Adaklu is our Ho

I stepped off the tro-tro and shook the leg that had been unnaturally propped on a duffel of yams for 3 long hours and waited for the feeling to come back in my foot. An elderly man, chancing that his cane would support his weight, called out, “You are welcome to Ho”. Anywhere else I would have thought he was a pimp with bad grammar, but alas, I was in the city of Ho in the beautiful lush Volta region. The Volta is a place where Mr. guidebook writer himself, Philip Briggs, claims that only 5% of tourist get the chance to experience which is a shame. Sorry old man, no time for chit-chat for I had come with my neighbor Aaron to Ho on a mission: to climb Mount Adaklu!

[Some background courtesy of Briggs] Oral tradition has it that the Ewe of Adaklu migrated to the area centuries ago, in order to escape the oppressive rule of King Agokoli in what is now Beyin. When they settled around the mountain, they slaughtered and roasted a cow, and divided out the meat –an act of sharing to which the name Adaklu refers. I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again: sharing is caring.

We paid an exorbitant price of $10 for a taxi to take us to the isolated village of Helekpe at the base of the great mountain. Under peace core supervision, Helekpe and the neighboring communities operate an eco-tourist project that includes cultural performance, village tours, bat caves, and a guided hike to the peak of Adaklu. I had to wash my hands just after looking at the little furry beast dangling in the grip of a passing villager and thus crossed ‘Bat Cave’ off my to-do list.

The difference between village and city life is in many ways like the differences between John and Joan Cusack: one can be loud and annoying while the other appears to be more laid back and amiable. Lets just say that they are both similar but you are not going to mistake one for the other. Even traveling 15 km outside of Ho, which is itself a very small city by western standards, the changes are dramatic. People lived in more traditional style houses, there were virtually no cars, the air felt fresh, the general pace seemed s-l-o-w, and every person that we saw greeted and welcomed us to an exhausting extent.

We found the headquarters of the project, two plastic chairs on the stoop in front of the bare structure of an undeveloped house, and we were welcomed yet again by what seemed to be the proprietor of the enterprise and our supposed tour guide. He offered us food and we were grateful to accept two egg sandwiches. Kofi, the fifteen year old guide, asked us if we’d like to be shown around the village while the food was being prepared and we had no reason to say no. The tour was, in actuality, an impromptu ‘Kofi reality tour’ as he pointed out where he goes to
school, where his house is, and the shop that his dad owned. We wanted to take pictures of the village and the mountain but our tour guide insisted that he be in all the shots. He was a fan of the dramatic poses and hurriedly ran to the camera after each picture to see the result on the digital screen – always terrifically satisfied.

We opted to return to our egg sandwiches instead of walking another 10 minutes to see his favorite chop bar. The sandwiches weren’t ready and Aaron and I debated whether or not we were really being guided all the way up the intimidating peak. I hoped that we would not be. It was already 10:30 and the sun trumped our spirits with its 90 degree rays of sunshine. After we ate the deliciousness that is a Ghanaian egg sandwich we were introduced to a different guide who was to bring us to the other village where we would begin our climb.

I think the walk to the next village is meant to weed out any potential heart attack victims for the ‘real’ climb. The dirt trail gave way to 4 foot boulders that climbed ever higher to the base of the mountain. We were not physically prepared for the trip. It took us 30 minutes to walk the same amount that a woman carrying a baby on her back and a tray of plantains on her head could do in 15. The boulders gave way to a picturesque little village of 80 residents sitting on a dramatic plateau. Christian, guide #3, was surprised to see more victims of the mountain and was on his way to church. He very politely excused himself and changed into his 50 cent t-shirt to lead us up the trail. We felt bad for that [the church thing, not the t-shirt which was sweet].

First, we had to visit the chief. Supposedly, since the chief was responsible for everyone, we had to formally meet him and allow him to determine if we were fit to climb. We were not. The chief did not speak English and we can’t speak Twi so we stared at each other until Christian explained that it is customary to dash the chief ‘whatever we feel in our heart.’ After tipping two guides and the egg man our hearts began to ache. We didn’t have any kola nuts or a bottle of schnapps to offer him so I dashed him 5,000 cedis and fled. I was just happy I didn’t hear him say ‘turn your head and cough’.

The trail that we used to hike up the mountain was the remnants of an old German mining trail. I think switchback must have made the Germans dizzy or something because right from the start the trail went straight up. After a particularly long series of quad burning boulder steps followed by rope climbing, I began to think that the guidebooks explanation of ‘reasonably’ demanding was not very reasonable at all… this was a death march. As if I needed more reminders concerning how out of shape I have become I had to wheeze my way up the hill as I watched Christian gingerly hop up the mountain in his sandals and one bagged water in hand. I was wearing hiking shoes with a backpack full of sunscreen, bugspray, and 6 bagged waters. I had already drank three but sweated out four. I began doubting my climbing abilities and looked back at Aaron for some inspiration. This is what I saw:





We clearly needed a break and somewhat embarrassed, we asked for a rest. Christian responded with words that have haunted me ever since, “there’s a place for rest up ahead… then we’ll start the climb.” Fuck me.

We rested in a little cave and summoned up some courage for the remainder, or according to Christian the beginning, of our journey. It was now so hot that I started to wonder what temperature my skin melts at. Luckily, the climb was shaded and the rest was mostly guided with rope to assist on the dreadfully steep parts. I closed my eyes and thought of my happy place (any place with an air-conditioner) and trudged on. Not before long we were perched on the peak of Adaklu, looking over the 40 villages that surround the mountain, feeling pretty damn good about ourselves. The view was pretty amazing. I asked Christian what the awesome drum beat was coming from and with deflated enthusiasm he remarked, “Church”…..awkward. I apologized again for taking him away from God and told him if it makes him feel better I wouldn’t be able to walk right again for a month. I think that just confused him.

When I was younger I visited the Indiana dunes, a fantastic scene of rolling sandy hills. I remember trying to run down a particularly steep slope only to be propelled into a vicious summersault eating sand the entire way down until I violently crashed into the people below. Getting down the mountain was kind of like that. Christian’s sister had food waiting for us in the village when we got back and we inhaled the rice while occasionally pointing to the mountain to call it our bitch.

Christian walked us back to Helekpe and we sat under a tree for a tro-tro to take us back to Ho. We sat for a long time. We sat for such a long time that we got anxious and started to walk the 15 km back to town. Note to future travelers of Helenpke: Sunday afternoons are not advantageous to catching a tro-tro back to Ho.

We were unsuccessful in waving down the three cars that passed us along the dirt road. Lack of transit did however allow me to show off my football skills to a few aspiring soccer players shown to the right. We ended up walking seven long kilometers till we reached a junction where we were slightly more likely to catch a car. We discussed whether or not we would be able to get to Accra before work if we were forced to sleep in the village. Just then, a pickup truck drove by and we asked to get in the bed of the truck. For 5,000 cedis (60 cents), our wish was granted.

More people piled into the truck so that there were 6 of us hanging onto the back. Now I can guarantee that Briggs was not sitting on the bed of a pickup truck when he wrote, “Helekpe lies about 15km from Ho along a fair dirt road.” The road was, in actuality, a bunch of little potholes which covered us in dirt and really really hurt our bums. I think this picture of Aaron says it all. The Ghanaians saw us struggling and thought the general idea of Obrunis [white people] in the back of a truck was hilarious. When we got to the main road cars honked at us with enthusiasm. Actually, it was really funny but it also was surprisingly painful. I didn’t know if I was hysterically laughing or hysterically crying but tears were definitely coming out of my eyes.

We survived the mountain and we survived the pickup truck and we got dropped off at the Accra bound bus in the station. There were seven checkpoints (read: bribe opportunists) on the way back to Accra and because a woman was transporting something without the proper paperwork we had to pay off every single stop adding an hour + to our trip. The bus was terribly crowded. At checkpoint five I began squirming and the man next to me commented that the busses aren’t as comfortable here as they are in America. You said it buddy… now get off my lap.