The contemplation of becoming a Backpacking Martyr

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On top of a plateau my moto-taxi driver and I just finished arguing in different languages about a mis communication on price. We stop to ask a lady walking by (with a bundle of branches resting on her head) where the chief’s house is. She points to a series of thatched huts on top of the plateau. But in this part of Northern Togo a site of an occupied village on the plateau was rare. In fact it’s only been about 2 generations. We needed to find the chief as he had the keys to his ancestor’s 19th century hide out.

I often think how far will I go to save a few dollars in negotiations based on principal. I have missed a few things because of a dollar or two. “I’m not paying that! Fine I won’t go.” And my imagination got the best of me as we drove the kilometre towards the hideout at the edge of the plateau.

There was a gate that was locked at the entrance and I wondered if they’d lock me in once I entered and not let me out until I pay what the moto taxi guy says... I am in such a stubborn mood now I thought, ‘I could martyr myself over this.’

I then got carried away even more with the thought that I wonder if a backpacker would ever do that. Be stubborn enough and die for their rights to not pay an extra miniscule amount that the locals don’t have to pay and die. Would that become a tourist site? A shrine made in the backpacker’s honour. The ‘Come see the idiot’ tour?’

…Anyway…

The view at the edge is one of the best vantage points I’ve had on the African continent. A massive plain of dry land with plenty of green top trees scattered around. The rooves of the small huts below were predominately tin but still there were thatched rooves.

Once the gate opened you climb down the cliff face with steep steps assisted by UNESCO funds. Back in the day, the only way to get up or down was to climb the roots of the trees that protruded from the cliff face.

It is a smaller more dramatic version of the Dogon country in Mali and the home of a village using the small caves in Mt Semoo. They were used because back in the 19th century the Chokossi Empire were a ruthless bunch and controlled much of Northern Togo. So to protect themselves from the soldiers and tax collectors they decided to hide. I’m not sure if it were true but the guy which meet me down there said he was the second generation on living back up on the plateau.

I would lose my temper 2 more times before I left this place including at the end. I have to admit West Africa does make a white person get the shits more often than anywhere else in the world.

That morning I had a lack of water and the driver couldn’t understand me when I said “Eau.” (French for water) Being in this heat and having spells of no water really has changed my attitude towards water. I have thought many times and back in Ethiopia I finally admitted my hatred towards water to Will the Scot when he kept saying that I should drink more water. (Do you want me to type the word ‘water’ anymore times in one paragraph?)

Back then I said to him, “No! What is it with people and water? God… I can’t stand people walking around with their water bottles saying ‘Look at me I am so cooooolll! I’m drinking water!’ Piss off! No, no I’ll have my water when I want my water... Gosh water sooo overrated.” In West Africa in summer you need water all the time. At $1-2 a pop for 1.5ltrs, if you go with the bottle option, than you need to budget about $2-6 a day.

Forward thinking regarding Visa’s and a limited amount of pages left in my passport meant I had to rush northern Togo as I could only get 7 days at the border. So instead of taking my time I travelled to a town I had no information on accept it was near a sight I wanted to see.

Travelling to the unknown, suspense increased with the sight of darkening clouds in the distance. The leaves and branches swinging around as the wind intensified and there was enough light to see that this could be one of those great travelling moments - when the rain will fall from the moment the bus stops so you can get off and stop when you get to your accommodation. But I didn’t even know if there was accommodation at all.

The villages we passed before Kande were just little places with no infrastructure, no electricity. So I was a bit nervous as to how this will pan out. 5 minutes before we arrived the rain started and to the surprise of the locals I was getting off. My bag gets taken off the roof and a guy called Alan in white overalls says “Bonsour!” I say “Aberge or Otel?” “Oui” That was good enough for me to not give up on the place and with that I found my moto taxi driver for tomorrow.

Togo is a thin strip to the east of Ghana and from the north there is only one road that gets you anywhere comfortably enough. Well actually these roads are some of the worst in Africa. The traffic is consistent but not over bearing and its used by all with every other road branching off it. Koutammakou is on one of those which branches about 20kms east.

It is a site where a Tamberma compound is. Called Tatas they have a single entry point, which is used to shower arrows at their enemy once they are trapped inside. My book said they are a series of fortress like mud houses. They started around 17th century by people fleeing the slave traders of Benin’s Dahomeyan kings.

After the caves the previous day, I was expecting something different especially when reading in the late 19th century the Germans lost out to these ‘fortresses.’ ‘They must be pretty large buildings, right?’ I thought. Well this is just another example of Germany’s poor fighting record in Africa. Instead of a grand fortress at a vantage point we have a compact mud house of 5 storeys fitted into the equivalent of our 2 storey size on a patch of farmland. It’s a weird looking home that looks set for a fantasy children’s show.

The bottom level is where they prepare for the kitchen, the second is where the animals are kept and some fetishes lie. The third is the kitchen - all these have little holes to shoot arrows out of. It’s very dark inside and as you reach the 4th level you reach the shower level, which is sloped to a drain hole that goes out the back. This is the start of the roof where the next level up a few of the spiralling steps is more storage and the bedrooms, plus the major defensive area. The storage was for things like maize and baobab fruit.

This place was another one of those lets try and get as much money out of the tourist and the official tourist office was where the problems were. I had to do the whole dramatic “fine then I will not go” routine. The stand up, the walk out of the office. I even had to do it in front of the family and chief of the house later on.

Obviously the guide was trying to put me on the spot and think I have to respect their wishes or some crap. I had none of it, it backfired as I called his bluff as it was him who was going to pocket most of the money. There may have been a lack of communication with the locals but it was good enough for me to inform them how much I have paid for the guide, entrance and motorbike to hire. His reaction was of a little shock.

Most likely because he and his family are not seeing much of that money. I’m afraid this could eventually be a place where the local gets exploited if they are not careful. I was so convinced that the sight should be bigger I didn’t believe the tour was over. It just didn’t make sense.

I left that day and headed to Lome where I had an unusual bus ride (again) with a guy in the front seat with a soldier. A few hours later I realised he was in handcuffs - They use public transport to transfer prisoners! I noticed it as the officer changed the cuffs from behind the guys back to one on each hand. I then thought ‘Wait hang on. Why does he get the good seat?’

I was sitting next to a kid with a chest and back wrapped in plaster to I assume realign his spine. His chest was over proud, close to his chin. It is desperately poor in West Africa, I would say easily this is the poorest region I have travelled. Although Togo was a bit better than others but still seeing this you start thinking about the hardships these people put up with.

Gare routires (bus station) in Togo are pretty aggressive and your bags are always taken without your consent by prospective taxi drivers. A lot of yelling happens that gets so frustrating over this immature act that you want to tell them all to fuck off but you can’t its not like that. They will eventually come to an agreement with one another no matter how displeased everyone is and they will get you from A-B.

That B was a pleasant enough capital of Togo, Lome. And that pleasantness is based really on the main road along the beach. Golden sands and coconut trees it’s just a shame that the currents are too strong, otherwise it would be a perfect beach city. Many people play football and I am sure its fishing nets that get dragged out from the ocean by about 20 guys straining.

A guy yells out “Hey!” Whilst I walked along the promenade. I have had experience in this before. I knew he was pissing and trying to get me to have a look at his cock (apologies for using that term to sensitive readers – but just trying to make it sound as bad as it is.) He then tried again “Hey!” and it takes a lot of will power to not look when someone says “Hey!” right next to you but I stayed strong.

I’ve learned the hard way though, when a guy wearing an Italian football shirt was masturbating next to a cathedral in Budapest 7 years ago. That scarring episode was so bad, so vivid that I can’t remember where or when it happened a second time in my travels, which it did. You couldn’t wish that on your worst enemy.

I wanted to see the last weekend of the Premier League matches and when I gave the address of the bar to a moto taxi driver. I went on a long 25 minute ride instead of the 5 minute ride it should have taken. I gave him the street plus the streets it runs off but no good. Stretched over two taxis I gave up and persevered on foot. I went into a 4 star hotel after not paying the first guy and this $160 a night hotel didn’t know the name of the street it’s hotel was on. If they don’t know, what hope do the moto taxi guys have!

The day after I headed to the sacred place of Togo where the country got its name. It’s an island across from Lake Togo. The place Togoville is home to Voodoo and Christianity only. And walking the street to the chief’s residents I see a German flag. Germany is seen as a friend here and flags were seen every now and then. The French aren’t liked much here, tourists have to pay double on the border for their VISA’s.

The Pope John Paul II visited here in the 80’s and they show you the short walk he made from the purpose built wharf to the large cathedral here. Voodoo celebrations are every even year around September from memory. And there are special ceremony areas. One spot had a dead chicken tied up to thank voodoo. It would eventually be taken by a dog or whither away.

Development is not much here and is very local. The tourist accommodation is on the mainland and when I spoke to the chief’s son Prince whoever he said that all development is not on the island. They had very good English and many people from Togoville studied in Ghana, which is only 1cm from the capital. Actually Togo only has about 55km of coastline and with most of the population in the south, on the coast there is quite a few people.

Still on people, I’ve noticed that you know you are getting over an area when you see locals come up to you and you think. ‘Oh no don’t talk to me’ than they do and through the pain of it all you pause to get all the negativity of the situation out of your head to make a pleasant response. ‘Pardon, non parlour Francais.’ How obnoxious is that! You can travel places like Europe, SE Asia and not learn the language and not feel guilty or feel like you are missing anything. But communication with nice locals in West Africa can only really be achieved in French.

I enjoyed Sierra Leone a lot because I gave myself a chance to understand the country through verbal communication. Maybe the whole VISA problems I had was a blessing, because Africa is not a sights destination it is a people destination and without the local language your communication is limited to arseholes at Gare Routiere or African Embassy workers.

My trip was at a crossroads. Unable to get a Ghana VISA, no embassy for Cameroon, Nigeria only a 2 day transit VISA to transit to a country I didn’t have a visa for and Gabon needing a $200 hotel reservation that was too late to get even if I forged it because my Togo visa was running out the next day. I enjoyed Togo for what its worth and it was here I was hit with reality that this could be the end of my African adventure. I travelled the 50 odd kms and crossed into what potentially could be the last African country for JP5 – Benin.

**** I know, I know some smart arse is thinking you are only a Martyr if the enemy kill you or you die in the process of the higher cause. Well. Keeping me prisoner in a 19th century hideout with no food or drink. They killed me. So yes I would have become a Backpacking martyr.

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