Found out as we were going to the airport that my first flight got canceled. They had an earlier option so I rebooked and hoped for the best. I ended up making it just in time, being the last one to board for my group number.
When I boarded, I got news through my father that Grandpa fell down again. Apparently he’s been getting worse the past week or so. I always seem to feel guilty in these instances, especially when I’m traveling quite frequently. I was usually the one who my parents called to watch over him but it wasn’t feasible for me to cancel on this trip so suddenly. I suggested they hire someone to watch over him for a month and I could cancel my other of country trips in the meantime.
I landed and waited at the gate to reunite with Ford at the Dulles International Airport in Washington.
A few minutes into sitting down, I heard a familiar voice whisper, “Freyja!”
I turned around to see Ford, standing there with a camera, about to capture an action shot of me running towards him. What a trip to see him again, all the way in another state a few months later.
He treated me to some Potbellys as we laughed about life and where it had taken us. Afterwards, he took a quick nap on some of the chairs then we walked to our gate, immediately taking notice that we were the only white people. We sat on the floor and exchanged the bracelets I had made for us in Gustavus with our cyclist names written on them: Dubu and Zuri.
We arrived in Accra, grabbed our luggage then greeted our shuttle driver who would take us back to Nego Lodge. We planned on spending a few nights there before we started our journey around the country of Ghana.
It was quite intense how pushy everyone was just outside of the airport.
“Tip tip tip!” they would yell from each direction.
I felt as if the men watched me like vultures, immediately staring up and down my pale white skin, as if wanting a taste. It felt intimidating. I read that modesty was something to be adhered to in Ghana, so I put on my down jacket to cover any sign of my nipples poking through. CTM even gave me a bra for the trip which I was not excited to use but figured if I was in another country, might as well be respectful.
Our people guided us to the bus, then five guys unnecessarily helped us with our luggage, each one wanting a tip.
“Where could I smoke a cigarette?” Ford asked.
Our driver pointed out a spot, then Ford rushed to smoke.
After he was done, the guy goes, “You have to tip because I let you smoke.”
You’ve got to be kidding me.
I sat in the vehicle, then three different men approached me.
One shook my hand. “First time?”
“Yes.”
“Nice to have you here,” he said. “Tip. American dolla.”
Probably should’ve exchanged money because all I had was a $100 bill and my debit card.
Culture shock immediately set in when we started our drive to Nego Lodge. There were no lanes and people didn’t really care to let each other through. They often started to yell at each other rather than give one another grace. Honking occurred every few seconds, sometimes for what appeared as no apparent reason.
In the streets, women carried heavy baskets of water or food on their heads, balancing the weight with pristine posture as they walked. There was so much trash that it seemed people were just using their surrounding area as their personal disposal system.
Kids were playing in the streets beside speeding cars. A few had missing legs and hands, begging for money. Locals were re-selling anything they could—corn, coke, candy or cheap clothing. Ghanians made bonfires on the sidewalk while homeless people’s bodies had spasms from smoking certain substances.
A lot of the homes had electrical fences surrounding them, with barbed wire or sharp glass bottles or rusty nails strewn across the top to prevent people from hopping over. It was clear poverty was prominent in this country. I was already feeling grateful for what we had in America, such as good water, clean sidewalks and paved roads with lanes.
There was definitely a sense of fear that came over me. A sense of ‘oh my god, where am I and what did I get myself into,’ but deep down, I knew this experience was what I was asking for. I could already feel my mind shifting. There was an understanding occurring, of how the media didn’t really show these sides of the world because they might appear ugly, gross or scary.
When we got stuck in traffic, a large group of Ghanians spotted us then surrounded our car as they yelled, “Obrouni (white man)!”
More gathered and knocked on our window with big smiles, begging for us to purchase some food.
I smiled back and said, “No thank you.”
“Why?” one of the little boys asked as he stuck his fingers through the plastic holes of my window.
“Because I’m not hungry.”
“Why?!”
Dubu and I laughed.
Then, our driver ran over a curb to pass another vehicle to which the car shut off a couple of times while doing so. He seemed unfazed, turned it back on in the middle of a high trafficked area then kept moving.
We arrived at Nego Lodge. They brought our stuff upstairs, then showed us the room and the kitchen area. We had a large space all to ourselves for only $40 a night. We would be spending a few nights here recovering from jet lag, gathering our items together and setting up our bikes.
The housekeeper stood in our room after she showed us around. “Okay, now, what would you like to offa?”
I looked over at Dubu and whispered, “I need to get some money.”
“We’ll leave you a tip,” I said, “we just need to get situated first, then we’ll go to the bank and exchange some American dollars to cedi.”
The owner of the lodge was super helpful and kind. He sat with us while we ate a homemade breakfast. Then, he explained some rules/customs that would be wise to respect in Ghana. He went over tipping culture, the proper way to greet someone and even suggested I wear full clothing, that my cargo shorts wouldn’t cut it. Before the trip, Ford also mentioned it would be best to say we are married because then the men would back off.
Silvanus agreed. “They will try to steal your man or you. Once they recognize you are not with him, they will take you. Even if you told me that he was not your husband, I would take you.”
There was a bit of an accent barrier so I hoped he didn’t mean people would actually steal me.
We asked him why people were aggressively asking us for money.
“We’re not rich,” Ford said. “Why does everyone keep acting like we’re rich?”
“Because the fact you can buy a ticket to come all the way out here to visit our country is rich.”
“The flight out here one way was pretty much all of my money,” I said.
“It doesn’t matter to them. You have the ability to travel far distances, therefore you are rich.”
Silvanus was aware of the cycling trip we were making so we asked for some advice on roads to travel on, preferably away from large towns/cities. Judging by the driving here, I was happy I purchased a helmet, but not yet confident in squeezing between oncoming cars.
“I am concerned about your safety,” Silvanas said. “Ghanaian people ah very nice. That’s not something you two hafta worry about. In the day, you ah completely safe. It is at night. I do not want you riding your bike at night. It is not safe. People might rob you. People sometimes do bad things, could be out of hunger or because they ah on certain material that makes them act crazy. It would be wise to stop and look for a place around 4pm. I also need to let you know that election is happening right now so it could be tense for the next couple of weeks.”
We thanked him for all of the information then he asked us what else we needed.
“It would be great to find a store to buy some extra items and get some money exchanged,” Ford said.
“I will get you a guide to walk you through town,” he said. “Would you feel more comfortable with a man or a woman?”
“Doesn’t matter,” I said.
“Okay, I will get my brother, Immanuel, to take you.”
“Is it okay if we just go us two?” I asked.
“I mean, you can. Do ya know the way?”
“No,” I chuckled.
In the end, it was great that we got our own personal guide. It felt as if we were protected in a sense. He took us to the bank where I found out I couldn’t take out more than around $40 US dollars at a time. I was also unable to exchange my cash since the bills I brought with were not ‘new’ enough. So, I decided it would be best to transfer money to Ford along the way for my half.
I bought some groceries and the store clerks hand wrote out the entire receipt. I genuinely loved this slow paced kine living. Then, Dubu bought us some watermelon and a rack of bananas. He even got us some bofrot which was like a sweet tasting hot doughnut ball.
On our way back to the lodge, we ran into a young woman who was so polite and well-mannered. She kindly asked us to hire her for work as a cleaning lady if she were to visit our country. She showed us a card that revealed she was a ‘good, trusting person.’
I smiled and placed my hand on her arm. “I already knew that about you. You are very trusting and have good energy.”
I took pictures of some sort of seeds that were bright orange and yellow with some strings, found in a mesh potato bag.
“What are they?” I asked.
“They ah used for making palm oil,” Immanuel said.
Children giggled nearby as I realized I must’ve been taking photos of leftover trash.
We continued back towards the lodge. A baby chick ran around in the streets with food in its mouth as the hen chased it. Goats nibbled on any grass they could find. Then, a bunch of Ghanaian kids spotted me and acted as if they saw a ghost. Their mouths agape and their eyes wide.
“Why are they staring?” I asked. “Is it because I’m white?”
“It’s your tattoos,” Immanuel said. “They’re not used to seeing it.”
They followed me all the way down, trying to touch the tattoos on my arms. We high-fived them and I laughed at how cute they were.
Later at night when it cooled off, we went out again on a little stroll, this time on our own. The men continued to look at me in a predatory way but as soon as I voiced that Dubu was my husband, they warmed up and backed off.
We met a local woman making some corn tortillas of some sort. She had a baby on her lap as she stirred the concoction.
This is what a true woman looks like to me, I thought to myself.
Then, we stumbled across a church where a woman happily invited us inside the building to celebrate Jesus. We followed. They sat us down under a fan while individual people walked around chanting.
“They ah praying,” a woman let us know.
After some time, we got some ‘jolloff rice’ that was way more spicy than I expected, then we walked back towards the lodge as a bunch of kids yelled, “Obrouni!”
We yelled back. “Bibini (black person)!”
Then we all laughed.