national lampoon's volta vacation

I'll be completely honest: this field trip was a disaster in every sense of the word. At every turn, something was broken, messy, going wrong. You could definitely write a highly entertaining comedy script from our exploits and make millions in Hollywood. But it just wouldn't be Africa if everything was picture-perfect. I think it's important to let your hands (and feet) get dirty to really start living. Despite everything, Volta was still a weekend I wouldn't trade for the world.

Anyway, I will start at the beginning. We encountered trouble before we even got the wheels rolling on our bus. Doc Williams, who's taken charge of our motley crew since Leslie returned to Eugene last week and was supposed to chaperone this last field trip, did not come. I repeat: we basically did not have a chaperone. Sonny was accompanying us again, so he took the reins, but we all exchanged incredulous, skeptical, unbelieving looks across the bus as we departed Okponglo junction with nobody over the age of 25 aboard. Doc was "coming down with malaria" (Ghanaians treat malaria the way we treat the flu -- rather casually), so he stayed home to monitor his symptoms. As it would turn out, Sonny was a very capable, responsible substitute, and we'd be fine ... well, mostly.

The trip from Accra to Ho, the town where we stayed, was only about 3 hours. It's beautiful and scenic; we quickly abandoned Accra's urban sprawl, upgrading to lush, African greenery. It requires crossing over Lake Volta, the largest man-made lake in the world. The only way to cross Lake Volta is by driving over a cracked bridge, which is just as safe and not-stressful as it sounds. After we crossed, we walked back across the bridge to take in the view and some pictures. It was beautiful, but there was a level of trembling every time a car passed over that was slightly higher than is comfortable.

We reached Ho and checked into Chances Hotel (what a name), which was probably the creepiest edifice I have ever slept in. The main compound looked like it was formerly used as a mental hospital, with wide, white hallways with a clean, industrial look and smell to them. The windows were covered with a decorative grate that really only contributed to the "you can check in, but you can never check out" ambiance. Lights seemed dim, and the staff lurked around, never smiling. Thankfully, we didn't spend much time here. We ate lunch and got back on the bus for another, two-hour drive to the waterfall!

Well, our drive ended up taking much longer than two hours. It was eventful, if nothing else. We encountered the first of several monsoon rains as we barrelled down narrow -- but paved -- African roads. It was gloomy outside the bus, with big droplets running like a tear down a face along our windows, but inside as well, as our spirits dropped with the fear that our waterfall trip might be dampened by the weather. From my perspective, there was nothing to do for the rest of the ride but nap it off, so I let the rumble of the rain on the roof lull me to sleep. I awoke a short time later to sunny skies and smoke. We were pulled over on the side of the road with an overheated engine, and Stephen, our driver, poured jugs of water over the machinery to cool it down (resulting in the heavy, smoke-like steam that wafted in and around the bus). Some people walked outside to escape the increasing heat that was warming up our cabin, but it was equally hot outside as in, so I stayed put. It was amazing how quickly the weather had changed; we were baking alive in our oven of a bus, but just moments before we had been swimming in precipitation. Stephen quickly exhausted his supply of water, and with a still-sizzling engine, had to journey up the road to the nearest village to refill. Jessica assisted him; the rest of us sat and waited, boredom creeping in. Finally, we saw Stephen, Jessica and a hoard of village children coming down the road, arms overflowing with full water bottles. It was a beautiful sight. As Stephen finished cooling our engine, the children shyly peered up at our windows; we'd wave, and they'd reciprocate with a wide smile and enthusiastic wave back. As we drove away, the children ran alongside the bus to bid us farewell, keeping pace for at least a hundred yards. So, no biggie that we missed the track and field trials at Hayward; we got our own private exposition on a rural road somewhere in eastern Ghana.

It's a 45-minute hike to the waterfall from the visitors center; we pulled into the latter about an hour and a half behind schedule, so we booked our way down the trail as quickly as possible to try to make up for lost time. I am desperate for exercise here, so I pumped my little legs at a fast clip and embraced the challenge. I think I was getting a little too intense about it, because people kept asking me why I was angry. The trail was muddy from the earlier monsoon, but we sloshed through, eager to reach the falls. Finally, we did. Wli Waterfall is the highest falls in West Africa, about 250 feet tall, and was just as breathtaking as I had hoped it would be. The falls stretched long and narrow. Water violently poured itself over the tall rock shelf, coming to rest in a surprisingly calm pool below. While sightseeing was the main attraction here, swimming was a close second, so we put on our suits (in a ramshackle "changing area" that didn't conceal much) and crept in.

The pool had a base of sharp, slick and uneven rocks that eventually gave way to sand. The sand was mushy -- almost gooey -- beneath my feet, and I couldn't figure out which surface was the least uncomfortable. The water was a little brown and murky, but nobody seemed to mind. And speaking of water, it was everywhere. Spray from the falls drifted all the way to the shore. Even though I never put my head underwater, my hair was quickly saturated. I reached belly-button level and was content to cruise there, a distance from the pounding waters of the falls, but a combination of interminable curiosity and peer pressure persuaded me to take the plunge and push forward to where water met water. This was no simple task; tons of water were falling with incredible, violent velocity. Logan, Jessica and I grasped each other's hands to keep from separating/drowning (it seemed kind of plausible at the time), turned our backs to the falls to keep the heavy water out of our eyes, and started slowly walking backwards. As we got closer to the falls, the spray felt like needles on our backs. The force of the falls was blowing my hair into my face and water into my eyes. Once we were actually underneath the falls themselves, the force of the water was overwhelming and inescapable. It was heavy, and it was everywhere. For a moment, I felt like fleeing, but the girls held tight to my wrists and before I knew it, we were touching the wall. It was algae-covered and amazing. I couldn't believe I had actually pushed my way through a seemingly impenetrable mass of water to the other side. Standing there, still being pummeled by close-falling water, was invigorating rather than frightening. We all pushed the hair out of our faces, examined our achievement, and laughed with excitement. Then, we pushed back through, waded through the water, and returned to the beach. We didn't have much time to stay at the falls, so we collected our things, hiked back to the bus, and headed back towards Ho.

Again, this should have only been a two-hour drive, but again, fate intervened. This time, about 40 minutes from the hotel, we stopped along the side of the road with the standard engine trouble and, newly thrown into the mix, a flat tire. As Stephen departed to assess/remedy the situation, we also left the bus, migrating into a small shop where we purchased biscuits (cookies and crackers) to stave off the hunger pangs. These biscuits are cheap and delicious, so you never really have a reason to not buy them. I selected a few packets and brought them to the shopkeeper to pay. I joked with him: "Pretty lucky for you that our bus broke down right in front of your store!" He smiled, halfway chuckled and nodded his head. I'm not sure he completely understood what I was saying, but I was handing him my 25 pesewa and he was happy either way. We got back on the bus, our problems mitigated for the time being, and continued traveling along the dark and stormy roads. Lightning periodically illuminated the sky, but most of the drive was a deep, beautiful dark. There weren't streetlights or lit-up buildings for miles and miles, and it was incredible to travel through a place so pure.

The first thing we did once we returned to Chances was eat dinner ... amidst a swarm of locusts. The recent rain had brought them out, and it was disgusting. I'm not sure which are worse: locusts or mosquitos. Mosquitos may bite, but locusts are big, obtrusive and far creepier. We ate quickly and went back to our rooms, sprinting all the way up three flights of stairs because Chances was even spookier in the dark, replete with loud, unidentifiable noises. We somehow calmed ourselves down enough to enjoy two favorite hotel luxuries: the BBC and a hot shower. There is nothing better after a long, exhausting day. Our beds were as hard as rocks, but I slumbered soundly all night.

Surprise, surprise: another field trip, another early morning. But it was monkey day! So we awoke with excitement and high spirits. They were quickly extinguished by more monsoons and a very delayed bus; Stephen was M.I.A. for almost an hour finishing repairs to the flat tire and whatever other problems plague that vehicle. When we finally got aboard, everything was wet. All the precipitation had turned our bus into a rainforest. I laid my towel on the seat and made the best of it ... and soon we were off to the monkey sanctuary!

Tafi Atome, the monkey sanctuary, is a Peace Corps project that began in 1996. The monkeys used to be hunted for their meat, but now they are protected and the villagers see them as almost sacred. It was still very wet when we arrived, and unbeknownst to me, this episode of our field trip also required some hiking. Muddy hiking. It was raining, and I was in flip-flops, so it was a slippery, oozy, very dirty excursion. My feet were unrecognizable within minutes. But we all trekked on, and finally, reached an enclave in the forest where the monkeys began to appear (with a little coaxing from our guides). We'd brought bananas with us, and the monkeys came forward, teetering on tree branches, to eat our gifts. I extended my arm forward towards one little monkey, excited to watch him peel it in my hand. Instead, my little devil-monkey just broke the fruit in two and ran away with his stolen chunk of banana. The only acknowledgment I received was a quickly unloaded peel, flung vaguely in my direction. So, I got conned by the monkeys. All I had left was a little stump of banana, so I tossed it to another monkey, sitting high in the branches. He caught it deftly, and consumed it with a little more appreciation. I felt a bit better. Our group had swarmed around a few trees with low branches to feed and photograph the monkeys, and the event looked like a press conference. We were a bunch of journalists, extending cameras and bananas held like microphones towards our subjects. The monkeys did not seem phased by the media presence, handling our inquisition like little pros. Once we ran out of bananas, the monkeys ran back into the forest, so we turned around and hiked back through the mud and the muck towards the small village at Tafi Atome and our bus. We were able to clean our feet at the water pump, but it didn't make much of a difference. I was wet from the rain, filthy from the dirt; my feet bore the brunt. The bus got wetter and dirtier as we re-boarded, but now that we were just as haggard to match, it didn't seem too big of a deal. At this point, we were heading back to Accra, and we knew we'd be home, with fresh clothes and showers (albeit cold) soon.

Not. So. Fast. An hour from Accra, on a highway in the middle of nowhere, our bus finally bit the dust. Nothing could be done to get the engine to start again. We sat on the side of the road for what seemed like hours. I don't know exactly how long we were marooned, but I do know that it was long enough for me to finally throw in the towel and reluctantly march myself into the bushes to pee. I didn't get bitten by a Black Mamba, so I figure the whole thing went smoothly enough. Eventually, and somewhat miraculously, a big, empty, Accra-bound bus appeared on the side of the road, and leaving our bus and a frustrated, dejected Stephen, we boarded this Godsend and made our way back home. With no breakdowns, the drive flew by, and we were home in no time. Dirty, yes, but no worse for the wear. It may not have been the smoothest of trips; it may have been chronically eventful and sometimes stressful, but the memories from it are priceless and will always bring a smile to my face. I can't imagine a better or more fitting way to have kicked off my last week in this country.