Great Northern Adventure, Part Two: Mole

If you know me well, which most of you do, you know that my favorite animal is and always has been an elephant. I’ve never been able to explain it—most people seem to opt for cats, dogs and other domestic animals while those more daring choose giraffes for their long-legged elegance or lions for their wild strength. Me, I set my sights on the elephant before I can remember. I had a whole collection, in fact—a tangle of porcelain legs and glass tusks danced across the shelves in my bedroom as a little girl. I guess my obsession with elephants stemmed from an obsession with Africa. I wanted to do everything I could to get close to the exotic continent, and collecting elephants seemed most appropriate since they were, after all, the most African animal I could imagine. With their huge ears and thundering footsteps, I’d often admired them in zoos but always dreamed of seeing one in real life.

As I tugged the thin sheet away from my sweaty body after a night of restless sleep in Kumasi, I knew that my dream might soon be realized. It was 6:00am, and the 13 obronis silently poured into the big blue bus, each finding his or her nest and immediately curling up and drifting back to sleep. My heart pounded loudly in my chest the whole way there—would we see one on the road? I decided I should probably keep my eyes glued to the blur of green scenery just in case. The city slowly faded behind us and the landscape opened up into savanna, with enormous trees interrupting sprawling grassy lands. Round, mud huts replaced tin shacks as we sped toward the north. Young girls and boys played in ditches and shouted out at us as we zoomed by. A few ran after us recklessly, like energetic cow dogs chasing spinning tires back home. We crossed over a narrow bridge and saw the fingers of Lake Volta sitting calmly below us, young children bathing at its shores. The water looked almost like milk chocolate it was so murky. After five hours of weaving our way through the landscape on red dirt roads, we arrived at Dumango Junction. The road to Mole is full of holes, bumps and dust so bad that the owner of the big blue bus requested that we not take it to Mole. Instead, Leslie hired another driver to pick us up at the junction where Isaac would wait with the bus until the following day.

Mr. Fatal was a squat man, his dark sunglasses covering his squinty eyes. He wore a khaki hat bearing a red, white and blue “USA” in enthusiastic letters on one side. He spoke with his hands, welcoming us to the north and helping load our backpacks onto the “bus.” This bus was slightly different than the huge, roomy blue bus we’d grown accustomed to. Mr. Fatal’s bus was really just a glorified suburban with one row of extra seats. Somehow, all 15 of us crammed into the squeaky van and Mr. Fatal slammed the door behind us. The driver hit the gas and the tires spun a cloud of dust, enshrouding the children who begged the “white lady, white man” for pens and biscuits. The bus hopped down the road while we weary travelers broke out in shaky renditions of “Lean on Me” and “Tiny Dancer” at the top of our lungs. There was little to no air in the dust-coated van, and we all tried to pull our shirts up over our noses every time another car would pass to avoid choking on the thick, red clouds that swirled through the cabin.

We had been driving for less than half an hour when the driver started to slow down. Mr. Fatal yelled something at him from the back seat where he sat perched next to Sonny. We didn’t understand what was happening, but when we saw the needle of the temperature gauge shaking its pointy finger well over the H, we knew we were in trouble. We eased the car to a stop and everyone piled out, half-thankful for a break from the dirty car. As we walked in semi-circles around the van pouring water on our faces in the scorching heat, the driver emerged from beneath the car with a wrinkle above his eyebrow. He explained in jumbled words that we were out of oil because there was a crack in the pipe. We didn’t have oil here, he said, so he would flag down a motorbike (much more popular in the north) and ride to the nearest town. In the meantime, we should stay put with the van.

13 obronis standing on the side of a deserted dirt road during the heat of the day is an unimaginably pitiful sight. We were covered with bullets of sweat made red by the dust and gulped down water by the bottle full. Luckily, this sight is also a rarity in northern Ghana so we drew quite a crowd. Children soon surrounded us, each in a baggy pair of underwear or wearing nothing at all. They all had different carvings on their bellies—suns and lines in different patterns, mostly. It’s common for northern people to cut slits in their children’s bellies and cheeks when they’re infants so they have some sort of identification when they get older—almost like a brand. One of the children in our entourage invited us to sit beneath their mango tree and before he could finish his sentence, we were halfway there. They carried out benches for us to rest on, balancing them carefully on top of their heads and then placing them strategically to avoid rocks. We eagerly sat down and waited for a call from Mr. Fatal.

Not many of the children spoke English. When I asked one little boy his name, all he could muster was “Thank you.” The fact that he only knew to say this one English word is so indicative to me of Ghanaian culture. They are so thankful, so kind and so helpful. The children who did know some English began drawing their names and some shapes in the dirt with a stick, and I decided to join in. The cool shade of the mango tree protected us from the sun as I dug out L-O-G-A-N. I asked the girls to show me their names and they easily carved M-O-N-I-C-A and M-A-T-I-L-D-A. They told me that their school was that way, and pointed long, bony fingers in the direction of Mole. They could read and write well, they said, but books were very expensive. Most of all, they wish they had a dictionary. Most of all, I wished I had brought one.

Two hours of hangman in the dirt, story time and peanut eating passed until Mr. Fatal finally arrived back at the mango tree, oil in tow. The motorbike he’d taken to town had broken down, too, so he’d had to wait for yet another motorbike to pick him up. The driver poured the liquid under the hood and as it glug-glug-glugged down the thirsty tubes, we said goodbye to the children. One of the youngest, a little boy in a red shirt with two kittens pressed onto it whose growth had been stunted by disease, started to climb into the van with us. Someone, his older brother maybe, plucked him up the way a cat picks up her young ones and waved goodbye.

With new oil and some A/C, we were happy to be on the road again. The bumps and potholes in the road didn’t even seem so bad as we cruised down the dusty road. We passed round mud huts, held upright by sticks that cracked down the middle like they held the weight of the world. We sped by the communal water pump, where women with bright scarves wrapped around their heads poked pointy chins over the stone wall to watch us pass. Their children or their children’s children ran bottomless through the dust, bare butts exposed beneath stretched out shirts too small for their protruding bellies.

We all clapped and cheered when we reached the sign that declared “MOLE NATIONAL PARK—YOU ARE WELCOME” in big yellow block letter. Red dust visibly rose from our shoulders as we patted each other on the back shouting, “We made it!” in dehydrated bursts. Almost immediately after entering the park, our driver slowed down. Everyone’s eyes darted to the temperature gauge but when I saw the needle hovering somewhere in the middle, I sighed, relieved. Instead of stopping to check the oil, he’d slowed down to shake his finger out the window, pointing at a bunch of bushes interrupted only briefly by tall trees that reminded me of the aspens at home on the farm. Suddenly, one of the bushes moved and an antelope with graceful, curved antlers sprung merrily away. This was only one of many sightings as the van crept down a narrow dirt road toward the Mole Hotel. We saw a tiny monkey, sitting in the middle of the road as if he owned it, gnawing on a piece of what looked like sugarcane. Someone shouted “PUMBA!” and we all swiveled our heads around, meeting the gaze of a large warthog crouched on its knees, rump high in the air, munching on shrubbery. It seemed uninterested in our tan van and went back to a much more productive activity: eating. We saw warthogs so frequently that they almost seemed like rodents, except much larger and more dangerous looking. Their tusks curved upward to the bright sun, and I decided quickly that I would make it a personal goal to avoid upsetting one of those things.

The Mole Hotel didn’t seem so bad. Guidebooks described it as “rugged” but by the looks of the swimming pool, it was like a little piece of heaven to 15 worn down travelers. As we unloaded people and packs, sweat dripped off our foreheads in buckets. The people in the back row emerged looking like swamp creatures—the back door didn’t shut all the way and since there were no windows in the back, the air from the front and the air from the back just sort of swirled around their heads and stuck to the sweat that formed across their faces an necks. They looked like they’d spent too much time in a tanning bed and had dyed their hair a brownish-orange color to match their skin. For the first time in my life, I was glad I got carsick and sat in the front.

We all jogged to our rooms, loaded down with bug spray and safari clothes in our bags, to change into swimsuits for the pool. The rooms were wide, with three neatly made beds lined up against one wall. We shared the bathroom with what seemed like an entire anthill, but so long as you picked up your feet while using the toilet they seemed pretty friendly. After depositing our belongings and stripping off our sweat-drenched, newly red clothes we cannonballed into the cool water of the pool. I’m not sure if I’ve ever felt like a completely new person so much as I did when my head pushed out of the water and I took a breath of the clean jungle air.

When we arrived, all we could think about was submerging ourselves in that cool clear water and hadn’t really taken the time to look around. Doing so while toweling off was enough to take my breath away (sorry to be so cliché, but it’s really true). The hotel sat up on a hill. Below us was a huge sprawling field of giant trees and bright green foliage. There was a watering hole, where we saw antelope, cob and other things that looked like deer drinking. About ten feet away from the pool, on the downward slope of the hill, was an enormous tree that looked like a wise old man, its wrinkles and lines snaking up into a thick patch of fat green leaves. Sitting at the tree’s base was a little monkey who seemed completely uninterested in all the people around. He hopped to and fro, his long tail following gracefully behind him as he foraged for food. There was a small deck that protruded over the hill, but only slightly, where we could watch for more animals—dots of warthogs, monkeys and antelope darted across the open field, but no elephants. Not yet, anyway.

We feasted poolside on another traditional Ghanaian meal—chicken and rice, chicken and chips, fish and rice, fish and chips. A few of us opted for more exotic meals, like snapper with the teeth and eyeballs still intact. The night was so clear it was almost surreal. Stars seemed to dance in the sky, happy to have escaped the congested city lights. A perfect half moon shone brightly and guided us back to our rooms at an early hour—we’d have to wake up before daylight to have breakfast before our safari. We fell asleep listening to warthogs rooting outside our windows and the occasional monkey calling out in the still, calm night.

5:30am came fast after a solid night of sleep, but I eagerly jumped out of bed, changing into long pants (for the first time in a month), a white top, and my best running shoes—you know, just in case. We all eagerly scared down fresh pineapple, mango juice, eggs and toast and made our way to the safari guide’s office. We were greeted by our guide who strolled across the path toward us in a forest green suit with a little green hat. Most importantly, though, he had an enormous gun strapped around his chest—I don’t know that it would have done much damage to a charging elephant, but it made me feel better knowing it was there. Four of the ladies in our group were ordered to change out of their sandals and into knee-high rubber boots—snake bites are common on these expeditions (we’d be on foot the whole time) and the guide didn’t want to risk it. With that, we trudged down a long dirt path and came upon a few little buildings where children played outside. Baboons strode with pride through the little community, pausing only briefly to tip back on their haunches and eat their latest finding. Their bright pink bottoms looked so out o place on their furry grey bodies and their fingers looked all too human-like. There were huge males and smaller, more delicate females, one of which had a baby clinging to her furry belly. There were a few other little monkeys too, like the tan monkey that made a big show of running across the road and leaping into a tree as if to prove its speed and agility. As we continued deeper into the forest, we saw warthogs rooting through the dirt with their big ugly snouts looking for something delectable. There were a few babies, who squealed and whined when their mother ignored them. One giant warthog was lying down in a mud bed it had dug for itself and the guide pointed out that he had two sets of tusks—there was one big set on top for stabbing and on little, razor sharp set just below that top set meant to rip and tear its food.
We continued on into the jungle, where beads of sweat started dripping like rain from our bodies—the humidity was much more intense once we were surrounded by dense foliage. We hadn’t been walking for more than 10 minutes when the guard ordered us to stop with a hand signal (we weren’t allowed to talk much). He pointed eagerly toward a clump of trees, but none of us could see anything. He whispered “Elephant” to the obronis in the front of the group and word spread down the line like in a game of telephone between 7th grade girls. My heart started pounding furiously and I inched my way closer to the guide, squinting my eyes to see the giant animal I thought must be in the distance. Then the bushes move and an entire tree popped out of the ground. I thought that it might be the crazy ‘security system’ from “Lost” ripping things out of the ground and I almost put those running shoes to use until I noticed that the tree was grasped around the middle by a large grey trunk. The elephant, in all its glory, was literally right in front of us. Its beady black eyes, too small for its enormous wrinkly head, seemed to look right at me and I froze in a moment of utter panic. Weren’t we too close? What if it got mad? I eyed the guide for some reassurance—he had a dumb grin on his face like a kid in a candy shop so I figured it was probably OK. It took me a few minutes to pull out my camera because I just had to sit there and take it all in. I was thisclose to a real, live, wild savanna elephant. IN AFRICA. It was almost too much to take in. The elephant devoured everything in sight, crushing trees and bushes and depositing them into its enormous mouth. This particular elephant was a male, with one ivory tusk snapped clean off as result of an intense battle. As I learned later, the female elephants hide deeper in the jungle with their babies. Since their gestation period is so long (22 months!) they don’t like to take any risks with their young ones. The males eat 800 pounds of food per day—casava, trees, grass, and anything else that grows in the forest. There are two kinds of elephants in Mole---the forest elephant (small and more brown-colored) and the savanna elephant (enormous and grayish-black). You can’t see the savannah elephant in zoos because it is too wild and impossible to tame—and I was standing mere feet away from it. I watched in awe as it continued to deposit trees and bushes into its mouth, its ears fluttering occasionally to swat away (or, more accurately, demolish) flies and other pests. I almost didn’t realize that the animal had started walking directly toward us until the guard grabbed my shoulder and ushered us all back in what seemed like a panicked voice. Perhaps we were too close, after all. Even from our new vantage point, we could see the elephant continue to eat—but wait, why were there two trunks? A second elephant had crept up behind the first, this one slightly larger with both enormous, shiny tusks in place. Though it was enormous, there was a certain gracefulness to how it moved through the jungle, placing one giant foot in front of the other and swinging its rat-like tail back and forth like a metronome. The two elephants didn’t seem to mind each other until suddenly, one butted heads with the other and they were fighting. They went back and forth for awhile, pushing each other through trees and crashing through bushes until they were out of sight and I could breathe again.

We walked back out of the forest, spotting weird trees, insects, flowers and lots of warthogs on the way. The whole time, though, I couldn’t get the images of the elephants out of my mind. Thinking about it now, the whole experience seems like a weird, vivid dream—one that keeps playing and replaying in the endless chambers of your mind. I couldn’t help but think about how incredibly lucky I’d been to witness something so powerful and so surreal—I really can’t even put the experience into words here, but I can say with a certainty from deep within my soul that it is something I will never, ever forget.

We thanked out tour guide with a hefty tip and piled back into the van. The northern roads are very dangerous if traveled at night, and armed robberies crop up in newspapers almost daily. Leslie was therefore adamant that we leave immediately after the tour. Smelling again like a bunch of young boys who haven’t yet discovered the miracle of deodorant, we chugged down the road with Mr. Fatal in the tan colored van. Mr. Fatal wasn’t the most pleasant man, and gave Leslie a hard time about everything involving money—he wanted her to pay for his room and board and Mole and argued about the price she should fork over for filling the van up with gas. Needless to say, we were relieved to jump out of the crowded van at Dumango Junction and climb back into our luxurious, roomy blue but with our trusty driver, Isaac (dressed today in a bright yellow shirt with “OREGON” scrawled in green across the front). After our heart-pounding adventure, we all curled up in little balls on the big blue bus, twisting and turning our bodies in an attempt at comfort and fell sound asleep.

A few hours later, Leslie shook us all awake—we were stopped at Ketempo Waterfall. We fell out of the van and trotted down 134 winding, narrow steps to the waterfall. It was absolutely beautiful with cool, clear water shooting over rocks and crashing into the swift river below. The mist from the falls felt so good on our sweaty skin as we took turns crossing over the rocks into the middle of the stream. The rocks had been made flat by years of beatings from the unforgiving waterfall and served as perfect stepping-stones. We stayed at the falls very briefly (remember—we had to get home before dark) and before I knew it, we were back on the bus headed to Kumasi.

Three hours later, we arrived back at the Royal Basin Hotel where Jessica and I ran and jumped into the cool water that filled the pool. Dinner that night was interrupted from time to time by brief power outages. The humm of the generator would kick on and the lights would flicker back on just in time for us to gulp down a few more bites before it failed again. The book club ladies—Jessica, Katie and I—went back to our room and read by flashlight until, as usual, we’d all fallen asleep with books open on our chests.

We woke up to another early morning breakfast at the Royal Basin on Monday, the cold orange juice and hot Spanish omelet a nice treat before heading back to plain oatmeal back in Accra. We loaded our things and thanked the staff once more before jumping onto the blue bus. We wound through the hills of Kumasi, the bus stalling and chugging up the steep parts and commanding traffic in the congested parts. We finally pulled into the bead village, Asofuo, where Leslie’s friend Joe greeted us. Before we got off the bus, Leslie warned us that they have a “fertility problem” in the village, meaning not that they have trouble getting pregnant here but instead, that the women can’t seem to not get pregnant. By the time we unloaded, children had swarmed our spectacle of a bus, each one eager to grab our hand and know our name. They were too cute for words in worn out shirts and bare feet, tugging at our shirts with dirty fingers. Joe led us to the bead factory and demonstrated, with the help of Sonny’s translations, how the men in the village melt down glass bottles to make beads. They use bright powders that reminded me of Dad’s glazes in the shop to create patterns and textures. They had clay beads, too, that they cooked in a big mud oven that the village has been using for over 200 years.

Joe led us to where the women in the village sell the beads, their merchandise spread out in front of them on big pieces of cloth. We walked around and looked at them all: big glass beads, small clay beads and everything in between. I wound up bartering for a few strands that shone brilliantly beneath the sun. We wound our way through the mud buildings and back to the bus, where we said goodbye to the children and climbed aboard. We slept most of the way home, but woke up just in time to watch the bright African sun sink below the horizon, signaling the end of yet another amazing adventure in Africa.