Accra’s Central Park
A Journalist’s Diary
As the end of my first week in Ghana neared, I received a recommendation to use my last weekend without a roommate for some discoveries on my own.
I shared a few impressions from the Saturday explore across Accra in the last post (along with my current dilemma piecing together the puzzle of my journal from that time).
Sunday was the day my roommate arrived. But before I met him for the first time, I left Accra and visited what I called Accra’s Central Park in an email to a friend, even though the Aburi Botanical Gardens have little to do with Accra (apart from being close enough for a day trip).
Aburi, Here I Come
Aburi was an ideal place for that day. The excitement (and stress) of my first week with the National Trust asked for some relaxation.
But I also wanted to experience something new and see more of the country.
Gloria suggested Aburi. It was close enough for a Sunday trip. No overnight stay was required.
I packed a few essentials and headed out the door with precise directions for tro-tros that would shuttle me to the park in the Akwapim hills, about 35 Km (21 mi) from Ghana’s capital.
I remember the trip as calm and effortless (that should change for the return trip). The road out of the city appeared to be a motorway, but didn’t look like the European or American counterparts I was familiar with, more like a smooth dirt road.
I think I had to switch vehicles once, but the final stop was right around the corner of the entrance to the park.
It was heaven on Earth. Quiet. Calm. Beautiful.
I wandered around, made pictures (bad ones, but still), met some locals, and read the park’s brochure on a bench in the shade.
I believe I also did some writing because, just like Central Park in New York, Aburi made me want to write. I only wish I reunite with that writing one day.
The park nurses more tree and plant varieties than I could list. A tree that was labeled “The Stranger Ficus Tree” stood out. You can walk through it; a curious tall, hollow fellow.
The motorbike pictured above carried one of the local interactions I mentioned. After the usual chatter about origins and reasons for being here, I received tidbits about the park before the man jumped back on his bike and waved goodbye as he rode away on the long tree-lined path that crosses the Aburi gardens.
Eventually, I felt sufficiently refreshed and started my trip home.
Walking out into the town of Aburi, I started wondering: where would I find a tro-tro here? It’s not like there are signs for stops.
I wish I remembered how I ended up in a vehicle bound for Accra. All I know is it took some time and a bit of walking up and down the narrow street, lurking into every corner to find clues (or great vistas, for the view down from the elevated Aburi was spectacular). My search probably involved approaching locals for helpful pointers.
Needless to say: I found my way home eventually. The ride kept me thinking about what I had just experienced, but it also started my anticipation about what would happen when I would get off the tro-tro.
No Longer Alone
Gloria greeted me with a smile as I entered the house.
“You enjoyed Aburi? Yes?” She asked, allowing me a nod before continuing: “Good, good, I’m happy you liked it. You might wanna check your room. Jonathan has arrived. Your new roommate from England.”
It took only a few seconds to realize Jonathan was not from England. And he preferred Jon.
Gloria left us to our devices, promising dinner in half an hour.
It took over half an hour because we had enough to talk about. Jon was from Canada, another new accent, even though it sounded only mildly different from the American voices I was familiar with. He was going to work at an orphanage, liked basketball, and was curious about soccer.
We got on nicely. Luckily. The living arrangements at Gloria’s were rather cozy, so I had become anxious to meet him as my time alone neared its end.
Gloria eventually reminded us about dinner, and the conversation continued in the living room. I shared more about my time in Aburi. If memory serves correctly, we already started plotting next weekend’s trip.
You’ll have to wait a bit for that report. I’ll take A Journalist’s Diary to a few other destinations in September.
But when I return to Ghana in early October, Geckos in the shower, crocodiles, a dip into the rainforest, and a bit of colonial history await.
Next week, however, I’ll share more noteworthy non-fiction readings and details about a writing technique I recently returned to.
