The fact that malaria still kills thousands and sickens hundreds of thousands every year is sobering. In the rural areas we went through, most spend their lives doing the back breaking work of subsistence farming. Basic needs are the focus, not wants. Still, Ghanaians stand tall (amazing posture all around), they are open, brutally honest, and don’t take things for granted. Ghanaians are creative and vibrant as the marvelous patterns of their fabric. They smile wide.

We got to glimpse both the difficulty and witness the blessings. Singing Bob Marley under a magical tree, hearing the sounds of the sunset, pumping water with the village women and children, watching the incredible stars twinkle and the lightening bugs blink, and yes, getting stuck in the mud for six hours only to have the community push out our van.

Scenes of beauty. Scenes of difficulty. Scenes of magic.

I want to end it with, ‘This is Africa.’

But the fact is, I’ve only seen a very tiny part of this giant continent; two countries out of 54. It would be characteristically western, to make such a broadly ignorant statement about such a diverse continent.

This is how I see Ghana, is more apt.

Recognizing my own bias and restraining the desire to draw a larger generalization, is a sign of Being a Man of the World. It’s a tangible milestone of developing as a traveler and as a global citizen, humbly expanding my perspective and hopefully yours too.

I just hope Aziz got to say goodbye to his father.

– Lane