The day is spent slowly but surely making our way home. We leave Kwawu Dahís small-village charm for a brief stop at the Cocoa Research Institute. Some play gold while others walk behind stage of a funeral that sounds more like a celebration to finish up installing our upgrades to the lab.
A few hours and weird bugs later, weíre back on the road. Cujo drives well even while saying ďLuke, you crazy 67,Ē I guess meaning Iím crazy times 67.
A long drive later, we arrive at our last supper in Ghana at the the colonelís house in Accra. Itís definitely an example of going out with a bang: his wifeís prepared us a feast of Ghanaian foods that far outclasses any 2 other meals weíve had here combined.
It would be a gross omission for me not to note one of the major downsides to traveling. However, itís also gross if I include a detailed explanation. Suffice it to say that the ride to the airport involved a painfully large amount of self-control on my part. Barely controlling desires to insist that we pull over to the side of the highway, I regret not having taken some preemptive Imodium this morning. Itís a close call and Iím sweating when we finally arrive, but I make it to the airport (and more importantly the bathroom) in one piece.
No security is an overstatement: Accra International Airport is an incident waiting to happen. I carry a bulging backpack onto my British Airways flight without anything more probing than walking past a small sign declaring it illegal to carry firearms aboard. And weíre a few hours from Tamale, a major city with a curfew after violence to the point that a chief was beheaded! But we make it onboard without incident or goodbye tears. We end the day with me dozing off mid-flight, content to be en route to the First World after a good adventure thatís definitely been different than all my past excursions.
As Cujo would say, ďme like-a this trip.Ē