Friday, October 07, 2005
The search for Klouto, Togo
Entering Togo, we expected to confront the aftermath of a period of political volatility that erupted into violence and hundreds of deaths in the capital some months ago. Instead, we fell under a spell of vague relaxation and confusion because of the tranquility of the Togolese countryside.
The confusion started at the border. Sean's and my passport were both stamped with an exit date from Ghana of October 70, 2005, rather than October 7, 2005. Another customs official seemed to have misplaced his stamp in a town ten kilometers away. When we located the stamp, his junior customs official stamped our important carnet document in the wrong place. Our arrival in Togo was charmed, as the pressure was definitely off. Our fears about meeting abrasive military officers armed with AK47s quickly subsided.
We drove through mountain villages that sleepily acknowledged our presence, noticing that people seemed to take pride in their front yards. There were beautiful arrangements of colorful flowers, bushes and trees in front many of the houses, providing contrast to the earthy mud brick houses in which they lived. Some houses had their shutters adorned with colorful paintings. I estimated that if I were born here in a coming lifetime, this would mean I had done well.
Driving through the calm regional capital of Kpalimé, we turned up a road to the mountain village of Klouto, known for its butterflies. The road was stunning. It had been lined by German colonialists with mahogany trees to prevent erosion. Those Germans are so forward thinking. The result after fifty years was a winding, pleasant and shady one-lane road up the mountain. Butterflies fluttered about, playing in the rays of light that filtered through the trees. We passed a waterfall and the view to the plain below started to reveal itself.
After a half an hour of this road, we arrived at a police check point, in the town we expected to be Klouto. We asked the police man for directions to Klouto. He looked confused. Assuming that there was a good chance that we were pronouncing the name of the village wrong, we begin a chorus of intonations. How do the French say the 'ou' sound again? We haven't spoken French in almost two months since Ghana was English-speaking. Klooto, Kluuto, Kloutou, Kleeto. Klaate? Sounding more like a bunch of monkeys than people in need of assistance, the man just stares at us with a blank look in his eye. Finally, he points his finger down the road we just came up and says that we must go back down the mountain. Thinking that perhaps we had missed a turn somewhere, we acquiesce and follow his advice. So we descend.
Back in Kpalimé we receive instructions from some women that Klouto is in Kpalime, to which we simply laugh that this must be impossible... I let an intolerant thought about how African women never seem to leave their compound pass through my mind. Following our own sense of direction, we turn back around and begin to climb back up the same road we just descended. The mahoganies are still exceptional, the butterflies numerous, the shade inviting, the waterfall refreshing, the view grand. There is a mildly annoying feeling that something is wrong.
Half way up the mountain and upon closer examination of our guidebook we affectionately call the Lonely Bastard, we decide that the women and the police officer were actually right and that Klouto is in the opposite direction. In a state of utter confusion, we turn around. View, waterfall, shade, butterflies, mahoganies, half an hour. As we enter into Kpalimé, we stop at a hotel for directions. The hotel manager unfolds a clearly defined tourist map that in three languages tells us that Klouto is up the mountain we just descended. I think that we have lost it. Why had people been trying to throw us off for the past two hours?
We calmly, but assuredly decide that Klouto is not for us and choose instead to visit some waterfalls on the other side of Kpalimé. As we arrive at the junction of the road toward the falls a bunch of teenage boys declare that the waterfalls are closed. One of them guides our vehicle to a glorified bush trail. Suddenly, four other guides appear from thin air and start running in front of and behind the car. The cabin of the car floods with insects that are tumbling off the vegetation that brushes the sides of the car. We begin to wonder where they are taking us. We feel uncomfortable with the thought of leaving the car in the bush as we hike to waterfalls with these four young guides. We fear that we will return to a pillaged skeleton of a car. Once again, for the fifth time today, we decide to turn around.
This day sticks out in my mind because as everything went wrong, Sean, Nate, and I didn't get on each other's nerves at all. Eventually, after hours of perpetual delusion, we decided to stay in Kpalimé and drink Togolese amber ale instead. In the end, we all decided that we really like Togo. There is simply less tension in Togo than we had expected and this made us all happy.
Entering Togo, we expected to confront the aftermath of a period of political volatility that erupted into violence and hundreds of deaths in the capital some months ago. Instead, we fell under a spell of vague relaxation and confusion because of the tranquility of the Togolese countryside.
The confusion started at the border. Sean's and my passport were both stamped with an exit date from Ghana of October 70, 2005, rather than October 7, 2005. Another customs official seemed to have misplaced his stamp in a town ten kilometers away. When we located the stamp, his junior customs official stamped our important carnet document in the wrong place. Our arrival in Togo was charmed, as the pressure was definitely off. Our fears about meeting abrasive military officers armed with AK47s quickly subsided.
We drove through mountain villages that sleepily acknowledged our presence, noticing that people seemed to take pride in their front yards. There were beautiful arrangements of colorful flowers, bushes and trees in front many of the houses, providing contrast to the earthy mud brick houses in which they lived. Some houses had their shutters adorned with colorful paintings. I estimated that if I were born here in a coming lifetime, this would mean I had done well.
Driving through the calm regional capital of Kpalimé, we turned up a road to the mountain village of Klouto, known for its butterflies. The road was stunning. It had been lined by German colonialists with mahogany trees to prevent erosion. Those Germans are so forward thinking. The result after fifty years was a winding, pleasant and shady one-lane road up the mountain. Butterflies fluttered about, playing in the rays of light that filtered through the trees. We passed a waterfall and the view to the plain below started to reveal itself.
After a half an hour of this road, we arrived at a police check point, in the town we expected to be Klouto. We asked the police man for directions to Klouto. He looked confused. Assuming that there was a good chance that we were pronouncing the name of the village wrong, we begin a chorus of intonations. How do the French say the 'ou' sound again? We haven't spoken French in almost two months since Ghana was English-speaking. Klooto, Kluuto, Kloutou, Kleeto. Klaate? Sounding more like a bunch of monkeys than people in need of assistance, the man just stares at us with a blank look in his eye. Finally, he points his finger down the road we just came up and says that we must go back down the mountain. Thinking that perhaps we had missed a turn somewhere, we acquiesce and follow his advice. So we descend.
Back in Kpalimé we receive instructions from some women that Klouto is in Kpalime, to which we simply laugh that this must be impossible... I let an intolerant thought about how African women never seem to leave their compound pass through my mind. Following our own sense of direction, we turn back around and begin to climb back up the same road we just descended. The mahoganies are still exceptional, the butterflies numerous, the shade inviting, the waterfall refreshing, the view grand. There is a mildly annoying feeling that something is wrong.
Half way up the mountain and upon closer examination of our guidebook we affectionately call the Lonely Bastard, we decide that the women and the police officer were actually right and that Klouto is in the opposite direction. In a state of utter confusion, we turn around. View, waterfall, shade, butterflies, mahoganies, half an hour. As we enter into Kpalimé, we stop at a hotel for directions. The hotel manager unfolds a clearly defined tourist map that in three languages tells us that Klouto is up the mountain we just descended. I think that we have lost it. Why had people been trying to throw us off for the past two hours?
We calmly, but assuredly decide that Klouto is not for us and choose instead to visit some waterfalls on the other side of Kpalimé. As we arrive at the junction of the road toward the falls a bunch of teenage boys declare that the waterfalls are closed. One of them guides our vehicle to a glorified bush trail. Suddenly, four other guides appear from thin air and start running in front of and behind the car. The cabin of the car floods with insects that are tumbling off the vegetation that brushes the sides of the car. We begin to wonder where they are taking us. We feel uncomfortable with the thought of leaving the car in the bush as we hike to waterfalls with these four young guides. We fear that we will return to a pillaged skeleton of a car. Once again, for the fifth time today, we decide to turn around.
This day sticks out in my mind because as everything went wrong, Sean, Nate, and I didn't get on each other's nerves at all. Eventually, after hours of perpetual delusion, we decided to stay in Kpalimé and drink Togolese amber ale instead. In the end, we all decided that we really like Togo. There is simply less tension in Togo than we had expected and this made us all happy.
1 Comments:
Tuuli,
I often wondered if the Lonely Planet made up the maps that they put in their guidebooks. If ever I tried to plan a destination activity - I generally got lost, being pointed in opposite directions by different people... But isn't that the charm of Africa? You can't ever know where you are going until you get there, by accident.
I hope you are feeling healthier and stronger.
I have my fingers crossed for you getting through Nigeria without having to pay through the roof in bribes... but it'll be an adventure, that is for sure.
Take care,
Teresa
Post a Comment
I often wondered if the Lonely Planet made up the maps that they put in their guidebooks. If ever I tried to plan a destination activity - I generally got lost, being pointed in opposite directions by different people... But isn't that the charm of Africa? You can't ever know where you are going until you get there, by accident.
I hope you are feeling healthier and stronger.
I have my fingers crossed for you getting through Nigeria without having to pay through the roof in bribes... but it'll be an adventure, that is for sure.
Take care,
Teresa
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