Elephants, Monkeys and Home Cats

On our way to Mole National Park, the road was paved at first, but we soon were on a deeply rutted dirt road and bumped along for 5-1/2 hours. At one desolate spot, a group of kids (some of them naked) threw a big stick into the road right in front of Sam’s car. Furious, he stopped, got out and hollered at them -- “Awi!” (animals!) -- and they beat it into the bush.

When we got to Mole, it was too late for a safari tour and we learned there were no rooms available at Mole Motel (the park’s only accommodation), except a dormitory-style room where we could sleep on the floor – for $8. We opted out of that and decided to stay at the Salia Brothers’ guesthouse in nearby Larabanga.

We got close up and personal with the warthog who roamed the grounds, and we snapped pictures of the baboons cavorting near the lodges. Weary from our long ride, we fell into an absurd mood of silliness. Greta pointed toward the disappearing tail of a small animal and asked, “Is that a monkey?” “No, Madam,” came the grave response from one of the park rangers, “that is a cat. A home cat,” he added, in an effort to be perfectly clear. We all fell into gales of laughter. Melissa composed a t-shirt slogan on the spot: “I went all the way to Mole, and all I saw was a home cat!”

We ordered our dinner at the restaurant at about 5pm. It was served to us at 7pm. Meanwhile, we sat in the dark and watched a violent storm and marveled at a man who took his life in his hands by jumping into the pool as lightning flashed all around.

The Salia Brothers’ guest house in Larabanga was primitive sleeping at its best. Melissa and Greta shared a double bed; Rosie and I each had a twin in the same room, lit by a kerosene lamp. The “toilets” were about 200 yards away, across a deeply rutted yard. Behind a crude mud privacy wall were two holes in the ground. Perched on the wall were three chickens, looking down on Melissa as she “freed herself.” I wasn’t keen on crossing that ground alone, nor was I sure I could get up from a squat, so I used a hand-crafted chamber pot that Greta made out of a two-litre water bottle. It worked just great.


Thursday, 26 July

I awoke before dawn to a cacophony of rainfall on the tin roof. There was distant drumming and animal calls, music and car motors and horns – such a bizarre mix of sounds that I said to myself – this time with conviction – I am really in Africa! Then I went back to sleep until I heard the soft sound of sweeping outside the door of our hut. Sweeping the dirt is as routine a task for Africans as making morning coffee is for us. Dawn had broken. Travelers’ diarrhea had struck. There was nothing to do but to hurry across the compound, brave a squat, complete my business and take an Immodium.

At Mole, we had a long wait for our safari guide; many other groups were ahead of us, though it was only 7am. Finally, the ranger and his rifle got into the passenger seat, the three girls got into the bed of the truck and I sat like the Queen Mother on my backseat stool. About half an hour into the forest we came upon a group of elephants. At two other places, we were able to get quite close to them on foot – a thrill beyond words, despite the unrelenting rumblings of my “dire rear.”

Following the safari tour, we went back to Larabanga where one of the enterprising Salia Brothers described a crocodile pond he is building at the guest house. He asked Sam about the plastic tarp he had in the flatbed, with which he was carefully protecting our luggage. A lining like that would be a great asset for the project, he said. I privately wondered whether having live crocodiles on the premises of his guesthouse would be a draw or a detraction when it came to tourism.

We picked up another Salia brother at the intersection down the road and went to see the West Sudanese-style mud and stick mosque reputed to be the oldest extant building in Ghana. First stop was the Mystic Stone, which local lore says mysteriously reappeared three times when it was removed by roadbuilders. Apparently, the roadbuilders gave in, for the road bends sharply at the bottom of the steep hill on which the Mystic Stone rests.

Nobody seems to agree on the actual date of the mosque or who built it, but the favored theory holds that it was built over the period 1643-75 by Imam Bramah, and it is claimed that his original Koran is inside (but of course no visitors are allowed inside). Our guide said that the entire town is Muslim and everyone prays in the mosque five times a day. There is a front entrance for men, a door for women, and a separate narrow door for the Imam. The people in the village around the mosque light up at the sight of visitors, and children followed us like we were the Pied Piper.

Once we dropped off our guide, “Shortcut Sam” took another dirt road that brought us to the Zgao Beng Siema Monkey Sanctuary, not far from Nkoranza. Monkeys are sacred, so cannot be killed (and possibly even touched, because our guide hollered at Greta for reaching to touch one who apparently befriended her). When they are found dead, they are put in little coffins and buried in a cemetery (with markers) within the confines of the sanctuary.

The forest where the monkeys live is full of botanically-marked unusual trees. Some are huge, and fishing vessels are carved in a single piece from their trunks. Others are parasites, and offer an eerie, latticed place to step inside for closer viewing.

When we finished our tour, a group of backpackers hailed us and asked if they could have a lift in our truck bed, as they had waited for two hours for a taxi, to no avail. They clambered in, and protected themselves with tarps when the rains poured down on them midway to their drop-off point.

Then we went on to Hand in Hand; enjoyed a pasta and chicken dinner made by Charity. Rosie and I played Scrabble with a Dutch game board; it was disconcerting because the Z was valued at only 4. We showered and washed our hair in “luxury” albeit cold water, and then we went to sleep.