Tamale

We pulled into Tamale about 1 p.m. Six hours on an air conditioned bus, only three seats across that look like they were pulled from a 1985 first class section of a Boeing plane. (A lot of the decor in West Africa looks like it came directly from 1985). The bus' comfort is almost enough to isolate us from the long stretches of bumpy roads below. Bad Nigerian movies play throughout the ride. Sound levels fluctuate throughout the movie as if it was all recorded with only the microphone built into the camera. That means when people are further away, it is quieter. And when one woman in the movie washes dishes, the clanging makes the dialogue inaudible.

Tamale is a simple city, the fourth largest in Ghana. Its streets are almost grid-like, each lined with the colossal street lights of a European highway interchange. Most of the street side gutters are covered. And there are bike lanes, well-used by pedestrians, motorcycles and a healthy portion of good old-fashioned pedal bicycles.

The neatness of the streets yields to the usual chaos of a West African market. The usual loaves of white bread are supplemented by loaves that have the look of a baguette and the texture of Wonder bread. We watch fufu being pounded while we wait for our plantains to fry. Richard Simmons should have made a workout video out of this. It looks about like splitting wood, except, in this case, with a partner to place each log.

The usual huge metal bowls of black-eyed peas, corn, seeds, beans and rice adorn the market alongside tomatoes, onion, yams, okra, garden egg, peppers, plantain, orange and smoked/dried fish of all sizes. And then there's yesterday's “sabo nama,” Twi for “new meat.” Cow heads, legs, ribs, rumps and sides dot the market. Now they are a few days old Meat is carried on heads and tied to the backs of bicycles. Eid's bounty is now attracting flies and making Annette swear off meat. Fortunately, the scents of spices stacked in bowls that rival Morocco provide welcome olfactory relief.

Tamale's market is nowhere near the size of the Kejetie Market in Kumasi. But this market has items of ritual and magic. Raven's beaks. Monkey skulls. Tortoise shells. Horses' tails. Chicken feet. Curled, dried lizards. Skins of snake and crocodile. Undoubtedly, each item has a particular purpose. But it is unknown to me. There are no labels on the backs. So, I don't know which cures headaches and which handles diarrhea. So, we take a picture with permission and walk on.

Sometimes I think the market place is a metaphor for life. Or, at least, a mirror. It's chaotic. Filled with buying and selling, hustling, great deals alongside ripoffs. Its exhilarating and exhausting. Sometimes a place of absolute wonderment, capturing our wildest imagination. Sometimes a maze, hot, stinky, almost sickening. I love it and I hate it Mostly, I love it a lot more than I hate it. And when I hate it, a bit of rest usually restores the love. And that about sums up my experience in Africa thus far.

We stay with our newest couchsurfing host in Tamale, Abdul Rafik. He is 26. Has a two year degree in computer science and can't find work. Like many of the young people we've met in Ghana. He and his roommate live in one room that's about 12 feet by 12 feet. It has a TV, computer, mattress on the floor and wooden closet. They have a shoe rack by the door well-supplied with men's shoes. Presumably, these are Philip's, Rafik's roommate's. Presumably he wears them at the hotel where he works nights. His working nights helps leave enough floor space for our sleeping mats and mosquito net.

The bathroom is shared. It consists of four concrete rooms. Two only have drains in the corner, for bucket showers. Two have a bench with a hole in it. Under the hole is a bucket filled with shit and maggots and a few strands of toilet paper. I squat over the hole to shit and hope maggots don't fly in my butt. Annette holds it and constipates herself. Easy enough for one night.

We sweat in our sleep. My sweatshirt I use as a pillow is drenched in sweat by midnight. But, as usual, I wake up a coolness that stagnantly sits somewhere between tolerable and comfortable. Morning is always the best like this. But with light now shining in the door, I opt for a cold bucket shower over more sleep.

This is followed by a walk around the neighborhood. Everywhere, children are headed to school, on foot, on bike, on moped, in the bed of a pickup truck. Accompanied by siblings, classmates, parents. It is a relatively cool morning (as determined by the fact that it is 7 a.m., I have been walking for ten minutes and I am not yet drenched in sweat). Early mornings like this are precious and beautiful. This time tomorrow, we will be hiking alongside elephants in Mole National Park.

 

Assorted items of ritual and magic.