1 of 69

Write now Article Tools

The Snake Man

Since turning twelve I have seen quite a number of countries. Yet, of all the countries I've traveled, and all the people I've met, few experiences have been as intriguing, thought-provoking and, frankly as disturbing, as my chance encounter in West Africa with a man I only knew as the "snake man."

The meeting with the snake man occurred during the spring of 1999 when I spent three weeks touring Western Africa. In the course of my journeys I visited Dakar, Senegal; Abidjan, Cte d'Ivoire shortly before the military coup, and Ghana.

Ghana is what remains of what was once a great African empire known as the Ashanti. Their wealth and power influenced much of what the Europeans then called "The Dark Continent" and was rivaled only by the Zulu empire far to the south.

I traveled to Ghana to meet up with several Brits and an Aussie in a town called Berekum located in the northwest corner of the country. We had arranged via e-mail to meet with a relative of the region's chieftain. In Ghana, chiefs of regions are like governors of states. This man, Charles Amponsah, lived in the Brong Ahafo Region near the Mole National Game Park.

While in Ghana I spent time in the capital city, Accra and attended a football (soccer) game. The Ghanaian national team played against Nigeria in the Pan-African games and upset the heavily favored Nigerians. The residents of Accra partied the rest of the night.

During my visit to Accra I stayed in Osu, a suburb of the city. Street vendors and women traders carrying their wares on their heads were ubiquitous.

Restaurants were plentiful and for the most part the food was delicious. The one exception I found was fufu, a national staple that failed to whet my appetite. Fufu a concoction made from boiled cassava and unripe plantains, is beaten together. The traditional method employs vigorously pounding and beating the base substance in a large mortar with a long-handled wooden spoon. The result is a starchy blob of white goo the consistency of old wall paper paste. The closest I can come to describing its texture and flavor (or lack thereof) is Hawaiian poi made from the taro root.

My days in Osu grew short and I arranged for transport to Berekum. I had several choices. I could travel by air, but flights were erratic and unreliable. A second choice was by mini-bus called tro-tro's. The advantage with tro-tro's? They're a cheap form of transportation. The disadvantages include overcrowding, bad suspension, bad brakes and mechanical breakdowns out in the bush. Statistically one in ten has an accident in the wilderness, is driven into a ditch or meets up with another vehicle, usually a cement truck, in a most unpleasant way. Scores have been maimed and killed by these harmless looking little mini-buses.

My last option was hiring a bush taxi. Surprisingly, it's not as expensive as it might seem. I had my own driver and a measure of autonomy. The negotiated price was quite reasonable, so I elected to take that option.

My driver's name was Frank and he shared the most fascinating stories of Ashanti history, legends, great chiefs, amusing incidents in and around the city of Accra and the oft told tales of British colonial rule.

So together, Frank and I began our journey across the wilds (and not-so-wilds) of West Africa. At first we drove east along the coastal region and then turned northeast. About forty kilometers south of Berekum we came upon an interesting village. I asked Frank if he knew the name of the village and he shrugged his shoulders. I asked him to stop.

As soon as I stepped from the bush taxi I found myself surrounded by laughing, giggling children. They tugged at my clothes and jabbered away in a combination of English and Twi (pronounced chwee). Twi is the language of the Akan and spoken by the Ashanti people throughout the Brong Ahafo Region.

The village lay in a clearing not far from the main highway. I counted no more than twenty huts, so it was possible that Frank did not know the name of the place as it had no name.

A few adults came up to me to wish me a good-day and inquire about my purpose. I explained that I was traveling to Berekum to meet a cousin of the Chief and had asked my driver to stop because their village looked interesting. They laughed at that. One told me that nothing was interesting in his village except for the snake man. That caught my attention.

After a few more minutes of conversation with the villagers, interspersed with complaints from Frank that the flies were terrible in that area and they were eating him alive, I convinced them that I truly had an interest in the snake man.

Several of the men left for a hut on the other side of the small community and returned a few minutes later with a very tall, lean man wearing little more than a scrap of loincloth. His legs and arms were thin and bony. In places thin white scars shone against the darkness of his skin.

The man stood before me and asked, "You are the one who asked to see me?" He spoke excellent English with overtones of a British accent.

"Yes," I responded. "I have been told you are a snake man and have special powers. I am curious about that. My name is Terrence." I held out my hand. He took it in his and shook it while asking, "You are British?"

"No, I'm an American." That answer elicited an excited chatter amongst the villagers.

Seeing my reaction, the snake man explained, "We have very few foreigners who stop here. The ones that do stop are either English or German. Once we saw a Japanese. No American has ever stopped here. I believe there are very few Americans that come here, other than your President Clinton last year."

"I see," I answered, a bit surprised that Americans were considered rarities in those parts. I turned the conversation back to him. "Tell me, what are those scars on your arms and legs?"

"Ah," he smiled, "Those are the reason I am known as the snake man. They are scars left by the bites of cobras."

I wasn't sure if he was pulling the leg of a gullible white man or telling me the truth, but he looked somber and serious as he related his story.

"Each of them is a bite mark I have received from a cobra. I handle them, you know, to obtain their venom. It is used for certain medicines."

No, I hadn't known and it sounded dangerous to hell to me.

"How did you survive their bites? Cobras are deadly poisonous. Did you receive medical treatment?"

The snake man stared at me, a quizzical look in his eye. Around us the villagers in earshot of our conversation chuckled and giggled.

"I have never been to a doctor in the city or hospital. Here most people go to hospital to die."

"So how did you survive the bites of so many cobras?" Looking again at his livid scars I counted at least eleven snake bites, maybe more.

He caught my eyes with his and said slowly, "When I am bitten by a cobra it is nothing for I become one with the snake. That is why I do not die."

Shortly after that conversation Frank and I left the village and continued on to Berekum. Before we left I passed out some candy we had to the children and gave the snake man a parting gift in way of thanks for his sharing the story of the cobras with us.

"You really believe that old man?" Frank laughed. "I'm telling you these villagers, a lot of them are crazy."

"I'm not so sure," I responded and then turned my head to watch the African countryside slide past the window.

I believed the old man then and I still do today. The old man's story reveals how much power resides in all of us that goes undiscovered and untapped.

Learn more about this author, Terrence Aym.
Click here to send this author comments or questions.

Add your voice

Know something about Weird travel stories?
We want to hear your view. Write now!