Night at the Junction

Our tro-tro rolled to a stop to let us out at Logba Alekpeti, otherwise known as "the junction." Everyone raced for the nearest sign of a toilet, labeled "urina," which turned out to be nothing more than a stall with a long crack along the far edge of the barren floor. Checking into our "hotel" was unlike anything we had ever experienced. Quaint and minimalist, it had a pleasant communal center with outdoor tables set up and a long row of rooms with very dim lighting and a communal set of stalls at the end of the hall. After checking out a neighboring village and supporting its ecotourist ventures with Mona monkeys, Annie and I hitched a motorcycle ride back to the junction. In disembarking, I discovered why people wear pants on motorcycles, as the muffler scalded my calf quite impressively. By this time, I was desperate for dinner (I know, surprise, surprise), and managed to convince the crew to venture down the road to a bar we had passed with signs proclaiming "fufu, bantu" (starchy staples here in Ghana). Unfortunately, I was painfully disheartened to discover that they were out of food (not even a ball of fufu left!). My disappointment must have been quite transparent, though, for when I asked the woman behind the counter pitifully if she had anything at all to eat, she replied "well..." and produced what she termed "porridge." Excitedly, I accepted after only a slight hesitation as I glanced at said "porridge" to rule that it was Obruni-safe (i.e. would not send my foreign stomache into spasms). After presenting this prize to me, this woman miraculously produced goat stew to accompany it, and in my excitement combined with my desire not to appear ungrateful, I accepted after determining that it did, in fact, fall into the "hot" category at some point in recent history. My companions could not believe the feat that I pulled off in acquiring a true meal after such a discouraging state of affairs any more than they could get over their horror that I was actually eating it. I have never experienced ANY meal that compares to the experience. Eating by the light of a candle (purchased on the way down the road as we realized we would soon find ourselves in complete darkness at only 6:30PM), my table mates were quite intrusive, snapping photos of every step of the meal, which was, admittedly, quite a process. Provided with several basins, soap, and a cup of water, I washed my hands before scooping goat stew into my mouth with my hands. This was my first real Ghanaian meal, and I was admittedly perturbed to discover that the chunk of goat in my bowl was a hoof with a pad attached! I still managed to nibble at it, though my appetite for meat was quickly curtailed by the endless stream of jokes and awe. It was truly the most memorable meal of my lifetime, and when I broke out with a fever of 102 the next day, infected with some sort of gastrointestinal bacteria, I paid the price for being brazenly adventurous. Fortunately, the hefty dose of Zithromax I took before my stomach even began to react to the systematic shock worked wonders and in less than 24 hours I was back to 100%. Phewww, close call.