I am not sure how I convinced myself or Christian to agree to a 13-day tour through Ghana, Togo, and Benin to see Ghana’s Millet Festival and learn about voodoo, but somehow, we paid the deposit and added it to our plans…

Truthfully, I had always wanted to go to West Africa but could not find a tour company that fit the needs of Christian’s comfort AND focused on more than one country AND had a cultural focus AND was only two weeks.

So, enter TransAfrica a Togo based tour company specializing in cultural tours of West Africa. It has no presence on TripAdvisor (my go-to Bible for travel), had zero reviews on Google reviews, and has a Facebook page with only three votes and five likes and claimed to have been in business since 1986.

Nevertheless, we took a chance on them and forked over a very expensive 2,700 Euros to take part in their “Tour to Ghana, Togo, Benin: Millet Festival and Awukudae” that had an almost exclusive focus on voodoo and the Millet Festival of Ghana. The tour was an overland tour traveling by bus and van through three countries in West Africa from October 18th – October 30th.

I’ll be the first to admit that after signing up I was not convinced until the day we arrived at Accra City Hotel and met Daniel and Sensa and the 15 other people joining us on this tour was legitimate, but I am glad we signed up.

So, let me start by saying, in retrospect, 13 days is a long time to be on a group tour stuffed in a van or bus driving with people through bumpy roads in West Africa. But it’s made fun by the fact that every person (I was the youngest there follow by Christian and then one and man both woman 5 to 7 years my senior. The rest of the age difference was 20 my senior and higher all the way to 85) who had signed up on this trip was well traveled and loved adventure.

When all the tourist had been seated at the bar lounge of the Accra City Hotel in Accra, Ghana an elderly gentleman by the name of Horst came up to me and politely asked:

“Are you our tour guide?”

To which I smiled and responded kindly “No.”

Then he continued “Are you helping with the tour?”

To which I slightly less kindly responded: “No, I’m not.”

Then he stood there staring at me. His brain was working to figure out what to say next, unsure if he was embarrassed or just confused. So, I volunteered the information.

“I’m a participant in this tour.”

He smiled and nodded in the way Germans do when they want a conversation to end and quietly walked away.

At that point, I confidently sat myself down as the only woman of color and the youngest participant in this tour and wondered to myself what I had gotten myself into when finally, Sensa appeared to brief us on “expectations.”

“So, you have all signed up for a trip to West Africa, and I am sure you are aware our standards are not the same as in your home…” he started.

I looked around at the Accra City Hotel and thought of our enjoyable stay at the La Villa Boutique Hotel in Accra and found myself ready to disagree. But he continued.

“Some of our hotels will be very nice, and some will just be basic, and one will not have air conditioning.” There were gasps in the room.

He continued “There will be mosquitoes. I always tell them to close the door while cleaning but I am sure there will be mosquitoes. Just call me when you get into the room, and I will come in and spray and that we will fix the problem. I am sure every one of you will find something wrong with your hotel at some point.” He finished.

I thought to myself, this is not promising but it’s an adventure, and I worried about all the spiders I may unwillingly find.

Since there were 15 of us, they put all the English speakers on a bus together and the 5 German nationals in a van. Given that I was married to a German citizen I was also put into the van with Daniel, the German-speaking Togolese guide who I later discovered was still working on his English.

Ghana – Accra

Museum and Memorial for the first president of Ghana, Dr. Kwame and one of the leaders of Pan-Africanism

The next morning, we packed our bags and headed into town. We visited the National Museum to learn more about Kwame Nkrumah, the first present of Ghana and his vision of Pan Africanism. Then we visited the oldest town in Accra, Jamestown, infamous for its fish markets, lighthouse, and scenery. Visiting the old fishing village of Jamestown was an overload of the senses. Children ran barefoot next to grandmothers selling catches of the day as colorful nets waived in the distance where men worked hard to provide for their families. This place was a world away from the sophisticated and modern streets of Accra I had walked down just a week earlier, and I felt a sense of uneasiness at the whole idea of touring such poverty and taking pictures of it. In my mind, I felt conflicted because there was real life for the people there and they had invited me in to learn about their experience. I was waving between the guilt of being slightly uncomfortable and fascinated with the smells and poverty and also sad for the state these people lived in and the desire to know more about the people and how they felt, surrounded by wealth. But there was no time. One of the local guides, who’s also a musician and dancer, put on a show for us and the rest of the village joined to watch as he danced some of the local dances. Somehow that was easier to swallow than the image of the barefoot boy running with no pants. But tourism is part of the economy there, and if you do not go, then you take away a vital piece of income. But these feeling I would wrestle with throughout the trip. After a brief stop off at the Black Star, which I’ll describe more in detail in my blog post the top 5 places you can not miss in Accra, we then left the city for Sogakope and spent the night at the Cisneros hotel, which was entirely pleasant, given the low expectations Sensa sought for us to buy into.

Lome- Togo

The next morning I discovered I disliked Togo’s Aflao border. It’s not that I want to write the entire country off and in fact, it’s gorgeous but our border experience hampered on hysterical and we were not received with many welcoming arms at all in the city until we left. But I should provide context.

Togo is a sliver of a country stuck between Ghana, Burkina Faso, and Benin with only 32 miles of coastline. It had a population of over 7.6 million and was a former French and German colony. Under colonialism, it was a jewel of “Francophone West Africa” hosting sky scrappers and dreams next to stretches of pristine beach. When it got its independence in 1960 Togo was will on top. That was until its first president was assassinated and then Gnassingebe Eyadema took over in the “bloodless” coup and continued to the rule the country with an iron fist robbing it and its people of its resources until his death in 2005. Then his son Faure Gnassingbe continued the pillaging after he was appointed as president, and he continues to rule today. Right before we were to arrive thousands of Togolese had taken to the street protesting for a restoration of term limits for the President. These protests continue today, but we were lucky not to be caught in them.

These events have left many people very disenfranchised with extreme markers between the poor and the wealthy in society. Not unlike what San Francisco and the Bay Area has experienced.  Crossing into a dictatorship, you immediately see the difference. The roads turn bumpy, except for the shoreline, and people are less trusting.

So what happened at the Border? Togo almost ruined our entire trip.

I’ve always been told horror stories of border crossing, so I made sure to cross our T’s and dot our I’s for our visa into Togo and Benin, but it was not enough. We had applied and gotten the Entrant visa in Barcelona for Togo and Benin and were confident we had done the right thing. However, upon arriving at the Togo/Ghana border, we were told our visa was invalid because we had gone from Spain to Ghana and then to Togo and the Entrant visa only works if you go directly to Togo or Benin and no other country before getting to them. HUH? So after lots of going back and forth with the official and watching a few people bribe their way into the country without yellow fever cards; we had to pay an additional 6,000 CFA’s each for new Togo visas. Our only hope and pray were that when we’d get to Togo, we could find the right person to work magic for us to get us same day visas for Benin since there are no visas on arrival at the border.

So at this point, we had wasted 200 Euros and 12,000 CFA’s. When we were finally let into Togo the bumpy ride to Lome allowed me to ruminate in my anger. Either the border guy was lying, or the consulate out in Barcelona lied, either way, it set us back. When we finally got to a lunch place, Sensa called local officials from the officer, and they ushered us into a van and took us to the Benin consulate in Togo which was closed because they were out for a very long lunch. Somehow one of Sensa’s guys got a phone number and called, and they told us what we needed, which included visa photos.

So then off we went to get visa/passport photos which cost an addition 4,000 CFAs and took an hour because the photographer kept applying baby powder to my face to smooth out my “bad spots” and lighten my skin over my protest that I didn’t care how I looked. So now, freshly lightened up due to baby powder we both got our passport photos and then went back to the consulate who for some reason was still out to lunch.

Now I’m mad and hungry. So one of Sensa’s guys drove us back like “I don’t know what to do,” and Sensa started yelling and we all got back in the van and were taken back to the consulate to wait for the officials to come back from lunch. While we sat in the vehicle one guy got out of the van, requested all of our documents and proposed he’d wait outside the consulate with our passports so we could go to lunch. The last thing I wanted was for my passport to get lost and subsequently get stuck in Togo. However, there was a high chance we’d be stuck in Togo if we did not get our Benin visas today. We were scheduled to go to Benin tomorrow as part of the tour and Benin does not offer visas at the border.

So I weighed my options. We left our passports with him, and we went to eat fish and drink beer at an outdoor restaurant down the street which was swarming with flies. But we sat. The fish and beer were satisfying and cheap, and I did not get sick. After an hour we returned to find that the consulate was finally open. Then we waited for another hour in the lobby. Afterward, a representative called us in, congratulated us on our Benin visas and demanded we pay another fee of 3000 CFAs. At least the worst was averted!

After that, I started to feel better about Togo, but I was still unhappy. We joined the group at a voodoo market, and we were given all types of items to touch, and they tried to sell us a doll. I politely rejected and opted for a non-possessed toy for my in-laws. And that was my entire experience in Lome.

Lac,  Togo

After leaving the city, the country opened up to us. In Togo, over 30% of the population practices some form of voodoo while the remainder is strictly Catholic, Christian or  Muslim.  The Catholics are most likely to combine Catholicism with voodoo. We were taken to a hidden village where we were greeted with lots of smiling children and invited to witness a voodoo ceremony.

It was fantastic. The villagers allowed us to take pictures and cleansed us before welcoming us inside. I was all feeling great, talking with the kids who were trying to figure out where I was from while pinching my skin and asking me to take photos when a woman started screaming, grabbed a goat, and the killed it by opening its throat with her bare teeth. “Dang,” I thought “Voodoo is way more intense than a Pentecostal church on Sundays” Our guide, Sensa, looked at our shocked faces and smiled.

After leaving the village, we stopped at a viewing point, and I stood looking over the view. Togo is a beautiful country.

Ouidah, Benin

We finally made it to Benin the next morning and I fell in love with the city instantly. The people were open-armed, the beaches long and beautiful, and the accommodations marvelous. Including the food. It was also the first time I got to dive into the history of slavery in West Africa which was my primary reason for visiting.

When we arrived in Ouidah, we first visited a Python Temple where I took pictures with pythons around my neck, much like one does in Santa Monica, CA. I was a bit unsure of its legitimacy as a functioning temple, but it also has reviews of TripAdvisor, so it’s legit.

Ouidah is a town in Benin that sits on the Gulf of Guinea and was the main harbor of the African Kingdom of Aboment during the 18th and 19th centuries.  The Portuguese, French, Dutch, British, and Americans all fought for a share of the wealth that passed through Ouidah’s port in the form of slaves and palm-oil. Only in 1893 did Ouidah fall to French control like the rest of Benin. Until then it was free.  After slavery ended Ouidah became known as an intellectual hub due to the substantial amount of Afro Brazilians who repatriated back to Africa and decided to call Benin home.

Given its historical importance and participation in the slave trade, it’s likely that many people of Afro decent in the Americans had relatives that passed through the port. That was enough for me to be very emotional when visiting. Besides, people were taken from all over West Africa and sent through different ports, and so, therefore, there’s slight chance one of my ancestors went through, right? I’ll never know.

We visited the Portuguese Fort which now houses the Ouidah Museum of History which focuses on the slave trade and is only a short distance to the symbolic Gate of No Return, a UNESCO site. The guide who gave us a tour was an Afro Brazilian whose grandfather repatriated to Benin in the late 1800’s/ early 1900’s. It was interesting to meet a person whose family were slaves in America but were now in Africa for generations. I wondered about my American ancestors and did any of them join Marcus Garvey and go to Liberia? Did anyone repatriate to any other parts of Africa?

The guide spoke mostly to me the entire time although there were 14 others.  He discussed our shared stories of being ancestors from former slaves, but he made a distinction, that his grandfather had chosen to come back and be free while mine are still slaves. I was slightly put off by that comment, but I appreciated his honesty nevertheless.

Afterward, he walked us on the path toward the Gate of No return in which I felt all white American eyes on me sneaking to see if I would have some reaction. It felt entirely uncomfortable, and I momentarily wished  I had gone with a more diverse group of people.

As we walked towards the gate, he told us we were on the similar path the captured slaves likely took. There were statues there which symbolized certain trees where legend has it that the slaves memorialized through tradition. One of the sculptures was called “Forget Me Not” and was where a tree used to be. According to him, the slaves would walk around the tree three to seven times saying the names of their family and hoping that future generations would not forget them and one day return to Benin. It was a symbolic story and one that moved me emotionally.

Then we approached the gate.

The irony of this grand door and the beautiful ocean and the horrors that had taken place there moved me, and I walked out toward the sea farther than anyone. I needed the distance. I just wanted to feel the water on my toes, and even if none of my ancestors had passed through, I still whispered “I’ve returned” and wiped a tear because this is the closest I would get to uncovering my history.

He gave us no more than 30 minutes at the gate before he herded us back to the van and bus and in silence and we made our way to Hotel Casa Del Papa. A beautiful resort on the water lead to by a bumpy road. As we drove the sun began to set, and the sun changed colors as I had never seen. I asked for the van to stop and we all got out and took pictures. Suns don’t set like this in America.

Ganive, Benin

Ganvie is the largest African village on stilts with approximately 25,000 inhabitants most from the Tofinou ethnic group. They have their tradition of building their homes on teak stilts and covering roofs with leaves. Now, most houses are colorful and have a tin or aluminum roofs. It’s an operational fishing village, and most of the people maintain their tradition despite the imposing society outside. In the town, there are schools, markets, and colorful canoes at every corner. While on a boat to tour the village many of my fellow tourists started snapping pictures of the people. The women and children would immediately turn their heads and cover their face. It was a curious change (understandable because no one likes their picture taken without permission) from what others did. Typically, when the Germans –because it was this one German guy who kept violating people’s privacy by taking picture after picture without permission — would violate someone’s privacy and take a picture without permission the people would start yelling at us and maybe throw something. Here they passively turned away. Hidding the faces of women and children with baskets.

I asked Sensa at one point why and he told me that the local people were tired of having white people come into their neighborhood, contribute nothing, take pictures of them without permission, and then sell it online. I felt very guilty but it also made sense, and I made sure to ask permission and wave every time. But I was also guilty of this offense too. I also bought a few items at the local tourist shop to make sure I contributed. I left with two beautiful hand- painted pictures of the village on cloth. I’m not sure if it was enough.

But back to the village on stilts. It reminded me of the communities I had seen in Vietnam, and I was thrilled to see another town like it in West Africa. Beautiful and not to be missed if visiting  Benin.

Abomey, Benin

The next day we traveled for hours and made it to Abomey where just 45 minutes out we went to a village to watch the Egun dancing masks. Tradition has it that these masked individuals are part of a secret society and the masks represent the reincarnation of deceased people. They are feared by children and adults in the audience for their erratic movements and aggressiveness — and because a touch by the mask could lead to death.

Benin Egun dancing masks by Jasmine Nears Biesinger

As we arrived, we got out of the van and were escorted to our seats, which were strategically placed next to the women and children. The sounds of drums split the air, and the chants of the villagers vibrated all around us. We had arrived late, and the masked individuals were already dancing. Sensa worked with a village leader who escorted us to our seats through the crowd.

Some brave men and male teenagers stood unprotected at the edge of the intimate circle risking a possible touch by one of the masks. Then three men with sticks who at times would hit the masked men or stop them from burrowing into a crowd of children. They never touched them themselves but used the sticks as extensions of their hands. One mask seemed to be the favorite and when he danced all the children started giggling and singing. I asked what they were doing and our guide, Sensa, told me that they were singing a song to ask the man for candy. He was a recently deceased man who was a village favorite and always had candy for the children.

On occasion, a mask would come close to me, and for whatever reason, I would hold my breath and move out of the way as children laughed on bravely and some screamed. At one point a mask ran into a man who had been leaning against the edge of an adobe house casually taking in the scene. Immediately the drums stopped. Screams were heard, and the man dropped still. A group ran over to him to pick him up, and for a moment my heart beat into my ear. “What happened?” I exclaimed to no one in particular. The drums began again, and the man was carried away. “See” David, the German-speaking guide begun, “They believe it. He probably fainted.” I turned to Mark, an American tourist. He had his camera sitting on his lap. Too taken at the moment to memorialize it. “He’s probably faking it,” He said. It was enough to reassure me. The drums were getting louder, and the masks had begun to dance again. The moment was over, and I raised my camera back to my eyes.

If going to Abomey, make sure to find a local to bribe your way into one of these rituals. It was a fantastic experience to be invited into, and it was another highlight of my time in Benin. I fell quickly for Benin and at have since promised myself that one day I will l return.

Deep in the North, near the border, to visiting the Somba and Taneka villages. 

Our time was coming to a close in Benin. On the last day, we stopped at the Dankoli Fetish spot in the Fetish hills outside of Dassa, Benin. There it smelled of blood and death. It was a place of prayer an sacrifice where people from all over would come and ask for good wishes, and if their desire came true, they would return, put palm oil or alcohol on one of the “holy” bumps and then sacrificed a goat, chicken, or even a cow. The holy piles were high, so apparently, it had been working for the people. Outside of the smell, it was interesting to watch a chicken being sacrificed, it was, in some ways, less dramatic than the goat sacrifice in Togo. Later we visited the Taneka Village and the dwellings of the Somna and Tamberma that were on the border between Togo and Benin.

Their people lived in much the same way they had for hundreds of years. Grass and clay huts in the hills. We took a dirt road to find the place and before we entered Sensa left us to negotiate our visit. Once we were accepted, we were able to meet the chief who sat proudly in his hut to greet us and sell us trinkets to help fund their efforts to send kids to school. After leaving, we were then entertained by local dance, and it dawned on me that the villages of Taneka, Somba, and Tamberma were a well-oiled machine for tourism. There was even a woman shirtless smoking a pipe. In some ways, it felt like they had recreated a National Geographic spread from 30 years ago to delight our perceptions of an African village. If you ventured far enough, you could find modern houses with tin roofs and kids with cell phones. The elders know how to make money from the tourist and give us exactly what we think we want.

A woman in traditional clothing with a child. CC: Jasmine Nears Biesinger

We were even allowed into homes and people posed with us for pictures before waiting for Sensa to turn his back and suggest we pay them for the photo. After the dancing demonstration — men, women, and children lined up with their handmade good in front of us with the efficiently of any hustling street salesman and everyone bought all they could carry. I walked away with six animal figured carved from wood.

After the village visit, in a way, I began to understand my role as a tourist here a bit better. Come and learn about the culture and spend money locally.

After the village tours, we did a brief stop at a school in Togo that Sensa knew. The school is a government school with a sign that read “Hard Work, Motivation and Disciple” in French.

It hosted kids from elementary age to 15 years old. It was entirely outside, and there were about 400 kids for eight teachers, only 7 of which were on the government payroll. The 8th teacher had his salary paid by the village families who had seen the need for more teachers and wanted to hire him. They hired him for only 20,000 CFAs for the entire school year or USD 37.60 for nine months of work.

The kids were eager to meet the foreigners who had come. Some of the tourist cam prepared with pens and school supplies. One offered candy, but Sensa quickly rejected it citing concern for dentist fees for the family and the children. We visited three classes where the top students showed off their skills, and Sensa said encouraging words to the students about how they can visit America one day if they excel in school. The kids then posed for pictures, and we later met with the schoolmaster.

He looked the best dressed and fed out of everyone and asked us to help the school out with any donations. Part of me wanted to hand all the money we had over to just the teachers, but it was not possible. We gave him money for new chalkboards with the hope he would replace the broken ones in the classroom.

As we left the school, I asked Sensa what the likelihood of the school children finding jobs after they had graduated school was. He told me the country had something like a 40% unemployment rate which was what was wrong with the economy. He said, “Many people have an education, but very few have a job.” His assessment of the unemployment rate was in stark contrast to the official report, but then again, he’s probably got a better sense than the government who claims that unemployment hovers around 6.8%.

Sodoke, Togo

We finished in Togo for the night and stayed at the Auberge JP Nectar a hotel in the forest with no air conditioning, lizards and spiders in the room, and lots of mosquitos. But the room was a decent size. Nevertheless, a bit horrified I decided that the only way to make this worst was to volunteer to sign up for a NIGHT WALK through the tropical rainforest.

See that girl there? All dressed in white with only her face not covered? Yep, that’s how I roll in the Togo forest at night.

The guide showed up with a machete, and I already felt a bit of regret. But as soon as we started walking, I discovered there was a very nice trail, a trail better than some of the roads I had seen in Togo. On the night walk, we saw poisonous scorpions, snakes, and one colossal spider which I shamefully screamed at when the guide picked it up. I was also attacked by ants which buried themselves in my sock and continued to sting me. But all in all, it was precisely the goodbye I expected from a border town in Togo.

Volta Region, Ghana

When you leave Togo for Ghana at the border everything changes. The roads are now paved, and you get a breath of freedom. It’s a shame how much contrast 2 km of road between two countries can have, but the dictator of Togo leaves it there for all to see. Being back in Ghana symbolized two things for me:

1. Better hotels

2. The Millet festival!

But, before we got there we, of course, had to make a stop at the Monkey Sanctuary of Tafi Atome, because what Instagram profile of Ghana is complete without a feeding monkey pic?

The sanctuary and the town has a fascinating history. The community considers the monkeys to be sacred, and this belief comes from a centuries-old tradition that gave reverence to the monkey and the forest. Legend has it that the ancestors of Tafi Atome migrated to the region from Assini and brought a fetish with them and placed it in the woods making the forest sacred. After some time residents saw monkeys that looked like the monkeys in their native home of Assini and they believed the monkeys followed them. So they began to protect them until the 1980’s when local Christian missionaries opposed the locals’ desire to protect the monkeys and forest and started killing the monkeys and cutting down trees. They claimed the protection and reverence of the woods and monkeys were equivalent to worshipping idols. The jungle and the monkeys began to disappear. It was not until 1995 when the village got together with a Ghanaian based nature conservatory that they decided to turn the forest into an ecotourism hub. This saved the monkeys along with the forest.

Nowadays the cheeky monkeys are happy and multiplying, and respect has been restored to nature. Time spent with the cheeky monkeys and the guides will result in tons of laughter about monkey stories. Lots of photo opportunities and some hungry monkeys getting bananas.

Krobo Region – Millet festival

Finally, we arrived in the Krobo region and were introduced to it’s beautiful and world famous glass beads. We watched a demonstration on how to make the beads and were, of course, taken to the gift shop.

On the drive to the hotel after we were lucky to witness some of the chiefs and the royal families arrive a day ahead of the Millet festival.

Krobo traffic was stopped because a chief was being carried on a high altar to an undisclosed location for the Royals. All 15 of us pilled out of the car, camera in hand, alongside local photographers and journalist and we tried to capture the excitement. The drums rose above the city’s car horns, and it was as if we arrived. The high chief was escorted by his staff carrying his alter on their shoulders well above the crowd of cars. He sat in his altar with grace and pride overlooking his gawking fans. Others trailed behind him dancing to the drums. I was absolutely star struck and ready to see more. But first, we had to sleep. After a refreshing night at the Olikedeke Hotel, we drove early in the morning to the Millet Festival grounds.

“The best part of this festival” Sensa began, “is the arrival. The rest is all talk and negotiations. We will be here for about four hours and then leave as soon as they begin to talk.”

He walked us into the area for guests and sat us down all neatly in a row. Then he turned to us and said: “Go take pictures, but ask the royals first.” I took a look at Erin, who I had befriended and who was traveling solo from Canada, and we nodded in agreement. We left together to make all the portraits we could.

Everyone was friendly. Some of the chiefs and royals allowed us to shake their hands. Everyone wanted to be seen and to be documented. It was a gregarious environment.  The music played in the background, drums drowned out the DJ, and everyone was in traditional clothing. The clothing was colorful, beautiful, and neatly arranged like rows of Dutch tulips in the spring. I bent down on one knee, smiled often, and kindly refused one marriage proposal.

Every time a new royal chief was introduced I raced back to our seats and captured the moment with my lens. Taking in all I could. When I grew tired, and the sweat from the sun left my dress clinging to me – I took a seat. Right then the announcer demanded we all sat for the royal king to enter. I crossed my ankles to get comfortable, and David hit them.

I looked at him shocked. Then he hit them again. “Nein, Nein, du must nicht [something]” I looked at Christian for reassurance, but he was off in another world. Then David crossed and uncrossed his legs, and I got it. Then he explained to me slowly in German that I should never cross my legs in front of the Queen Mother or the King. Duly noted David.

We sit for another hour watching in utter amazement as chief after chief with the royal entourage enters the fray. Finally, everyone sat, and it was at that point that the military personnel arrived and covered the area. I looked at David trying to understand what exactly was happening. He seemed unalarmed.

Then the announcer said “ All rise for President Nana Akufo-Addo.

I Freaked Out

I immediately stood at attention, and my undergraduate International Relations degree nerdiness kicked in as I relished the fact that I would shortly be standing in the same area as the president of Ghana. As he entered everyone stood and he greeted all the people on stage who I assumed were important. Then all the essential people formed a line and went straight to the audience. They Were Shaking Hand!

President Nana Akufo-Addowalked gracefully to the back of the line amidst loud patriots claps of thunder, as the crowd went wild chanting his name. Then they began walking around the outskirts of the foray shaking everyone’s hand who was in the front rows. I had placed myself in the front row and nearly lost it. People pushed against me, but I held my ground and waited. All of 10 minutes went by, and finally, he came to me, looked at me, and I smiled and shook his hand while chanting “Nana Nana” with the crowd.

A man with Millet in Ghana CC: Jasmine Nears Biesinger

After he passed a man dressed in white followed throwing the ceremonial millet on everyone’s face. I snapped a picture of him and his accomplice before he threw millet on me. The grain fell into my dress, and it felt cool against my skin. I was at once elevated and relaxed. It was more than I could have dreamed. After 10 minutes the organizer gave a speech, and Sensa and David ushered us away to the van and bus.

That night we stayed at the New Capital View hotel.

Kumasi region.

I was disappointed by our time in Kumasi because I wished we had had more time. However, what we did see was all the more reason to return to Ghana one day.

After our morning drive from Krobo, we arrived in Kumasi, in the Ashanti region, known for its collection of gold and its impressive history, an abundance of culture, and wealth. Because of our later arrival, we missed much of what Ashanti had to offer. We visited one cultural center and then spent the lazy afternoon walking around Kerela, the biggest open-air market in West Africa. Most of the people we met were used to tourist stumbling through their marketplace, and everyone greeted us with warmth and invited us to learn about different items they were selling. We took pictures and chatted with the locals. Because of the intensity of the market, we eventually split as a group. Some people ended up with Sensa, others with David, and one German who had never been good at following instructions anyway got lost in the market.

Thankfully, we caught up with him after some time, but the delay caused us to miss the Ashanti cultural center. I’ll have to return someday. After walking around Kumasi, we piled into the van and bus, and we drove further into town.

We ended up at a funeral for a wealthy businessman who had just died. It was an awkward affair although not our first funeral on this tour. Funerals in Ghana, especially for the well to do, are extraordinary spectacles. Family, friends, and those wishing to be seen come to the funeral, offering financial donations. There are performances, and everyone sits in an open arena waiting to be entertained. One does not have to have any relation to the family of the deceased to attend, in fact, the more in attendance, the more prestigious the funeral feels. The family was thrilled that their relatives funeral had been crashed by 15 foreign tourists. We donated in the companies name to the family.

We all sat down after greeting the family and awkwardly ran around taking pictures and sending our condolences. People sat, laughing and talking as the well-off to do family observed the crowd. Aristocrats of society donated some 500,000 cedi’s each, and it was announced over the loudspeaker who had given what. Most everyone was dressed in the local traditional funeral colors of red and black. We also learned that the funeral dress is unique and expensive. It is something most people buy once, maintain, and wear to all the funerals. It was indeed a celebratory event, and it made me ponder the solemnness of burials in the United States.

Elmina Castle

Our second to last day arrived, and I could feel the wane of most people. The older guests were beginning to become irritable and skip some events. Even Christian and I had started to feel the drain of the road. We longed for a hotel bed and a night in. Nevertheless, Elmina, Ghana was a place I did now want to miss. It is a UNESCO World Heritage site and was an old Dutch and Portuguese colony. It’s located on Ghana’s expensive Gold Coast that is famous for its culture and for being one of the locations of the trans-Atlantic slave trade It’s also where the Door Of No Return is located. Its importance should not be lost on any Americans. Even former President Obama visited the area along Ghana’s Gold Coast when he made his historic visit here.

So despite my feelings of exhaustion, I was somberly excited. I had imagined this moment for many years when I dreamed of going to West Africa. I was happy that the city visit would be the main program. Elmina, while being a UNESCO site is also a fishing village. It’s colorful boats crowd onto its bay, and you can smell the fish markets as you approach the dock. On our way to the castle, we stopped off the side of the road to witness fishermen and women bringing in the days catch. I scurried down the hill to the beach’s shore to get on even ground. Everyone else was talking to the locals and also taking pictures. I just stood by and watched unsure if I should take pictures or not.

After watching for a while, deciding to take pictures of the ocean, and smiling at the villagers working with their catch of the day; a woman approached me. She looked me in the eyes with a warm smile, turned to David and said something in a local language. Then she laid her hands on my shoulders and squeezed them. I smiled and looked at David for a translation. He told me she said, “You and I are one.”

I smiled. It was the reassurance I had been seeking on my journey to West Africa. I smiled at her and repeated her words in English. She nodded and then left. My heart swelled a bit. Finally, we made it to the Elmina castle.

It’s a large, imposing structure, wholly whitewashed right on the beautiful coast. I thought it ironic that the last thing the many slaves who passed through here would see was the beauty of the home they were forced to leave behind. It felt like added cruelty to an already horrendous practice. We were given a two hour guided tour of the area. We walked around slave quarters, we were locked into jails and walked on the roof. We shook our heads at the slave stories told to us, many of them first-hand accounts. I felt so much anger boiling inside of me as the word flowed from our guide’s mouth.

When we made it to the Door of No Return, I stood for a while. I stayed behind as the others began to leave. I touched the walls, and admittedly I cried a bit. I could not bring myself to reach for the bars on the door. I just looked out to the sea. The emotion of it all was too much to keep in. Laying in the corner were roses brought from those who also made the pilgrimage here. They were mostly from American organizations. I wished that I would have brought flowers.

On the roof of the castle, I looked over the beach as a game of soccer took place just within view of the Door Of No Return. Kids were running and playing in a free land, and I am here, returning to where many of my ancestors may have been stolen away. It seemed too cruel. At the end of the tour, the guide urged us not to leave the castle filled with hate but rather with a sense of resolve and forgiveness. To go out and do something good in the world. I raged at his instruction. I felt that I should be allowed to suffer whatever I wanted. For it was me who had to return to something I could never have, not him.

That night we relaxed at the Anomabu Beach Resort. It was a welcome change. It also symbolized how close we were to the end.

At night we all thanked our guides, and everyone gave tips. We toasted together and exchanged contact information, and all promised to keep in touch. It was also quite emotional as this symbolized the end of continuous travel with Christian. The next time we would meet would be in South America and after a month and a half, the longest we had been apart.

After dinner, the guides had arranged a dance for us by local teenage musicians. We listened to them play traditional songs of the area, and we watched them dance. I pulled out the street schnapps I had purchased back in Togo from a standoff the side of the road, and we all got tipsy. Toward the end, the kids had us up and dancing with them as we all laughed and silently reflected how this was the last night.

Last Day – Anomabu to Accra

Early in the morning we awoke, packed our bags, and piled into the vans. You could see on everyone’s face they were ready to go home. We drove an hour up against a hill to the Kakum National Park and met our canopy and nature guide.

He walked us on an uphill trail, stopping every 20 minutes for those who needed breaks and explaining the wildlife,  birds, botany, and butterflies to us. It was a warm day, and the sun managed to break through the trees and heat the pathway. Once we made it to the canopy, we all took turns walking the 12 connecting bridges over 120 feet above the forest ground. I went first, and Christian followed, and I snapped pictures of everything around us. It was relaxing and didn’t challenge the mind even a bit.

CC: Christian Biesinger

After the walk, we all sat for a while at a forest café and watched mischievous squirrels and lizards walk by. Then finally it was time to go, and we got back into our vans and buses. The ride back was mostly silent.

Everyone was aware it was the end, and everyone was exhausted. We rolled into the Accra City Hotel, and the porters began to unload our stuff. Everyone gave hugs or shook hands. Then we left. Some of us to other hotels, some of us to our rooms, some of us to new adventures.

I asked Christian if he wanted to go to the bar.

He did.

So we sat at the bar with soccer playing in the background.

“Wow,” I finally said after a long silence. “I can’t believe it’s over. I’m not sure how to feel.”

Christin looked at me with some guilt “Honestly,” he started “I just want to go home and sleep in my own bed.”

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