Tidal Wave

“Mo la gble” is a phrase that I put some mileage on during our last trip to Dzita.  It means “The way has spoiled,” or “The road is bad.”  Really it was an understatement.  The road is gone.  We caught a tro-tro from the market and headed out at our usual time in the early afternoon and by the time we got to the temporary road there was a small stream from waves clearing the only dune that blocks the sea from the low wetlands beyond.  We got stuck briefly and had to dismount.  In the Chinese-firedrill that followed I found myself riding on the outside of the tro-tro instead of within– “hanging,” as the first-mate called it.  He also hung from the side of the van and we got to chat a bit during the journey.  Like just about everyone here he was friendly as hell.  I especially enjoyed that his name was Surprise and I made it no secret.

After collecting loan repayments at our cooperative meetings, we started the journey back only to be cut short at the temporary road.  True to its name, the road was a paragon of impermanence.  We disembarked from our tro-tro and I went into photographer mode.  Duffy forged ahead and was out of site relatively quickly.  Maggie and Bridget were bullshitting and waiting patiently for the stupid boy, and I, the stupid boy, was trying to get a nice picture of waves hitting a rock.  I failed.

I think I lack the word-mastery to really describe how surreal it was to walk through this village under these circumstances.  The sea was wildly unpredictable.  Waves would clear their shrinking barrier and hit us with sometimes surprising force.  More often however the water would come rollicking at about shin-height.  Maybe that was the most bizarre thing; the waves were destroying this village almost gently.  However strange the event was, the mood amplified the feeling by a hundred-fold.  There’s a certain positive vibe here in the Anlo region of Ghana.  It’s an unspoken understanding between people that I’d almost describe as optimism.  But not quite.  Steadfast with a smile might be a better description.  I’ll have to noodle on it, but all I can say is that this was the most well-received village-devastation I could possibly have imagined.  Certainly it is sad and people weren’t celebrating the loss of their homes.

Somehow people just maintained a staggering degree of perspective.  The boys above saw no reason why the situation should prevent them from continuing their coconut harvest, and were even kind enough to share their bounty with our crew.  The people were just… still happy.  Their houses may be built on sand, but whoever poured the foundation for their world-view did a bang-up job.

These oddities combined made the return trip feel like something a bit out of a dream, and we took our time with it.  We enjoyed our coconuts and occasional chats with passers-by.  The interaction between sea, sand, and sun also made for many beautiful pictures.

Walking back was perilous at times and downright deadly for my sandals.  I almost lost them twice.  Walking without them was preferable but there were places where very large, pokey cacti were being buried by the sand.  What ever was a boy to do?  Maggie and Bridget took the high road when it came to avoiding the waves.

Although occasionally there was no choice but to just brace yourself.  By this time people on both ends of the road had given up on motorized transport altogether and were beginning to ferry goods across the waves on their heads.

I think the walk back left quite an impression on us.  The air was thick with mist and felt electrified as we waded across the last stretch of beach.  Then it was on to find a tro-tro and return home yet again.  Again, I can’t express how crazy this experience was in words.  I hope the photos help a bit.  I left them at a higher resolution than usual so you can get a little more detail.  This last one is really high resolution and comes closest to capturing the sort of magic that I still feel when I think of that night.  Enjoy.