After trying for months to get a visa to go to school in Colombia, and finally being told that Americans were discouraged to go there due to the danger caused by the drug cartel, my good friend Cristy Athan returned from spending the summer in Ghana. I told her about my dead-end with Colombia, and she asked me if I would consider Ghana. Sure, why not?
Just as everything was set to go to Ghana, a military coup occurred on December 31, 1981. The borders were closed and the airport was shut down. We decided to still go, waiting nine days until the airport reopened. After a twelve hour flight to London, we flew another eight hours to Ghana over the Sahara desert. The view is forever set in my memory. It was like a vast ocean of burnt orange, and I could see the paths that were originally used by camels on the Moslem Trade Route, carrying spices and fabrics into tropical Africa.
I arrived at Kotoka International Airport in Accra on January 12, 1982. At the bottom of the stairs on the tarmac, I was met with a machine gun pointed at my head while a soldier pat-down searched me. I spent the night in Accra before heading for Kumasi, since there was a curfew and travel hours were limited. The danger of being caught on the road after the curfew started was too risky.
That night I sat in the dark in the foyer of the guest house where I was to sleep, watching military tanks roll down the street while listening to the sirens announcing the start of the curfew for the night. Anyone caught out on the street after dark would be shot on site.
What on earth had I done coming here?
