Thursday, October 06, 2005
Wli, Ghana October 6, 2005
It has rained every evening for the last eight days. The easy, dry, consistently pleasant weather of the sahel countries is behind us. With the brief exception of Niger, the forecast for the next ten thousand miles is daily rain. Fair enough. We've rigged up and drive-tested a new and improvised tarp for the roof rack; I've got a new weatherproof tent and water cools things off.
Ghana attempted to further delay our departure by throwing something beautiful in our path. The waterfalls at Wli are the highest in West Africa and the consistent rainfall of recent days gave them impressive power. Just around the corner from this particular carved valley, myriad butterflies, warm weather and harmless rippling noises represent the surrounding calm. Anything within sight of the water's receiving pool is quickly dampened by the water vapors sent flying by the dramatic eighty meter plunge of the lower falls. It sends stormy and regular waves across its basin and into its narrow draining river.
We tried to go beneath it. It became impossible to see because of the painfully rapid, horizontal weaponry of the water's impact. It became impossible to ignore the deafened, dripping ears, or to relax the erratically assaulted body—even the taste of the water found its way into the caves of my face. This true sensory overload activated my primal fight or flight reaction and I chose to flee, as I generally do. Several times I tried to gather the nerve to fight through it and reach the magical cave I imagined as an incentive for my bravery or rash behavior. Even though my counterparts were ready to abuse my irresolution, I chickened out every time and so did they—typically after receiving a sudden and painful blast of water that seemed to warn of immediate death by flattening. Soggy and defeated, I sought to justify my cowardice by speculating about dangerous subterranean feeder currents, stray rocks and pointless death. The relentlessness of the plummeting water in this place was more terrifying than any of my experiences surfing along the notoriously hazardous coastline of West Africa. Even though the frights I have received from the battering of waves that sought to mix my last breath with their meaningless seafoam have remained with me for great lengths of time, I have never shrieked in miniature terror and gone running from the ocean like a little bitch.
The border, just two kilometers from this emasculating cascade, opens onto a little frequented mountain road that feels like a smuggler's track for donkey carts. In the kilometers of no man's land there are several abandoned cars. If the Stingray becomes truly unfixable we will dump it in a place like this. If the car remains in any one of these countries that we are traveling through, we will have to pay several thousand dollars of import tax; even if it is stolen we will have to pay for it to become road legal for thieves. We would also lose the five thousand dollar deposit that secured us our car's passport. Leaving it in no man's land would bypass at least some of these pitfalls.
It has rained every evening for the last eight days. The easy, dry, consistently pleasant weather of the sahel countries is behind us. With the brief exception of Niger, the forecast for the next ten thousand miles is daily rain. Fair enough. We've rigged up and drive-tested a new and improvised tarp for the roof rack; I've got a new weatherproof tent and water cools things off.
Ghana attempted to further delay our departure by throwing something beautiful in our path. The waterfalls at Wli are the highest in West Africa and the consistent rainfall of recent days gave them impressive power. Just around the corner from this particular carved valley, myriad butterflies, warm weather and harmless rippling noises represent the surrounding calm. Anything within sight of the water's receiving pool is quickly dampened by the water vapors sent flying by the dramatic eighty meter plunge of the lower falls. It sends stormy and regular waves across its basin and into its narrow draining river.
We tried to go beneath it. It became impossible to see because of the painfully rapid, horizontal weaponry of the water's impact. It became impossible to ignore the deafened, dripping ears, or to relax the erratically assaulted body—even the taste of the water found its way into the caves of my face. This true sensory overload activated my primal fight or flight reaction and I chose to flee, as I generally do. Several times I tried to gather the nerve to fight through it and reach the magical cave I imagined as an incentive for my bravery or rash behavior. Even though my counterparts were ready to abuse my irresolution, I chickened out every time and so did they—typically after receiving a sudden and painful blast of water that seemed to warn of immediate death by flattening. Soggy and defeated, I sought to justify my cowardice by speculating about dangerous subterranean feeder currents, stray rocks and pointless death. The relentlessness of the plummeting water in this place was more terrifying than any of my experiences surfing along the notoriously hazardous coastline of West Africa. Even though the frights I have received from the battering of waves that sought to mix my last breath with their meaningless seafoam have remained with me for great lengths of time, I have never shrieked in miniature terror and gone running from the ocean like a little bitch.
The border, just two kilometers from this emasculating cascade, opens onto a little frequented mountain road that feels like a smuggler's track for donkey carts. In the kilometers of no man's land there are several abandoned cars. If the Stingray becomes truly unfixable we will dump it in a place like this. If the car remains in any one of these countries that we are traveling through, we will have to pay several thousand dollars of import tax; even if it is stolen we will have to pay for it to become road legal for thieves. We would also lose the five thousand dollar deposit that secured us our car's passport. Leaving it in no man's land would bypass at least some of these pitfalls.
1 Comments:
I beg to differ on your little bitchness. I remember a day at Laybato, when the massive giants clobbered your windmills and our rented board. Though the waterfall you speak of sounds quite intimidating. He who fights and runs away, lifes to fight another day. Ha!
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