Friday, October 07, 2005
Kpalime, Togo
Crossing at Wli... A Day of Confusion
We awoke early with the intention of slipping quietly over the border into Togo. Deep in the mountainous Volta region of Ghana, we were momentarily off paved roads and had camped near a thunderous waterfall notorious for its bat population, which the youth of the nearby village voraciously consume. The border itself was only a few hundred meters from where we slept. We knew little about Togo, except for the international notoriety it briefly gained earlier this year after the son of the previous president took command with the heavy handed support of the military after his father died. Street riots in the capital ensued and somewhere around 500 people were killed. Yet despite this recent incident, people in the region frequently told us that Togo would be no problem and we might even be surprised with what it offered.
On the Ghanaian side, the border was no more than a couple of cinder block buildings and a metal rod across the road. A lone woman sat inside at what posed as the immigrations office. We were clearly her first customers of the day. She picked up my passport first and slowly flipped through it, going page by page. It seemed to overwhelm her and, after further deliberations, she stated that my Ghana visa had expired. I explained that this was not the case. She agreed, stamped my passport, and then proceeded to tell Nate that his visa had also expired. She stamped me out of Ghana on the 70th of October.
Getting through customs was more straightforward. A man from the village carefully walked a man wearing a customs uniform step by step through the protracted process of filling out the date, stamping and signing our carnet de passage for the vehicle. While it began to feel like Border Training School, the process was far from troublesome. There were no shady money changers hustling for cash, children burdened with goods desperately trying to make deals or overzealous guards demanding to inspect every last nook and cranny of the car. After a painless delay, we were fast on our way to Togo.
In Togo, we were greeted by a man who was visibly delighted to spend some time with us. I am not sure he was even a customs official, dressed in slacks and a flower printed shirt, but he gleefully filled in all of our details before sending us on our way. After some additional confusion about finding someone who could stamp our carnet de passage, we were off on a windy road high up in the mountains between Togo and Ghana. As we descended down to the valley floor, the route offered us magnificent vistas broken only by the occasional town.
We decided to make for Mt Klouto. It seemed advantageous to spend the weekend up in the provinces and take in a bit of local culture before we headed down to the capital. Although Klouto sounded like it was visited almost exclusively by eccentric butterfly fanatics, it was likely that the villages in the vicinity could give us a brief taste of local Ewe culture. While dabbling in the fine art of cat culinary, the Ewe are also known for such things as traditional shrines and priests. In addition, we quickly learned of their ability to completely muddle up anything even remotely related to directions.
As we passed through Kpalime, following our typical routine we asked a group of people leisurely sitting on the side of the road which way led to Klouto. We were pointed out a road and faithfully drove up the mountain before being stopped by Togolese customs officials at the top. Tuuli asked them if we were close to Klouto. They responded with a bewildered look. Continuing, she asked again about Klouto, Kluuto, Kloto, Klepto, the town on top of the mountain, the place with the butterflies, Auberge Papillion, a man named Prosper who could be found wandering the bush waving a big net, the town where foreigners go, all to which the men responded with a shrug. One asked the other if he knew Klouto, to which the other responded by shaking his head with puzzlement. Taking a new course, Nate asked what was past their checkpoint. They enthusiastically informed us that it was Ghana before directing us back down the mountain into town.
Approaching Kpalime once again, Tuuli asked a small group of women where we could find Klouto. Sure of the answer, they excitedly responded we were headed in the right direction. Klouto was Kpalime. This seemed highly implausible as our routinely contradictory guidebooks and Michelin map showed this not to be the case. However, none of them could give us any consistent information about where the actual town of Klouto was located. Having to once again rely on villagers, we opted for the general survey method. With Zen like accuracy, we soon learned that Klouto was back up the mountain, in the town before us, in the hills far away, on a mysterious road, everywhere and nowhere. For a purported tourist attraction, nobody seemed to know where it was.
Getting into the spirit of things, we drove halfway back up the mountain, spoke with even more people, lost Nate's underwear by the side of the road, found them again, and then returned once more to Kpalime. Enlightened we were not. There was only one option. Give up on Klouto, check out the only other attraction in the area which happened to be a waterfall, and stay in Kpalime before traveling on to the capital. It was not until a day later that, upon ascending the mountain a third time, did we find out from the very same customs officials we had so puzzled previously that of course Klouto, the Klouto we had been searching for the day before, was just one village over.
However, with Klouto momentarily forgotten and the waterfall suddenly on top of our agenda, we headed north and quickly spotted a sign for the cascades a handful of kilometers outside of Kpalime. Our fleeting joy was immediately displaced as boys, grown men, and children of all ages sprinted up to the car and shouted inane instructions incessantly at top volume. I sat dumbfounded as Tuuli and Nate failed to make themselves heard, let alone understood.
Our question was simple. In fact, it was less a question and more of a statement of purpose. We have come to see the waterfalls. In rapid succession, the group fired back that this was not possible, the waterfall was too dangerous, there was no waterfall, the Germans had turned off the waterfall, there was another waterfall, and that above all a guide was essential no matter what we wanted. In fact, the larger the group of guides, the better off we would be. Unable to determine whether this was an elaborate scam to make off with our money or if, lost in translation, there was some truth hidden in their jumbled words, we decided one boy should lead us towards where we assumed the waterfall we came to see would be.
Taking a bicycle, he quickly pedaled out in front of us down a narrow dirt road as we followed in our car. Suddenly, he cut to the left into thick brush and two boys, walking along the path ahead of us, took off running behind him. Nate stopped the car, shaking his head in astonishment. The boy on the bike came back and told us that we were now going to the other waterfall, which wasn't far away. Reluctantly, Nate pulled the car off the main road and we headed down what couldn't be more than a seldom used path for donkey carts.
The path narrowed and rapidly became increasingly sandy. Large branches were strewn across the path at various intervals. Curious bugs were terrorizing Tuuli. We warily continued. Dense elephant grass lined the road, towering over us and beating the Stingray on all sides. Turning around was an impossibility. Progressing forward seemed an absurdity. This was not a road fit for a car like ours. Suddenly, a fourth boy, much larger than the others, could be seen trailing us on another bike. This was definitely not a part of the plan. All interest in seeing what would most likely be a second rate waterfall was gone. However, we could not turn around. There was simply no room. So we had to continue forward, deeper into the unknown forest.
Suddenly, a small opening, just about large enough to initiate what would have to be a twelve point turn, appeared to the right. Nate was up to the challenge. As Nate swung the car into the gap, the boys were quickly upon us. The waterfall was close, they assured us. Surely, not more than one kilometer away. We told them we were finished. The waterfall no longer interested us in the slightest. Disappointed, they followed us back towards the main road.
Ultimately, it turned out their intentions were virtuous and the first waterfall was in fact not active. However, in their excitement at possibly earning a few cedis, they led us on a wild goose chase none of us were prepared for. We returned to Kpalime with nothing to show for all our driving around but nevertheless we were satisfied with the truly entertaining failures of the day. Despite our inability to effectively communicate with practically everyone we came across, just about everyone we had come across was genuinely friendly, if not always correct or able to restrain their enthusiasm. Togo, if anything, would not be dull.
Crossing at Wli... A Day of Confusion
We awoke early with the intention of slipping quietly over the border into Togo. Deep in the mountainous Volta region of Ghana, we were momentarily off paved roads and had camped near a thunderous waterfall notorious for its bat population, which the youth of the nearby village voraciously consume. The border itself was only a few hundred meters from where we slept. We knew little about Togo, except for the international notoriety it briefly gained earlier this year after the son of the previous president took command with the heavy handed support of the military after his father died. Street riots in the capital ensued and somewhere around 500 people were killed. Yet despite this recent incident, people in the region frequently told us that Togo would be no problem and we might even be surprised with what it offered.
On the Ghanaian side, the border was no more than a couple of cinder block buildings and a metal rod across the road. A lone woman sat inside at what posed as the immigrations office. We were clearly her first customers of the day. She picked up my passport first and slowly flipped through it, going page by page. It seemed to overwhelm her and, after further deliberations, she stated that my Ghana visa had expired. I explained that this was not the case. She agreed, stamped my passport, and then proceeded to tell Nate that his visa had also expired. She stamped me out of Ghana on the 70th of October.
Getting through customs was more straightforward. A man from the village carefully walked a man wearing a customs uniform step by step through the protracted process of filling out the date, stamping and signing our carnet de passage for the vehicle. While it began to feel like Border Training School, the process was far from troublesome. There were no shady money changers hustling for cash, children burdened with goods desperately trying to make deals or overzealous guards demanding to inspect every last nook and cranny of the car. After a painless delay, we were fast on our way to Togo.
In Togo, we were greeted by a man who was visibly delighted to spend some time with us. I am not sure he was even a customs official, dressed in slacks and a flower printed shirt, but he gleefully filled in all of our details before sending us on our way. After some additional confusion about finding someone who could stamp our carnet de passage, we were off on a windy road high up in the mountains between Togo and Ghana. As we descended down to the valley floor, the route offered us magnificent vistas broken only by the occasional town.
We decided to make for Mt Klouto. It seemed advantageous to spend the weekend up in the provinces and take in a bit of local culture before we headed down to the capital. Although Klouto sounded like it was visited almost exclusively by eccentric butterfly fanatics, it was likely that the villages in the vicinity could give us a brief taste of local Ewe culture. While dabbling in the fine art of cat culinary, the Ewe are also known for such things as traditional shrines and priests. In addition, we quickly learned of their ability to completely muddle up anything even remotely related to directions.
As we passed through Kpalime, following our typical routine we asked a group of people leisurely sitting on the side of the road which way led to Klouto. We were pointed out a road and faithfully drove up the mountain before being stopped by Togolese customs officials at the top. Tuuli asked them if we were close to Klouto. They responded with a bewildered look. Continuing, she asked again about Klouto, Kluuto, Kloto, Klepto, the town on top of the mountain, the place with the butterflies, Auberge Papillion, a man named Prosper who could be found wandering the bush waving a big net, the town where foreigners go, all to which the men responded with a shrug. One asked the other if he knew Klouto, to which the other responded by shaking his head with puzzlement. Taking a new course, Nate asked what was past their checkpoint. They enthusiastically informed us that it was Ghana before directing us back down the mountain into town.
Approaching Kpalime once again, Tuuli asked a small group of women where we could find Klouto. Sure of the answer, they excitedly responded we were headed in the right direction. Klouto was Kpalime. This seemed highly implausible as our routinely contradictory guidebooks and Michelin map showed this not to be the case. However, none of them could give us any consistent information about where the actual town of Klouto was located. Having to once again rely on villagers, we opted for the general survey method. With Zen like accuracy, we soon learned that Klouto was back up the mountain, in the town before us, in the hills far away, on a mysterious road, everywhere and nowhere. For a purported tourist attraction, nobody seemed to know where it was.
Getting into the spirit of things, we drove halfway back up the mountain, spoke with even more people, lost Nate's underwear by the side of the road, found them again, and then returned once more to Kpalime. Enlightened we were not. There was only one option. Give up on Klouto, check out the only other attraction in the area which happened to be a waterfall, and stay in Kpalime before traveling on to the capital. It was not until a day later that, upon ascending the mountain a third time, did we find out from the very same customs officials we had so puzzled previously that of course Klouto, the Klouto we had been searching for the day before, was just one village over.
However, with Klouto momentarily forgotten and the waterfall suddenly on top of our agenda, we headed north and quickly spotted a sign for the cascades a handful of kilometers outside of Kpalime. Our fleeting joy was immediately displaced as boys, grown men, and children of all ages sprinted up to the car and shouted inane instructions incessantly at top volume. I sat dumbfounded as Tuuli and Nate failed to make themselves heard, let alone understood.
Our question was simple. In fact, it was less a question and more of a statement of purpose. We have come to see the waterfalls. In rapid succession, the group fired back that this was not possible, the waterfall was too dangerous, there was no waterfall, the Germans had turned off the waterfall, there was another waterfall, and that above all a guide was essential no matter what we wanted. In fact, the larger the group of guides, the better off we would be. Unable to determine whether this was an elaborate scam to make off with our money or if, lost in translation, there was some truth hidden in their jumbled words, we decided one boy should lead us towards where we assumed the waterfall we came to see would be.
Taking a bicycle, he quickly pedaled out in front of us down a narrow dirt road as we followed in our car. Suddenly, he cut to the left into thick brush and two boys, walking along the path ahead of us, took off running behind him. Nate stopped the car, shaking his head in astonishment. The boy on the bike came back and told us that we were now going to the other waterfall, which wasn't far away. Reluctantly, Nate pulled the car off the main road and we headed down what couldn't be more than a seldom used path for donkey carts.
The path narrowed and rapidly became increasingly sandy. Large branches were strewn across the path at various intervals. Curious bugs were terrorizing Tuuli. We warily continued. Dense elephant grass lined the road, towering over us and beating the Stingray on all sides. Turning around was an impossibility. Progressing forward seemed an absurdity. This was not a road fit for a car like ours. Suddenly, a fourth boy, much larger than the others, could be seen trailing us on another bike. This was definitely not a part of the plan. All interest in seeing what would most likely be a second rate waterfall was gone. However, we could not turn around. There was simply no room. So we had to continue forward, deeper into the unknown forest.
Suddenly, a small opening, just about large enough to initiate what would have to be a twelve point turn, appeared to the right. Nate was up to the challenge. As Nate swung the car into the gap, the boys were quickly upon us. The waterfall was close, they assured us. Surely, not more than one kilometer away. We told them we were finished. The waterfall no longer interested us in the slightest. Disappointed, they followed us back towards the main road.
Ultimately, it turned out their intentions were virtuous and the first waterfall was in fact not active. However, in their excitement at possibly earning a few cedis, they led us on a wild goose chase none of us were prepared for. We returned to Kpalime with nothing to show for all our driving around but nevertheless we were satisfied with the truly entertaining failures of the day. Despite our inability to effectively communicate with practically everyone we came across, just about everyone we had come across was genuinely friendly, if not always correct or able to restrain their enthusiasm. Togo, if anything, would not be dull.
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