12/11/05 06:54 pm - Krisan, a month later
You know, before you go and do something like this, go
to africa as a journalist, i mean, you have all sorts of fantasies
about the dr. jones adventures you'll have. The last three days, shiiit... I can leave here knowing I did it, I lived it and hopefully, it meant something.
We were four. Semantics. MaryBeth Hall, another JHR volunteer. Russ
Rizzo, a former Stars and Stripes reporter also volunteering at the
Chronicle. And myself.
The seven-hour tro-tro journey to Krisan was uneventful. Squished
knees, overheating, lap-cramps, fitful naps and dry mouths being
non-events, in respect to what happened when we arrived. The van
dropped us off inside the camp, and we walked down the main, dirty
avenue of the camp, stepping carefully, as if we were about to face a
high noon shoot out.
We stopped at Freddie's tea stand. Semantics and I'd befriended him the
first time we visited. Within minutes, we were surrounded by refugees,
each trying to explain what had happened that morning and that, for our
own sake, it was probably a good idea if we left.
The trip was planned to coincide with a visit by the refugee
coordinators at the US Embassy. They'd read our story, they'd met with
David Vanyan and three others, and went out to investigate krisan
personally. The next day, Friday, being International Human Rights day
and the US Embassy had a gala planned.
(I'm more than a little smug that our little story might've the hot issue of the night)
It took us a few minutes to sort their stories out. It seemed that the
representatives from the US Embassy had been arrested. They were
interviewing the refugees when the Ghana Police, some of whom toted
assault rifles, ordered them to leave and escorted them off camp. They
weren't really arrested, only detained, but the refugees didn't know
the difference.
Russ and MaryBeth decided to go face the police directly and headed to
the main road to catch a car to their HQ. Semantics was a bit nervous
and I could understand that. He's a refugee himself, and we're all
white volunteers who enjoy the privileges of our skin and the seemingly
invincible protection is sometimes allows.
I convinced him to stay and interview the refugees and within a few
minutes we were being led to the edge of the swamp to meet some
refugees who are hiding out in the bush, hear only for a few minutes for supplies.
It was raining. They stood
frozen over their small canoe until our guides assured them we weren't
police. One was an 11-year-old boy. Our guide said that he
could lead us out to their encampment tomorrow but with a warning: we'd
have to trek slowly through knee-deep swamp water.
Dave's Big Mistake #1
Before
we'd left with the swamp, and I'd sent a boy to check on Russ and MB,
if they'd been arrested or detained or barred from coming back to meet
us. Russ told me later that the police wouldn't have known I was
inside, if the kid hadn't announced in front of them that I wanted to
know how they were doing.
As we hiked back into the camp, a man in a t-shirt and shorts, a thin mustache, swung off a bicycle. The refugee group with us stopped
in their tracks. "He's police," they said.
Now, I'd told Semantics that if the cops came for me he should blend in
with the group, that they probably wouldn't be able to tell him apart
from the other refugees. I think I was right; he didn't take any notice
of Semantics.
"Where are you from?"
"The US," I said.
"Give me your ID."
And I gave him my JHR card, which he shoved into his pocket.
"Follow me."
"I borrowed one of the umbrellas from them, I'll go give it back."
And I did, handing it to Semantics, telling him to meet me in Eykwe, the nearest village.
The police officer marched me through camp, and one with a rifle joined
him. I asked the police officer for his id. He wouldn't show it to me.
I asked how I was supposed to know he was a police officer. He gestured
to the armed guard and said that he'd vouch for me. The uniformed guard
wasn't wearing anything to indicate his name, badge, rank or indeed,
whether he was police or army.
I text messaged Russ, "I've been busted," but it didn't matter; within minutes I'd joined him and MB at the roadside.
Russ and MaryBeth and I tried to find out where they were taking us,
who they were, what they wanted, as they marched us down the main road.
According to them, we weren't under arrest, but we couldn't leave
either.
Ten minutes later, we were sitting on benches in the courtyard of an
abandoned vocational training school that had been converted into a
police barracks. We were surrounded by police offiers, most lounging
around in t-shirts and shorts and flip-flops. One ogled MaryBeth, claiming he'd never seen a white woman before. The man who'd shuffled me
there on the bike showed us his ID. It didn't have his name on it. Just
his picture and the police insignia. When I tried to
write his badge number down, he slapped my pad and snatched back his
id.
We waited an hour for the ranking officer to come. He smelled drunk to
me, but Russ didn't smell it. He yelled at us for awhile, silly incoherent
illogical things about not contacting the UNHCR first, except that he
kept confusing the UN High Commissioner for Refugees with the US
Embassy.
Then a taxi came rolling into the parking lot, also accompanied by police. A
middle-aged German guy with a super-villain face got out and began
arguing with the police to get his camera back. We'd learn later
the man runs a hotel and a charity organization nearby, that he'd
merely stopped to take a photo of the burnt out van at the refugee
camps entrance. Not a journalist, just a curious passer-by. The
younger, uniformed police officers were over-zealous, yelling that he'd
been "interrogating" the refugees, and the ranking officer had to shout
that the man must not be mishandled. I kinda feel bad - we were the
troublemakers, and if wasn't for us, he probably wouldn't have been
hasseled. Oh well. We'll get back to Mr. Wolfhart later.
When the police released us, the next big problem was finding Semantics. We kept losing mobile phone reception and I hadn't given
Semantics any money to get a car to meet us.
It was the refugees who got him out. A few women pulled together 50,000
cedis and a few men led him out a back route to the main road.
It was raining again and the three of us were huddled under an empty
shack when his cab pulled up. It was dark, and the electricity in the
whole area was out.
We decided to call it a day.
We had the cab take us to Beyin, a beach town that according to the
guidebook had a nice guest house. And yes, it did: a small two-roomed
house of wood, standing on stilts on the beach. It was perfect.
We
needed food. We needed beer.
The beer came first, and perhaps that explains why the most memorable lines of the trip happened that night.
First, Semantics.
"I love this place! But where's the food, man? Where's the food! I'm
fucking hungry!" ... and of course, you never hear that sort of thing
out of him.
Then, Mary Beth during dinner, to the owner, Steven.
MB: "Let me ask you an important question. Is there a place I can rent a video camera?"
S: "A camera. We have a still camera, with film."
MB: "No a video camera."
S: "No, a still camera, we have only still camera."
MB: "Okay, okay. All I really need is a battery. Do you have an electronic store in this town?"
By this point Russ and I are doubled up, hysterical. If you'd seen the
state of this town... the complete lack of anything ... you wouldn't
have to ask that.
I read this, and I can't help but think that this makes no comedic sense. Well, I'm laughing...
Anyway.... Semantics woke us up, ass-crack early, choosing ringtones on
his phone. We had breakfast, and went back to Eykwe, where our guide
would be meeting us. We were all going into the bush.
* * *
Before I move on, two things to keep in mind
First, I have photographs of nearly everything, but they won't be scanned in until Tuesday.
Second, to give you a grounding image... both of our guides had their
right arms broken by police a month ago. Both of them were still in
slings even as they led us out of Eykwe.
We crossed through a forest and came across a young man crying his eyes
out in the shade of the hut he'd built to hide his palm wine still. The
sceptic in me said I shouldn't pay him any mind, he was so drunk he
could barely stand. My bleeding heart, though, saw him as
representating the lost generation of Krisan. No school, no work,
leaving him to illegally brew his alcohol for cash.
We left him behind and crossed an immense field that lead into the
outermost structures of the camp. It was pretty clear to everyone that
if the police saw us, this time we would be arrested... and so our
guides rushed us, not quite running, but an urgent speedwalk, through
the alleys of the camp. Once a little boy started calling out, "white
men, white men, hurry," to someone we couldn't see. I tried to hush
him, but then realized it'd be better just scram.
One of our guides wanted to stop at his house to drop off fruit, but
Semantics objected we needed to keep moving. Within minutes were at the
swamps edge.
* * *
There are lots of water-borne illnesses in Ghana. I've also seen
photographs of 15-foot snakes that crawled out of the swamp into camp.
Russ says I'm a hypochondriac, and he was probably right, I'll never
get away from the nervous american jew buried in me. To my credit
though, Woody Allen wouldn't have walked into the swamp barefoot. We
did, and you know, I wasn't as worried as I thought I'd be.
It was slow going, prodding each spot before we stepped with a long
walking stick. The water and mud came up to our knees, sometimes
higher. In front of me in the marsh parade, a mother with her baby tied
to her back. I didn't fall, I was proud.
A half hour later, we arrived at one of the camps in the bush. Two
women had laid out a UNHCR tarp, like the ones that covered our mock
election booth. They were cooking maize porridge, using water from a
two foot deep hole dug in the mud. Small children lied around in the
grass and on the tarp. Russ found out many of them were parentless out
here.
There were maybe 30 there and they were Togolese, french speakers. I
selected a young man who's english was clear enough for an interview and
he showed me the patch of dry leaves where he sleeps, and the crook in
a tree where he stores his drinking water and gari (a powdery substance
that can be mixed with sugar into a porridge).
A few minutes after I returned to the main grouping, the look-out sounded the alarm and everyone ducked for cover.
Dave's Big Mistake #2
I didn't know where to go, so instead
turned circles like an idiot, stepping directly into their water hole
with my mucky foot. I feel really, really bad about that. I think
that's a little more than a faux pas.
But after I pulled myself out, I crawled into a little recess under a
tree and pulled some palm fronds over myself. There was a fairly big
spider just above me. (I can hear Russ making fun of me). And we
waited. I didn't think I was inconspicuous enough... I was only a few
feet from the UNHCR tarp and wearing a very unjunglish maroon top. No
one came, though. I think I was a little disappointed.
It was another hour through the swamp to get back to the main highway,
but this time I had wellington boots, which made a big difference. We
got out and hid by a hill, pulled our boots off, and the refugees
washed our feet off with clean water from a jug. Then we caught a cab.
* * *
At the main crossroads, we were accosted by a former pastor who claimed
that he was in hiding, not from the police, but from the other
refugees. He said they'd threatened to kill him because he was a
dissenter, he didn't believe in their demands for resettlement. He
called Krisan a "paradise," compared to other camps he'd stayed in. We
interviewed him and Russ thought a lot of what he said made sense.
Semantics was hostile towards him. I thought he'd said somethings that
needed to go into the story (him being a double-refugee as well, but
for different reasons)... but I didn't think he was that credible,
considering one of the first things he said was that the refugees in
the bush were all criminals and drug dealers.
He left quickly when another refugee, a Togolese, approached. He seemed nervous. The Togolese told us the guy was crazy.
* * *
The pastor might've called Krisan paradise, but he'd never been to the Ankobra Beach Resort.
You remember the German from the police barracks? Well, Russ ran into
him in Eykwe when we were waiting for our guides, and the German
invited us to stay at his hotel as his guests. For free.
My god. This place was ... paradise.
The cleanest beach, with clear, warm water. Waiters and attendents who
answer every request, "Yes, please." Our own two-bedroom bungalow with a proper
shower. Fresh fish for lunch, for dinner, sliced pineapple for
breakfast and in the end, he refused to let us pay.
I walked barefoot everywhere.I used to have a phobia of water, or atleast, natural water you
can't see the bottom of. The swamp cured me of that, and I
sloshed around in the waves, and dug holes in the sand like a six year
old.
I can only thank him by telling the truth. If you are ever, ever
considering coming to Ghana... and you've got a little money to spend,
and you like your luxury... this is the only place to go. I can't pump
it enough... I don't know when I've been so at ease, been so lulled by
nature. I thought these places only existed in brochures.
* * *
The German owner said that he'd met police in Eykwe and they'd told him
it was okay to go back to Krisan. In the morning, after a long swim in
the surf, we headed back to the police headquarters to see. We were
denied entrance again...
...and so we went back to Takoradi, then Accra, then to sleep. And in the morning, to the office.
Questions?
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