When I was little, I used to stay up late and read books with a flashlight under the covers. I was so convinced that I was completely fooling my parents into thinking I was asleep; of course, they were a little wiser than that, and I was routinely busted. "You'll ruin your eyesight!" was the chastisement I frequently received, and let me tell you, that prophecy came true. I have terrible eyesight. But, now at the age of 21, I'm up to my old tricks again. I'm reading books with all my spare time: while waiting for assignments at work, while on tro-tros and field trip buses, and, natch, by flashlight in the minutes before bed. Logan and Jessica are two of my closest friends in Ghana, and our terrific threesome has bonded together over a ritual we've dubbed "book club." Yes, I know, we're not the first group to pioneer such a concept, but our book club is different ... nontraditional, you could say. First off, we don't hold regularly scheduled meetings. Rather, we meet when the mood suits, such as on lazy weekend days, slow weekday nights, in field trip hotel rooms or while waiting for the rain to pass at the swimming pool. There's lots of free time in Ghana, but it comes at unpredictable times and in unpredictable amounts. Furthermore, we don't even all read the same book at once. This probably sounds blasphemous to orthodox followers of book club etiquette, but in most cases, there's only one copy of a book floating around, which makes such practice utterly impossible. So, we read whatever we feel like reading, and recommend good books to others. And our book club thrives because we're all serendipitously in synch; everybody usually finishes their tome within the same 24-hour period, and then we all swap. The last person to read a book usually speeds through it the fastest so that they can finally join our "analytical" conversations, which normally compare such critical thoughts as "Who else cried at the end of 'Marley and Me?'" This is the first time in a long time that I've had free time for reading, and I'm savoring it. The journalist in me is loving it the most; it's amazing to see how other professional writers have strung their words together, coming up with imaginative metaphors, painting vivid images and employing descriptors I'd have never thought to use. I think that reading all of this great writing sows the seeds to help me become a better writer. At least, I hope.
Books I've Read:
-Love in the Time of Cholera (in progress)
-The Blind Side
-The Legend of Colton H. Bryant
-Daisy Fay and the Miracle Man
-Marley and Me
-two volumes of Salinger short stories
-The Curious Incident of the Dog in the Night Time
-Special Topics in Calamity Physics
-Eat, Pray, Love
-The Other Boleyn Girl
Thursday, July 31, 2008
taxis and tro-tros, oh my
So it is POURING again today. Or, rather, let me clarify: It's semi-dry now, but was dumping buckets during my morning commute. Great timing, no? I was startled awake by booming thunderclaps early this morning that shook my insides; for the first time, I understand why my dog hides during big storms. With a groan, I went back to sleep, because there's something about realizing that you're going to be wet all day that just doesn't motivate a person to get out of bed.
Finally, I was up and out the door. I skipped a (long-overdue) shower this morning, because why would I bother when it's already raining outside? And indeed, I got a thorough rinsing. In the two minutes it takes to walk from our door to the tro-tro stop, I was soaked. My lavender shirt was so saturated that it took on a deeper, richer purple color. Dirt had already turned into a thuck mud, and my shoes stuck with each step. Thankfully, my tro-tro arrived quickly, and I hopped on. When I sat down, all the Ghanaians stared at me. They, of course, were dry, with not an ounce of moisture marring their perfectly put-together appearances. I, of course, looked like a wet dog. One guy who came aboard on the next stop actually did a double-take, because not only is it surprising to see an obruni on the tro, but seeing a wet disaster-of-an-obruni is even more rare. By the time I reached my stop, I figured the worst was behind me, and proceeded to take my usual stroll the last half a mile to work, rather than splurge for a taxi. By the time I reached GSMF, I was the image of a haggard, walking mermaid. After the receptionist both laughed and expressed her condolences for my sad state, I walked immediately into the bathroom and stood under the hand dryer for about five minutes. My clothes are actually all pretty dry by now, but I think I'll feel chilled all day (for the first time EVER in Africa) because my skin is still damp and, despite the weather, the AC in here is still cranked up to high.
Anyway, all the mess and fuss regarding my commute today inspired me to enlighten you on a topic that, in the States, would be boring as dirt, but provides endless entertainment in Ghana: public transportation. We take taxis and tro-tros to get around Accra. If taxis are in a league all their own, compared to the American model, tro-tros are a whole new ballgame. I can't think of anything analogous. Essentially, a tro-tro is a retrofitted van that's been completely gutted. They strip out the seats, a lot of the interior paneling (a lot like my Dad does on some of his racecars) and anything else deemed to be taking up excessive space. Then, they smush as many rows of small, uncomfortable benches into the van's empty belly as possible. Voila, you have a tro-tro. The tro is then operated by two parties: a driver, whose job is self-explanatory, and the mate, who hangs out the side door shouting the tro's destination in their nasal, slurred speech (my route, La Paz, turns into LAPA-LAPA-LAPA-LAPAAZZZ), stops the tro to pick up passengers and collects money. The whole concept here is that the more people you pack into your tro, the more money you have at the end of the day, and that's how drivers and mates run their operations. So it's crowded, claustrophobia-inducing and rarely comfortable (and you can get rained on waiting for one like nobody's business), but it's cheap, and that makes it worthwhile in the end. On average, I spend about 50 pesewa a day on transportation to work. Taxis are the "expensive" alternative. Taxis here don't work on the meter system; they work on the bargain system. You tell the driver where you want to go, and how much you're willing to pay to get there. I don't think anyone in our group has ever paid more than seven or eight cedis for a ride anywhere. But prices are all relative, and compared to the tro-tro, seven or eight cedis is an exorbitant amount. So, tros are our transport of choice.
Here's my daily routine: I pick up the tro-tro from the intersection that lies a block from our house. I'm incredibly fortunate that my route is the least popular with morning commuters, and I haven't yet had to wait more than five minutes to catch my ride. I take the tro-tro towards La Paz, but I get off before the end of the line (which is good, considering I have no interest in going to Bolivia). I "alight," as the Ghanaians so adorably say, in front of the Fiesta Royale Hotel, and then cross a ridiculously busy street, sometimes snag a newspaper from the stand on the corner, and start a 10-15 minute walk to the GSMF building. There are always many empty taxis driving up and down the roads I walk on, and they honk incessantly at pedestrians, trying to find some business. It's so vastly different than the taxi-catching climate in a city like New York, where you can stand on a curb and wave your arm for half an hour before someone pulls over to pick you up. At the end of the day, I repeat in reverse.
Of course, there's the whole "safety" issue. That word could not ever be passably assigned to either taxis or tro-tros. The combination of insane drivers and treacherous traffic entirely guarantees this. I've only ever had one "I might die right now" moment in Ghana; of course, it's transportation-related. One night when Michelle, Scot and I were our way to a bar in the Osu district, our taxi driver pulled into a gas station to fill up ... and left his engine running! I was taught from a very early age that if anything in the car was turned on while you were pumping gas, even the radio, you'd blow up. So, for a very tense half a minute, clutching Michelle in panic, I was positive that we were all going to explode. Obviously, that didn't happen; still, there you have another reason why I prefer to ride the tro. However, when you look at the grand scheme of things, I'm glad that public transportation is the biggest problem in Ghana, rather than something like civil war, terrorism or the bubonic plague. Yeah, I'll take crazy taxis and tro-tros any day.
Finally, I was up and out the door. I skipped a (long-overdue) shower this morning, because why would I bother when it's already raining outside? And indeed, I got a thorough rinsing. In the two minutes it takes to walk from our door to the tro-tro stop, I was soaked. My lavender shirt was so saturated that it took on a deeper, richer purple color. Dirt had already turned into a thuck mud, and my shoes stuck with each step. Thankfully, my tro-tro arrived quickly, and I hopped on. When I sat down, all the Ghanaians stared at me. They, of course, were dry, with not an ounce of moisture marring their perfectly put-together appearances. I, of course, looked like a wet dog. One guy who came aboard on the next stop actually did a double-take, because not only is it surprising to see an obruni on the tro, but seeing a wet disaster-of-an-obruni is even more rare. By the time I reached my stop, I figured the worst was behind me, and proceeded to take my usual stroll the last half a mile to work, rather than splurge for a taxi. By the time I reached GSMF, I was the image of a haggard, walking mermaid. After the receptionist both laughed and expressed her condolences for my sad state, I walked immediately into the bathroom and stood under the hand dryer for about five minutes. My clothes are actually all pretty dry by now, but I think I'll feel chilled all day (for the first time EVER in Africa) because my skin is still damp and, despite the weather, the AC in here is still cranked up to high.
Anyway, all the mess and fuss regarding my commute today inspired me to enlighten you on a topic that, in the States, would be boring as dirt, but provides endless entertainment in Ghana: public transportation. We take taxis and tro-tros to get around Accra. If taxis are in a league all their own, compared to the American model, tro-tros are a whole new ballgame. I can't think of anything analogous. Essentially, a tro-tro is a retrofitted van that's been completely gutted. They strip out the seats, a lot of the interior paneling (a lot like my Dad does on some of his racecars) and anything else deemed to be taking up excessive space. Then, they smush as many rows of small, uncomfortable benches into the van's empty belly as possible. Voila, you have a tro-tro. The tro is then operated by two parties: a driver, whose job is self-explanatory, and the mate, who hangs out the side door shouting the tro's destination in their nasal, slurred speech (my route, La Paz, turns into LAPA-LAPA-LAPA-LAPAAZZZ), stops the tro to pick up passengers and collects money. The whole concept here is that the more people you pack into your tro, the more money you have at the end of the day, and that's how drivers and mates run their operations. So it's crowded, claustrophobia-inducing and rarely comfortable (and you can get rained on waiting for one like nobody's business), but it's cheap, and that makes it worthwhile in the end. On average, I spend about 50 pesewa a day on transportation to work. Taxis are the "expensive" alternative. Taxis here don't work on the meter system; they work on the bargain system. You tell the driver where you want to go, and how much you're willing to pay to get there. I don't think anyone in our group has ever paid more than seven or eight cedis for a ride anywhere. But prices are all relative, and compared to the tro-tro, seven or eight cedis is an exorbitant amount. So, tros are our transport of choice.
Here's my daily routine: I pick up the tro-tro from the intersection that lies a block from our house. I'm incredibly fortunate that my route is the least popular with morning commuters, and I haven't yet had to wait more than five minutes to catch my ride. I take the tro-tro towards La Paz, but I get off before the end of the line (which is good, considering I have no interest in going to Bolivia). I "alight," as the Ghanaians so adorably say, in front of the Fiesta Royale Hotel, and then cross a ridiculously busy street, sometimes snag a newspaper from the stand on the corner, and start a 10-15 minute walk to the GSMF building. There are always many empty taxis driving up and down the roads I walk on, and they honk incessantly at pedestrians, trying to find some business. It's so vastly different than the taxi-catching climate in a city like New York, where you can stand on a curb and wave your arm for half an hour before someone pulls over to pick you up. At the end of the day, I repeat in reverse.
Of course, there's the whole "safety" issue. That word could not ever be passably assigned to either taxis or tro-tros. The combination of insane drivers and treacherous traffic entirely guarantees this. I've only ever had one "I might die right now" moment in Ghana; of course, it's transportation-related. One night when Michelle, Scot and I were our way to a bar in the Osu district, our taxi driver pulled into a gas station to fill up ... and left his engine running! I was taught from a very early age that if anything in the car was turned on while you were pumping gas, even the radio, you'd blow up. So, for a very tense half a minute, clutching Michelle in panic, I was positive that we were all going to explode. Obviously, that didn't happen; still, there you have another reason why I prefer to ride the tro. However, when you look at the grand scheme of things, I'm glad that public transportation is the biggest problem in Ghana, rather than something like civil war, terrorism or the bubonic plague. Yeah, I'll take crazy taxis and tro-tros any day.
Tuesday, July 29, 2008
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.
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.
Monday, July 28, 2008
technical difficulties
I'm sorry that it's been so long since I last posted! I myself am possibly more melancholy than you, reader, because I'm down to my waning days in Ghana (8 days to departure, and counting) and there is still much to be blogged about! A variety of factors have made internet access and blog-updating opportunities scarce; here's a short overview of what's been up in recent days:
-No internet at GSMF.
-No power at the house.
-Fantastic field trip to the Volta region.
-Waterfalls and monkeys!
So yes, the internet at GSMF opted to play hooky for the last few work days, and the whole office was left stranded, high and dry, with no access to anything web-related. Not to our website, http://www.gsmf.com.gh/, nor to Blogger. These posed big problems for me, because my website-updating duties and downtime blogging activities were both rudely interrupted. I found myself reading a LOT, and then when I ran out of books, I played Spider Solitaire for more hours than I care to admit. I think our situation is still a little touch-and-go, but I'm hoping hard that the internet will hang on through this last week. The most ironic part about this whole fiasco is that a new IT intern recently started at GSMF. And we never had any problems with the network until he arrived...
And of course, I can't discuss internet problems without also mentioning the power issues plaguing Okponglo junction, the neighborhood where our house is located. We're starting to get quite accustomed to intermittent blackouts, because they occur on an almost-daily basis. Every time, they're longer and more frequent. I returned home from work on Thursday evening just in time to miss the end of a two-hour outage, the longest on record thus far ... though one popped up later in the evening, once it was actually completely dark out, so I didn't miss out entirely. Thankfully, because having no power is so fun. Not. (Although, I'm from California, the land of the rolling brown-outs; I should be used to this, right?) Anyway, now I basically just carry my Mini MagLite around with me everywhere, and it's not so bad. And considering that the group last year had scheduled, 12-hour blackouts every other day, it's definitely not so bad.
We jet-set (er, bus-set?) to the Volta Region this weekend for our third and final field trip. Updates on that (and the accompanying waterfalls and monkeys) will follow shortly!
-No internet at GSMF.
-No power at the house.
-Fantastic field trip to the Volta region.
-Waterfalls and monkeys!
So yes, the internet at GSMF opted to play hooky for the last few work days, and the whole office was left stranded, high and dry, with no access to anything web-related. Not to our website, http://www.gsmf.com.gh/, nor to Blogger. These posed big problems for me, because my website-updating duties and downtime blogging activities were both rudely interrupted. I found myself reading a LOT, and then when I ran out of books, I played Spider Solitaire for more hours than I care to admit. I think our situation is still a little touch-and-go, but I'm hoping hard that the internet will hang on through this last week. The most ironic part about this whole fiasco is that a new IT intern recently started at GSMF. And we never had any problems with the network until he arrived...
And of course, I can't discuss internet problems without also mentioning the power issues plaguing Okponglo junction, the neighborhood where our house is located. We're starting to get quite accustomed to intermittent blackouts, because they occur on an almost-daily basis. Every time, they're longer and more frequent. I returned home from work on Thursday evening just in time to miss the end of a two-hour outage, the longest on record thus far ... though one popped up later in the evening, once it was actually completely dark out, so I didn't miss out entirely. Thankfully, because having no power is so fun. Not. (Although, I'm from California, the land of the rolling brown-outs; I should be used to this, right?) Anyway, now I basically just carry my Mini MagLite around with me everywhere, and it's not so bad. And considering that the group last year had scheduled, 12-hour blackouts every other day, it's definitely not so bad.
We jet-set (er, bus-set?) to the Volta Region this weekend for our third and final field trip. Updates on that (and the accompanying waterfalls and monkeys) will follow shortly!
Tuesday, July 22, 2008
rain rain, go away
It is completely monsooning today, and so I feel it imperative to finally confess to you that my stay in Ghana is smack-dab in the middle of the rainy season. In one of our lovely 8:30 a.m. predeparture classes last term, Leslie assured us that it would likely only rain once or twice during our stay, and that as a bunch of Oregonians, we'd hardly notice the precipitation. This has NOT been the case. It's rained approximately 581058018 times (this might be a slight exaggeration). It rains when we decide to go to the pool and sunbathe, it rains when I have laundry drying on the line, it's rained at least once on both field trips ... sure, there have been plenty -- a majority -- of days when the rain has stayed away and it's sunny, hot and very African outside, but they are mostly during the week and, because of internships, we can't really take advantage of the good weather. Although, today is a weekday, and now I have no idea how I am going to make it home at 5 p.m. without getting drenched or swept into a gutter. Because the rains can be torrential, with big, golf ball-sized droplets, Ghana has installed these deep, wide gutters that are supposed to contain the rainfall, but still usually overflow. Most are between three and six feet deep, sit right beside the road, and normally stink of sewage. So, here's REALLY hoping that I don't find myself swimming in one today.
Of course, I think most of you are familiar with the Toto classic, "Africa" ... see where I'm going with this one, yet? I'm slightly embarrassed to share this story with you, but during our first week here, when our first rainstorm interrupted an otherwise pleasant evening pow-wow on the patio, we leapt feet first into the deluge, leaving the shelter of the porch, with palms and faces pointed upwards to greet the refreshing African shower (probably warmer than those actually in the house), and danced. Somehow, we all ended up in a circle, arms around each other's shoulders, rotating together and singing random, obscure, rain-related songs in poor pitch at the top of our lungs. Before I knew it, someone had grabbed a laptop from inside, and of course, within moments, Toto was blasting through the small speakers: "I BLESS THE RAINS DOWN IN AAAFRICAAAAA!" Because, you know, that's what we were doing, blessing the rains, and even if it was a cheesy song selection, it was utterly perfect at the same time. So, I'll concede that sometimes, the rain can lead to those romantic, borderline-cliché "study-abroad moments" that I'll never forget from this experience.
By now, the rain has actually subsided to a manageable, trickling drizzle. In fact, looking out my GSMF window, I'd halfway swear that I was back in Eugene, if not for the barbed wire spiraling on concrete fencetops and partially constructed but long-abandoned building skeletons that are definitely Ghana's own. If I had my rainboots and shell, I'd almost feel right at home.
Of course, I think most of you are familiar with the Toto classic, "Africa" ... see where I'm going with this one, yet? I'm slightly embarrassed to share this story with you, but during our first week here, when our first rainstorm interrupted an otherwise pleasant evening pow-wow on the patio, we leapt feet first into the deluge, leaving the shelter of the porch, with palms and faces pointed upwards to greet the refreshing African shower (probably warmer than those actually in the house), and danced. Somehow, we all ended up in a circle, arms around each other's shoulders, rotating together and singing random, obscure, rain-related songs in poor pitch at the top of our lungs. Before I knew it, someone had grabbed a laptop from inside, and of course, within moments, Toto was blasting through the small speakers: "I BLESS THE RAINS DOWN IN AAAFRICAAAAA!" Because, you know, that's what we were doing, blessing the rains, and even if it was a cheesy song selection, it was utterly perfect at the same time. So, I'll concede that sometimes, the rain can lead to those romantic, borderline-cliché "study-abroad moments" that I'll never forget from this experience.
By now, the rain has actually subsided to a manageable, trickling drizzle. In fact, looking out my GSMF window, I'd halfway swear that I was back in Eugene, if not for the barbed wire spiraling on concrete fencetops and partially constructed but long-abandoned building skeletons that are definitely Ghana's own. If I had my rainboots and shell, I'd almost feel right at home.
stars of the future
The National Theatre, a gorgeous, newer building downtown that is completely incongruous with the rest of Accra's architecture, plays host the Friday-night live broadcast of "Stars of the Future," which is the Ghanaian equivalent of American Idol. (Apparently, there is an actual "African Idol," but it is based in Nairobi.) We went to the show to kick-off the weekend, and came away with some highly entertaining (and free!) comparisons between our American original and the Ghanaian interpretation. Their Ryan Seacrest-equivalent is a large Ghanaian woman with a British accent, and their panel of three judges could probably, with a big stretch, be aligned with Randy, Paula and Simon. But the whole set-up was highly informal -- nothing like you'd ever see in the states -- with people loudly singing along with the performers, jumping in front of camera lenses and interrupting the commentators. Even the selection process for contestants is Ghana-ified: the judges travel all over the country, making stops in big cities and small, obscure villages, to seek out talent for the show. There are no auditions, just luck and fate. The judges didn't have a fancy table or strategically placed Coca-Cola cups, but instead just sat in three front-row seats and passed a microphone between them. Also, at one point during the show, Ryan Seacrest mistakenly took a commercial break. Because they show the broadcast feed on two projection screens in the theater, we all stared awkwardly as she flipped through her cue cards, peeked off-screen, and then finally, realizing the error, clicked back in to continue hosting. It was one of those gaffes that seldom happens on American live television, but is probably pretty common in Ghana. We also happened to come on Gospel Night, and each of the eight remaining contestants sang a hymn or contemporary song -- one of the theme nights that American Idols haven't yet adopted. The audience was ecstatic, and knew every lyric to every song, but we mostly stayed in our seats and strained to follow the tunes. I think that everyone gets hair and makeup assistance from production staff, and all the show's personalities, especially the women, looked very Western. From hair to clothing styles, it was all very different from what we see in our daily interactions around the city. Most of the audience, which seemed to be mostly high-class and wealthier (even though the taping is free), were more-sophisticatedly dressed than the majority of Ghanaians. They also seemed to mostly be faithful, repeat attendees, having come to spectate since the premiere and closely following along, keeping an eye on their favorite contestant. During some performances, audience members proudly punched signs or painted sheets into the air, to show support for their favorite performer. Nobody was eliminated during this show, and I haven't actually figured out when they incorporate that part of the program, but voting is all done via text-message so somehow, sometime, they tabulate figures and give someone the boot. Our new favorite is Adina, whom the fans and judges also adore. It's a little frustrating that, with two weeks left in Ghana, we'll miss finding out who wins, but by the time I return to the states there will be plenty of other competition reality shows (Project Runway, for example!) to keep my mind otherwise occupied.
Monday, July 21, 2008
the great northern adventure, part 3
finally, you've reached part 3 ... below lies your conclusion to these tales of wacky, wild travels...
SUNDAY -- lots of driving & kintampo falls
We left Mole just as we'd arrived: in Mr. Fatal's tro-tro. Thankfully, we had no grand breakdowns or other hiccups on the trek back. We did take a small break to deposit a small gift in the small hands of our small friends at the mango tree as one final, emphatic thank-you, but then continued down the road and actually reached Damongo Junction and our beloved, actual bus less than two hours after leaving the park. Again, we were hassled by the villagers, but I think we were too relieved to have survived the morning and too busy sinking into plush seats to have it phase us. After Leslie finished yet another argument with Fatal regarding his moneygrubbing ways (he tried to sneak extra compensation from our group with a medley of tactics, from demanding that we cover his room and board to insisting that his fuel costs were higher than they actually were), we bid good riddance to our ironically named driver and got back on the road with wonderful Isaac. We were quickly comfortable and content again, and took up our usual bus activities with books, iPods and pillows.
Because we were running ahead of schedule, Leslie informed us that we had time to stop by a waterfall enroute and enjoy the scenery for a half-hour or so, if we wanted. Always eager to break up a long drive with a little trip somewhere other than a gas station or bathroom, we jumped at this offer. So, at some point (the exact timing is a little hazy here because of excessive napping) between Damongo and Kumasi, we pulled off the road and found ourselves at the entrance gate to Kintampo Falls. Leslie paid a small admissions fee, and we hopped off the bus. The base of the waterfall is only accessible by one of those very steep, million-step flights of stairs, so we gingerly forced our atrophying bus legs down the steps. The view from the bottom was well worth it. It's currently the wet season in West Africa, and our sub-Saharan locale gets a reputable amount of rainfall, so we saw the waterfall in peak form, with massive quantities of water dumping powerfully over dark, slick rocks. The pool below was calm and placid, and there were many flat rocks leading from the riverbank to the middle of the water that we hopped across and turned into our own makeshift lilypads -- sitting, photographing and simply being on them. I watched some local children, dressed in makeshift bathing suits, scramble up the rocks closest to the bottom of the falls, fighting gravity and spray, and once reaching a safe-haven inlet, scoot to their bottoms and slide down the smooth stone surface into the pool below, shrieking with excitement and pleasure. We only got to stay about half an hour, but it was time well spent. And, just as we'd all made it back up that treacherous staircase, monsoon rains started to fall from the skies. We hurried back to the bus, but were all sopping wet and muddy by the time we had reached our Chinese shelter. For a moment, it was refreshing to be cooled and slightly cleaned, but the bus felt more humid with 15 damp bodies sitting inside it, and we were ecstatic five minutes later when the rains subsided and we could open our windows for fresh air. We resumed our tiresome travels and returned to Kumasi and the Royal Basin just before nightfall.
We checked into new hotel rooms, and I very soon thereafter had the most wonderful shower of my life. It wasn't even entirely hot, because the hotel's water heater was still warming up, but I was SO DIRTY -- covered in two day's accumulation of red dust, sweat and whatever other dirt the African bush and entire northern half of Ghana had deposited on me -- and finally rinsing clean had never felt so invigorating. We squeezed our entire, hungry group into the hotel's small restaurant for a lively dinner (somehow, after all those hours of traveling and our earlier, elephant-induced anxiety attacks, we were in wonderful spirits), and I completely passed out for the night, book in hand, at the embarrassingly early hour of 9 p.m. But you can bet I was well-rested to enjoy our last day of vacation...
MONDAY -- the bead village
We'd done our tour of the Ashanti-region craft villages on Friday, but hadn't had enough time to sneak the bead village into that day's line-up. So, we "slept in" on Monday morning, awaking at the luxurious hour of 7 a.m. (although my early-to-bed self actually started stirring at 5:30), ate our last ketchup-and-omelet breakfast, and completed the familiar routine of boarding the bus and driving somewhere. This time, our destination took only an hour to reach, and we found ourselves in the bead-making village. This village has been making clay beads for about 200 years, and the beads manufactured in their factory are sold all over Ghana. Another thing this village makes is babies -- Leslie informed us that they have a "fertility problem," which carries the exact opposite meaning from how we use the term in the states. So as soon as we started stepping off the bus, we were almost tripping on the small bodies that had clamored to see our group. They were the sweetest children; as we walked, they would insert their tiny hands into our big ones, and walk along together, no one person really leading the other, towards our destination. First, it was the bead factory, where our new hoard of friends also got to learn about and watch the bead-making process; then, it was over to the small courtyard market where villagers were selling necklaces and bracelets (made, of course, with the village's own beads, which the ladies in our group all vigorously purchased); finally, it was back to the bus, where we took some last pictures with our new friends and sadly bid them farewell as we made our way southward, back to Accra.
By now you've probably figured out that nothing really exciting happens on these drives, so I'll not even try to wax nostalgic on that final part of our trip. However, I will mention that during a midafternoon rest stop, several of us purchased some suspect-looking food from some vendors there that may or may not have been a big-time mistake. In our defense, it was way past lunchtime, and our empty, travelling bellies were desperate ... and, you could get chicken and rice for 3.30 cedi, which is a fabulous deal, so we delved in. I first started to be skeptical of this "meal" when I saw the lady with whom I'd ordered take my chicken not from the chafing dish displayed in front of me, but from a tupperware sitting behind her. That was at room temperature, which in Ghana is a million degrees. I took just a few bites, to placate my stomach ... leading to some oh-so-fun indigestion about an hour later. As soon as we were back in Legon, I purchased a mango from Amina, the lady whose fruit stand sits a block from our house, and devoured it for dinner. Thankfully, I think some good fruit nutrients (and FIBER) flushed whatever would-be problem from my system, and I escaped without episode. I've been SO lucky thus far to have skirted any big digestive ailments, and knock on wood, I plan to keep it that way.
So, thus concludes the story of our Great Northern Adventure. Obviously, a week later, we're safe, sound and back to the grind in Accra. However, there's still lots of excitement (most of which takes nowhere near as long to document), so more great blog posts are coming your way very soon!
THE END
SUNDAY -- lots of driving & kintampo falls
We left Mole just as we'd arrived: in Mr. Fatal's tro-tro. Thankfully, we had no grand breakdowns or other hiccups on the trek back. We did take a small break to deposit a small gift in the small hands of our small friends at the mango tree as one final, emphatic thank-you, but then continued down the road and actually reached Damongo Junction and our beloved, actual bus less than two hours after leaving the park. Again, we were hassled by the villagers, but I think we were too relieved to have survived the morning and too busy sinking into plush seats to have it phase us. After Leslie finished yet another argument with Fatal regarding his moneygrubbing ways (he tried to sneak extra compensation from our group with a medley of tactics, from demanding that we cover his room and board to insisting that his fuel costs were higher than they actually were), we bid good riddance to our ironically named driver and got back on the road with wonderful Isaac. We were quickly comfortable and content again, and took up our usual bus activities with books, iPods and pillows.
Because we were running ahead of schedule, Leslie informed us that we had time to stop by a waterfall enroute and enjoy the scenery for a half-hour or so, if we wanted. Always eager to break up a long drive with a little trip somewhere other than a gas station or bathroom, we jumped at this offer. So, at some point (the exact timing is a little hazy here because of excessive napping) between Damongo and Kumasi, we pulled off the road and found ourselves at the entrance gate to Kintampo Falls. Leslie paid a small admissions fee, and we hopped off the bus. The base of the waterfall is only accessible by one of those very steep, million-step flights of stairs, so we gingerly forced our atrophying bus legs down the steps. The view from the bottom was well worth it. It's currently the wet season in West Africa, and our sub-Saharan locale gets a reputable amount of rainfall, so we saw the waterfall in peak form, with massive quantities of water dumping powerfully over dark, slick rocks. The pool below was calm and placid, and there were many flat rocks leading from the riverbank to the middle of the water that we hopped across and turned into our own makeshift lilypads -- sitting, photographing and simply being on them. I watched some local children, dressed in makeshift bathing suits, scramble up the rocks closest to the bottom of the falls, fighting gravity and spray, and once reaching a safe-haven inlet, scoot to their bottoms and slide down the smooth stone surface into the pool below, shrieking with excitement and pleasure. We only got to stay about half an hour, but it was time well spent. And, just as we'd all made it back up that treacherous staircase, monsoon rains started to fall from the skies. We hurried back to the bus, but were all sopping wet and muddy by the time we had reached our Chinese shelter. For a moment, it was refreshing to be cooled and slightly cleaned, but the bus felt more humid with 15 damp bodies sitting inside it, and we were ecstatic five minutes later when the rains subsided and we could open our windows for fresh air. We resumed our tiresome travels and returned to Kumasi and the Royal Basin just before nightfall.
We checked into new hotel rooms, and I very soon thereafter had the most wonderful shower of my life. It wasn't even entirely hot, because the hotel's water heater was still warming up, but I was SO DIRTY -- covered in two day's accumulation of red dust, sweat and whatever other dirt the African bush and entire northern half of Ghana had deposited on me -- and finally rinsing clean had never felt so invigorating. We squeezed our entire, hungry group into the hotel's small restaurant for a lively dinner (somehow, after all those hours of traveling and our earlier, elephant-induced anxiety attacks, we were in wonderful spirits), and I completely passed out for the night, book in hand, at the embarrassingly early hour of 9 p.m. But you can bet I was well-rested to enjoy our last day of vacation...
MONDAY -- the bead village
We'd done our tour of the Ashanti-region craft villages on Friday, but hadn't had enough time to sneak the bead village into that day's line-up. So, we "slept in" on Monday morning, awaking at the luxurious hour of 7 a.m. (although my early-to-bed self actually started stirring at 5:30), ate our last ketchup-and-omelet breakfast, and completed the familiar routine of boarding the bus and driving somewhere. This time, our destination took only an hour to reach, and we found ourselves in the bead-making village. This village has been making clay beads for about 200 years, and the beads manufactured in their factory are sold all over Ghana. Another thing this village makes is babies -- Leslie informed us that they have a "fertility problem," which carries the exact opposite meaning from how we use the term in the states. So as soon as we started stepping off the bus, we were almost tripping on the small bodies that had clamored to see our group. They were the sweetest children; as we walked, they would insert their tiny hands into our big ones, and walk along together, no one person really leading the other, towards our destination. First, it was the bead factory, where our new hoard of friends also got to learn about and watch the bead-making process; then, it was over to the small courtyard market where villagers were selling necklaces and bracelets (made, of course, with the village's own beads, which the ladies in our group all vigorously purchased); finally, it was back to the bus, where we took some last pictures with our new friends and sadly bid them farewell as we made our way southward, back to Accra.
By now you've probably figured out that nothing really exciting happens on these drives, so I'll not even try to wax nostalgic on that final part of our trip. However, I will mention that during a midafternoon rest stop, several of us purchased some suspect-looking food from some vendors there that may or may not have been a big-time mistake. In our defense, it was way past lunchtime, and our empty, travelling bellies were desperate ... and, you could get chicken and rice for 3.30 cedi, which is a fabulous deal, so we delved in. I first started to be skeptical of this "meal" when I saw the lady with whom I'd ordered take my chicken not from the chafing dish displayed in front of me, but from a tupperware sitting behind her. That was at room temperature, which in Ghana is a million degrees. I took just a few bites, to placate my stomach ... leading to some oh-so-fun indigestion about an hour later. As soon as we were back in Legon, I purchased a mango from Amina, the lady whose fruit stand sits a block from our house, and devoured it for dinner. Thankfully, I think some good fruit nutrients (and FIBER) flushed whatever would-be problem from my system, and I escaped without episode. I've been SO lucky thus far to have skirted any big digestive ailments, and knock on wood, I plan to keep it that way.
So, thus concludes the story of our Great Northern Adventure. Obviously, a week later, we're safe, sound and back to the grind in Accra. However, there's still lots of excitement (most of which takes nowhere near as long to document), so more great blog posts are coming your way very soon!
THE END
Friday, July 18, 2008
the great northern adventure, part 2
here now, part 2 of this series, where your heroine and adventuress will finally explicate on some of those damned spoilers...
SATURDAY - let's just drive all day
I actually pulled myself out of bed at 4:30 a.m. Saturday morning (impressed, Mom?) to savor one last hot shower in our Royal Basin bathroom before heading north. Small luxuries become big here ... you know? It wasn't even a great shower -- it had one of those removable, handheld nozzles and mediocre water pressure. But I'm small enough that I could stand underneath where it hung (with a little knee-bend) and just soak in the warm water for a while. This bathing experience that I would scoff at in the states felt like a week at the spa. (Since I've come back to Accra, and been shocked awake at 6:30 a.m. by our cold showers, you can bet I miss it.) After that and a little hurried, throw-it-in-the-backpack packing, we had an early buffet breakfast of omelettes and fruit. By some major, repeated lapse in judgment, I never bring any of my Tabasco bottles on our field trips, so I'm forced to compromise and use ketchup to season my morning meal. It's definitely not the same, but was still surprisingly good (and I know my ketchup-addicted roomie would be so proud).
Anyway, all 15 members of our group were loaded on the bus as scheduled at 6 a.m. (a minor miracle), and we started the epic drive. And then we drove and drove and drove and drove.
We had to leave so early to ensure that we'd reach Mole before dusk. Leslie was adamant that we only travel in the daytime, because that is the best way to ensure the group's safety. Nonetheless, still quite wary of roadside robberies and all that risky business, several of us shared the roll of duct tape I'd brought and taped our camera cases, with debit cards and some cash tucked inside, to the undersides of our seats. My camera is brand spankin' new, and there is no way I would part with it; however, I was fully willing to instead hand over my terrible, four-year-old, doesn't-hold-a-charge-for-more-than-two-hours iPod and be done with that mess. Well, as it turns out, all this planning was completely unnecessary and overdramatic, because we carried on free and easy the entire drive. No hold-ups whatsoever. Thank God. The most exciting part of the drive was, every hour or so, when we'd look out the window and see the remains of a horrific car crash still sitting and taking up space on the side of the road. Most involved tankers or semi-trucks, so it was quite a spectacle. But when I wasn't watching trees, huts and heaps of steel fly by on the highway, I curled up in the two seats I owned on our bus (close to the front, scored by virtue of a sometimes-sensitive tummy) and napped. We have been so lucky to take this incredible, comfortable, brand-new bus on our field trips. The seats are plush (though the synthetic-leather material they're made of sticks to your bare skin so that you have to peel yourself off when you want to disembark or readjust) and there are almost enough rows of seats for each person to have one to themselves. It has nice, big windows that provide a refreshing breeze to keep us all from overheating. Basically, we are so blessed to have this bus. And I think we completely took the bus (and our amazing driver, Isaac) for granted until we reached Damongo Junction and had to switch vehicles to travel the last little stretch to Mole.
excursion with mr. fatal & the mango tree
So we were not allowed to take our beloved luxe bus on the final stretch of road to Mole (about 20 miles or so), because the roads were purported to be so bad and dusty and full of holes that it would basically ruin this beautiful, brand-new specimen of a vehicle. Therefore, at noon, as we rolled into the junction, we prepared ourselves to bid farewell to Isaac and relocate ourselves on to a different, more off-road-capable bus. But we didn't actually make any movements quite yet, because we couldn't see another bus anywhere. Also, the village children were clamoring around us at almost-riotous levels, and nobody wanted to go outside and be mobbed. They shouted up at the windows, demanding that we send down pens or money. I have absolutely no problem being called "Obruni," because I know it's really just a completely standard term in the Ghanaian vernacular, but when children start calling me "White lady," (as in, "White lady, give me money!") it makes my skin crawl a little bit. I just feel like it has all sorts of connotations that I want nothing to do with. At one point, someone in the back of the bus actually did throw some food or pens into the swarm of children, and it almost incited an all-out brawl, as all the children rushed, dove, tackled and fought for possession of these items. Leslie then insisted that we don't give anything to any of the children, because there would never be enough to go around and it really does more harm than good. Anyway, in the midst of the madness, Leslie had contacted our new driver, Mr. Fatal (um, yes, it's just as sketchy as you would imagine ... but to be completely fair I'll add that it's pronounced like "fay-tahhhl"), and I don't know if his vehicle was sitting there the whole time or had arrived while we were preoccupied with the children, but by this point he was arrived and ready to load us on to his "bus," which was really a MINIVAN. Basically, we crammed 15 people (and all of their belongings) into a tro-tro, and took that the rest of the way to Mole. But oh! the excitement had just begun.
At this point, we were all pretty skeptical of this Fatal character, because he was dressed so strangely (he was wearing a fishing shirt and plain shorts, but with argyle dress socks and some odd shoes that I can't exactly remember, and to top it off he completed the ensemble with a NY Giants baseball cap and wraparound sunglasses, which he never took off) and you could never really tell where his eyes were looking. Also, we had been under the assumption that Fatal was the actual driver, but this other guy, who I don't think spoke English, had been assigned that role, and Fatal smushed himself in the back with us, just taking up more room in the already overcrowded tro-tro. So, things were not quite going as planned. But, we made the best of it, and got some good group bonding time in our close quarters. The roads, as we soon discovered, were actually in terrific condition. They weren't paved, but the red dirt had been packed down (in some places, you could see the same sort of ridges that occur on a manicured ski slope) and there were no potholes. Despite this, the driver stopped the vehicle in the middle of the road (with nothing but trees and dirt in sight for miles) after about 15-20 minutes to check underneath the van. He came up with oil on his fingers, which is never a good sign. He and Fatal put another bottle of oil in the engine, and we proceeded along, but did not get very far before we had to stop again. And this stop was much more prolonged. Fatal informed Leslie and our group that there was an oil leak, so not only did they have to fix the pipes on the van's underbelly, but they had to go up the road to the next town to get more oil. So we'd be marooned in the middle of nowhere for a while.
Luckily, we'd broken down not too far out of town, and as we all started to pile out of the van to wait things out (instantly feeling the unbearable heat), some children ran up to greet us from a nearby house. Unlike the children at Damongo Junction, this group of seven or so was softspoken and shy, so much so that making introductions was a little difficult. Nonetheless, the eldest of the group, a boy of 12, invited us to sit under the mango tree that was just beside the road. We walked that direction, and the kids ran ahead, bringing benches and chairs from their home to make us comfortable. Their hospitality was incredibly touching and absolutely unforgettable. Mango trees are especially noteworthy because their branches extend very wide, providing ample coverage and shade for those seeking refuge. They're one of the smartest trees to grow in Africa, because they provide both food and shade, and Ghana has employed PR tactics on several occasions to encourage rural populations to plant them. Our rescuers sat beneath the tree with us, still quiet as ever. We started making conversation with them, and they slowly opened up to us. We learned that they were all related, some siblings and some cousins. We asked names and ages, but sometimes had trouble understanding their responses, so we grabbed a stick and the children wrote their names in the dirt. Every so often, Fatal would come check in and assure us that we'd be getting back on the road in just 15 minutes, but the clock kept ticking. At one point, Nick, a member of our group who knows a thing or two about cars, popped under the van to take a look at the problem. He reported back that the burst pipe was in bad need of repair, and that there were already three clamps on various places where the pipe had broken before. Two, he said, were still loose and leaking, because nobody had ever looked at them the first time we had engine trouble! He tightened them, and seriously impressed Fatal with his mechanical know-how, although isn't that really supposed to be the guy we hired's job? Let's review a moment -- first, the bus we were supposed to take to Mole turned out to be a tro-tro, and then it wasn't really a tro-tro, but a ramshackle hunk of junk that leaks oil and had likely been driven all its 300,000 miles without a single tune-up. Anyway, back to the story -- it took about two and a half hours for our oil to arrive, but we hardly noticed the time, because we were so preoccupied with our adorable new friends, and we definitely didn't notice the heat, because we were sheltered by the mango tree. We were very sad to leave our little oasis (and little hosts!) when it was time to go, but also kind of psyched to finally get back on the road and maybe reach Mole before dark. So we said our thank-yous and goodbyes, and got back on the road.
The rest of our drive was fine, save for the enormous quantities of DUST that seeped into our van. I think we are all developing the red lung now, from excessive dust inhalation. Our four valiant backseaters got the rawest deal, because the van's back door wasn't completely shut (way to go again, Mr. Fatal), so not only were they the dustiest, but the backseat gets hot, stuffy and sweaty, so they were truly covered in it. However, the good news here is that being covered in red dust gives the same illusion as a phenomenal spray tan. And if you ask me, I'll tell you that we all just looked "sexy and rugged," instead of "covered in dirt and sweat."
So, the first thing we did when we arrived at Mole Motel was jump in the pool, thereby cooling and cleaning ourselves in one fell swoop. And then we paused to enjoy the beauty and amazement of the park.
mole national park (finally)
Mole is absolutely gorgeous, AND it's full of animals, which is just an overwhelmingly awesome combination. Once we passed through the park gates, on the short drive to the motel, we saw monkeys, antelope and warthogs, all just by looking out the tro-tro window. Actually, by the end of our short stay, seeing warthogs was old news, because they sort of just roamed through the motel grounds, grazing on the periphery. The motel has a lookout deck that sits above two watering holes, and the view is spectacular. The landscape looked exactly how I would picture an African savannah, but much greener. You couldn't quite see any animals from that deck, but you could make out the ripples on the top of the water that indicate an alligator is lurking below the surface. We might have also seen a few water buffalo, gazelles and antelope, but it's hard to say for sure. Needless to say, we spent a lot of time on that deck. Unfortunately, our stay in Mole was quite short ... we may have spent more time traveling to and from the park than actually in the park. Besides swimming, eating, deck-sitting and sleeping, we didn't do much else ... save for the SAFARI!
SUNDAY -- walking safari & ELEPHANTS
The whole point of coming to Mole was to see some animals, so we woke up early (again) on Sunday morning, ate a quick breakfast, and suited up for our 7 a.m. safari. Mole is some odd cross between a savannah and a forest (there's a technical name for it that I just can't remember), so our safari was not going to be in a jeep, like you'd always imagine a safari would be ... rather, we hiked. To curb the danger factor, an experienced guide with an enormous gun escorted the group. He also offered periodic nature or history updates, but I think he was really mostly there in a protective capacity. We asked our 23-year veteran guide if he had ever used the gun before, and his response was a very blasé, "Oh, of course." We started off on a nice, designated path, and saw some baboons and monkeys and more warthogs. They were all actually very docile, and lived near a small commune, so I think they weren't all that surprised to see humans. There were trash piles all around the commune, and it was so odd to see these wild animals living amidst the garbage. After a short while, we got to the juicy part of our hike and started trekking through the bush. The African bush wasn't too dense or hard to navigate through, as we were mostly walking on long grass, but there were lots of little trees everywhere that affected visibility. We trooped along in a single-file line, our armed guide bringing up the front. Those of us in the middle were essentially following blind. About five minutes in, the guide suddenly signalled for us to turn around, so we hurriedly started marching the opposite direction. We were rerouted to a little viewing spot nearby, and discovered the reason for that movement: a HUGE elephant was standing maybe 50 meters away.
I was awe-struck to be standing so close to such an enormous and powerful creature. However, the elephant seemed much more apathetic to our arrival, and it continued to stand around and eat leaves. We murmured and whispered in excitement to one another and shot pictures like a team of paparazzi. The elephant continued to eat leaves ... and despite the simplicity of the event, it was mind-blowingly amazing to witness. At one point, the big gray animal rotated to get at some better leaves or something, and we had a lovely view of its massive, wrinkled rear end. Again, we snapped photos like crazy. We were pretty much in an elephant-induced euphoric state, until our guard very seriously hissed for our attention and started leading us, at a fast clip, in a different direction through the bush. There was another elephant sauntering towards us! Once we had traveled about 25 meters, we were able to pause and absorb the spectacle. It too started eating, but had posed more appropriately with its best face forward. We never got to stay in one place for long, because like a magnet in jelly, these elephants REALLY liked to slowly make their way in our direction. Every few minutes, the guide would hiss and, with quick hand gestures, motion for us to follow away again. The guide informed our group that elephants are way high up on the list of most dangerous animals, and can run up to 70 miles an hour (only the cheetah is faster). So if one decides to come after you, there's really no getting out of it ... you WILL be trampled to death. So, the safari wasn't just a fun stroll through the bush anymore, but an anxiety-inducing obstacle course that involved dodging elephants and death simultaneously. At one point, we were so busy hurrying away that I didn't look where I was walking (also, it's the bush) and somehow got stung by a poisonous plant. It was REALLY painful ... but on the bright side, at least it wasn't a Black Mamba, which also reside in the African bush, and are far worse to encounter. Luckily, I recovered quickly enough to witness our two elephant friends start fighting one another, tusk-to-tusk. They were two males, probably trying to lay claim to a female we never saw. One already had broken tusks, which means he was probably a loser at least once before. It was an amazing spectacle to see ... one of those things that's so Animal Planet and that you never think you'll ever witness in person. Also, the good news here was that the elephants were far too preoccupied with one another to come trample us, so we were in the clear for a moment. We watched the two for a few more moments, and made our exit. We walked to a less-dense area of the bush and finally had an opportunity to see gazelles and more warthogs and baboons. The gazelles are really flighty, so they never stayed around very long, but were still very exciting and also, you know, not all that dangerous, which was a nice change of pace. We concluded our safari after about two hours, and trudged back to our tro-tro exhausted, but also exhilarated, by the morning's incredible events. Already quite sweaty and dusty, we piled back into Mr. Fatal's van and promptly started our drive back to Kumasi.
Given the ridiculously long nature of this installment, the rest of Sunday and Monday are upcoming in the 3rd and final post ... stay tuned!
SATURDAY - let's just drive all day
I actually pulled myself out of bed at 4:30 a.m. Saturday morning (impressed, Mom?) to savor one last hot shower in our Royal Basin bathroom before heading north. Small luxuries become big here ... you know? It wasn't even a great shower -- it had one of those removable, handheld nozzles and mediocre water pressure. But I'm small enough that I could stand underneath where it hung (with a little knee-bend) and just soak in the warm water for a while. This bathing experience that I would scoff at in the states felt like a week at the spa. (Since I've come back to Accra, and been shocked awake at 6:30 a.m. by our cold showers, you can bet I miss it.) After that and a little hurried, throw-it-in-the-backpack packing, we had an early buffet breakfast of omelettes and fruit. By some major, repeated lapse in judgment, I never bring any of my Tabasco bottles on our field trips, so I'm forced to compromise and use ketchup to season my morning meal. It's definitely not the same, but was still surprisingly good (and I know my ketchup-addicted roomie would be so proud).
Anyway, all 15 members of our group were loaded on the bus as scheduled at 6 a.m. (a minor miracle), and we started the epic drive. And then we drove and drove and drove and drove.
We had to leave so early to ensure that we'd reach Mole before dusk. Leslie was adamant that we only travel in the daytime, because that is the best way to ensure the group's safety. Nonetheless, still quite wary of roadside robberies and all that risky business, several of us shared the roll of duct tape I'd brought and taped our camera cases, with debit cards and some cash tucked inside, to the undersides of our seats. My camera is brand spankin' new, and there is no way I would part with it; however, I was fully willing to instead hand over my terrible, four-year-old, doesn't-hold-a-charge-for-more-than-two-hours iPod and be done with that mess. Well, as it turns out, all this planning was completely unnecessary and overdramatic, because we carried on free and easy the entire drive. No hold-ups whatsoever. Thank God. The most exciting part of the drive was, every hour or so, when we'd look out the window and see the remains of a horrific car crash still sitting and taking up space on the side of the road. Most involved tankers or semi-trucks, so it was quite a spectacle. But when I wasn't watching trees, huts and heaps of steel fly by on the highway, I curled up in the two seats I owned on our bus (close to the front, scored by virtue of a sometimes-sensitive tummy) and napped. We have been so lucky to take this incredible, comfortable, brand-new bus on our field trips. The seats are plush (though the synthetic-leather material they're made of sticks to your bare skin so that you have to peel yourself off when you want to disembark or readjust) and there are almost enough rows of seats for each person to have one to themselves. It has nice, big windows that provide a refreshing breeze to keep us all from overheating. Basically, we are so blessed to have this bus. And I think we completely took the bus (and our amazing driver, Isaac) for granted until we reached Damongo Junction and had to switch vehicles to travel the last little stretch to Mole.
excursion with mr. fatal & the mango tree
So we were not allowed to take our beloved luxe bus on the final stretch of road to Mole (about 20 miles or so), because the roads were purported to be so bad and dusty and full of holes that it would basically ruin this beautiful, brand-new specimen of a vehicle. Therefore, at noon, as we rolled into the junction, we prepared ourselves to bid farewell to Isaac and relocate ourselves on to a different, more off-road-capable bus. But we didn't actually make any movements quite yet, because we couldn't see another bus anywhere. Also, the village children were clamoring around us at almost-riotous levels, and nobody wanted to go outside and be mobbed. They shouted up at the windows, demanding that we send down pens or money. I have absolutely no problem being called "Obruni," because I know it's really just a completely standard term in the Ghanaian vernacular, but when children start calling me "White lady," (as in, "White lady, give me money!") it makes my skin crawl a little bit. I just feel like it has all sorts of connotations that I want nothing to do with. At one point, someone in the back of the bus actually did throw some food or pens into the swarm of children, and it almost incited an all-out brawl, as all the children rushed, dove, tackled and fought for possession of these items. Leslie then insisted that we don't give anything to any of the children, because there would never be enough to go around and it really does more harm than good. Anyway, in the midst of the madness, Leslie had contacted our new driver, Mr. Fatal (um, yes, it's just as sketchy as you would imagine ... but to be completely fair I'll add that it's pronounced like "fay-tahhhl"), and I don't know if his vehicle was sitting there the whole time or had arrived while we were preoccupied with the children, but by this point he was arrived and ready to load us on to his "bus," which was really a MINIVAN. Basically, we crammed 15 people (and all of their belongings) into a tro-tro, and took that the rest of the way to Mole. But oh! the excitement had just begun.
At this point, we were all pretty skeptical of this Fatal character, because he was dressed so strangely (he was wearing a fishing shirt and plain shorts, but with argyle dress socks and some odd shoes that I can't exactly remember, and to top it off he completed the ensemble with a NY Giants baseball cap and wraparound sunglasses, which he never took off) and you could never really tell where his eyes were looking. Also, we had been under the assumption that Fatal was the actual driver, but this other guy, who I don't think spoke English, had been assigned that role, and Fatal smushed himself in the back with us, just taking up more room in the already overcrowded tro-tro. So, things were not quite going as planned. But, we made the best of it, and got some good group bonding time in our close quarters. The roads, as we soon discovered, were actually in terrific condition. They weren't paved, but the red dirt had been packed down (in some places, you could see the same sort of ridges that occur on a manicured ski slope) and there were no potholes. Despite this, the driver stopped the vehicle in the middle of the road (with nothing but trees and dirt in sight for miles) after about 15-20 minutes to check underneath the van. He came up with oil on his fingers, which is never a good sign. He and Fatal put another bottle of oil in the engine, and we proceeded along, but did not get very far before we had to stop again. And this stop was much more prolonged. Fatal informed Leslie and our group that there was an oil leak, so not only did they have to fix the pipes on the van's underbelly, but they had to go up the road to the next town to get more oil. So we'd be marooned in the middle of nowhere for a while.
Luckily, we'd broken down not too far out of town, and as we all started to pile out of the van to wait things out (instantly feeling the unbearable heat), some children ran up to greet us from a nearby house. Unlike the children at Damongo Junction, this group of seven or so was softspoken and shy, so much so that making introductions was a little difficult. Nonetheless, the eldest of the group, a boy of 12, invited us to sit under the mango tree that was just beside the road. We walked that direction, and the kids ran ahead, bringing benches and chairs from their home to make us comfortable. Their hospitality was incredibly touching and absolutely unforgettable. Mango trees are especially noteworthy because their branches extend very wide, providing ample coverage and shade for those seeking refuge. They're one of the smartest trees to grow in Africa, because they provide both food and shade, and Ghana has employed PR tactics on several occasions to encourage rural populations to plant them. Our rescuers sat beneath the tree with us, still quiet as ever. We started making conversation with them, and they slowly opened up to us. We learned that they were all related, some siblings and some cousins. We asked names and ages, but sometimes had trouble understanding their responses, so we grabbed a stick and the children wrote their names in the dirt. Every so often, Fatal would come check in and assure us that we'd be getting back on the road in just 15 minutes, but the clock kept ticking. At one point, Nick, a member of our group who knows a thing or two about cars, popped under the van to take a look at the problem. He reported back that the burst pipe was in bad need of repair, and that there were already three clamps on various places where the pipe had broken before. Two, he said, were still loose and leaking, because nobody had ever looked at them the first time we had engine trouble! He tightened them, and seriously impressed Fatal with his mechanical know-how, although isn't that really supposed to be the guy we hired's job? Let's review a moment -- first, the bus we were supposed to take to Mole turned out to be a tro-tro, and then it wasn't really a tro-tro, but a ramshackle hunk of junk that leaks oil and had likely been driven all its 300,000 miles without a single tune-up. Anyway, back to the story -- it took about two and a half hours for our oil to arrive, but we hardly noticed the time, because we were so preoccupied with our adorable new friends, and we definitely didn't notice the heat, because we were sheltered by the mango tree. We were very sad to leave our little oasis (and little hosts!) when it was time to go, but also kind of psyched to finally get back on the road and maybe reach Mole before dark. So we said our thank-yous and goodbyes, and got back on the road.
The rest of our drive was fine, save for the enormous quantities of DUST that seeped into our van. I think we are all developing the red lung now, from excessive dust inhalation. Our four valiant backseaters got the rawest deal, because the van's back door wasn't completely shut (way to go again, Mr. Fatal), so not only were they the dustiest, but the backseat gets hot, stuffy and sweaty, so they were truly covered in it. However, the good news here is that being covered in red dust gives the same illusion as a phenomenal spray tan. And if you ask me, I'll tell you that we all just looked "sexy and rugged," instead of "covered in dirt and sweat."
So, the first thing we did when we arrived at Mole Motel was jump in the pool, thereby cooling and cleaning ourselves in one fell swoop. And then we paused to enjoy the beauty and amazement of the park.
mole national park (finally)
Mole is absolutely gorgeous, AND it's full of animals, which is just an overwhelmingly awesome combination. Once we passed through the park gates, on the short drive to the motel, we saw monkeys, antelope and warthogs, all just by looking out the tro-tro window. Actually, by the end of our short stay, seeing warthogs was old news, because they sort of just roamed through the motel grounds, grazing on the periphery. The motel has a lookout deck that sits above two watering holes, and the view is spectacular. The landscape looked exactly how I would picture an African savannah, but much greener. You couldn't quite see any animals from that deck, but you could make out the ripples on the top of the water that indicate an alligator is lurking below the surface. We might have also seen a few water buffalo, gazelles and antelope, but it's hard to say for sure. Needless to say, we spent a lot of time on that deck. Unfortunately, our stay in Mole was quite short ... we may have spent more time traveling to and from the park than actually in the park. Besides swimming, eating, deck-sitting and sleeping, we didn't do much else ... save for the SAFARI!
SUNDAY -- walking safari & ELEPHANTS
The whole point of coming to Mole was to see some animals, so we woke up early (again) on Sunday morning, ate a quick breakfast, and suited up for our 7 a.m. safari. Mole is some odd cross between a savannah and a forest (there's a technical name for it that I just can't remember), so our safari was not going to be in a jeep, like you'd always imagine a safari would be ... rather, we hiked. To curb the danger factor, an experienced guide with an enormous gun escorted the group. He also offered periodic nature or history updates, but I think he was really mostly there in a protective capacity. We asked our 23-year veteran guide if he had ever used the gun before, and his response was a very blasé, "Oh, of course." We started off on a nice, designated path, and saw some baboons and monkeys and more warthogs. They were all actually very docile, and lived near a small commune, so I think they weren't all that surprised to see humans. There were trash piles all around the commune, and it was so odd to see these wild animals living amidst the garbage. After a short while, we got to the juicy part of our hike and started trekking through the bush. The African bush wasn't too dense or hard to navigate through, as we were mostly walking on long grass, but there were lots of little trees everywhere that affected visibility. We trooped along in a single-file line, our armed guide bringing up the front. Those of us in the middle were essentially following blind. About five minutes in, the guide suddenly signalled for us to turn around, so we hurriedly started marching the opposite direction. We were rerouted to a little viewing spot nearby, and discovered the reason for that movement: a HUGE elephant was standing maybe 50 meters away.
I was awe-struck to be standing so close to such an enormous and powerful creature. However, the elephant seemed much more apathetic to our arrival, and it continued to stand around and eat leaves. We murmured and whispered in excitement to one another and shot pictures like a team of paparazzi. The elephant continued to eat leaves ... and despite the simplicity of the event, it was mind-blowingly amazing to witness. At one point, the big gray animal rotated to get at some better leaves or something, and we had a lovely view of its massive, wrinkled rear end. Again, we snapped photos like crazy. We were pretty much in an elephant-induced euphoric state, until our guard very seriously hissed for our attention and started leading us, at a fast clip, in a different direction through the bush. There was another elephant sauntering towards us! Once we had traveled about 25 meters, we were able to pause and absorb the spectacle. It too started eating, but had posed more appropriately with its best face forward. We never got to stay in one place for long, because like a magnet in jelly, these elephants REALLY liked to slowly make their way in our direction. Every few minutes, the guide would hiss and, with quick hand gestures, motion for us to follow away again. The guide informed our group that elephants are way high up on the list of most dangerous animals, and can run up to 70 miles an hour (only the cheetah is faster). So if one decides to come after you, there's really no getting out of it ... you WILL be trampled to death. So, the safari wasn't just a fun stroll through the bush anymore, but an anxiety-inducing obstacle course that involved dodging elephants and death simultaneously. At one point, we were so busy hurrying away that I didn't look where I was walking (also, it's the bush) and somehow got stung by a poisonous plant. It was REALLY painful ... but on the bright side, at least it wasn't a Black Mamba, which also reside in the African bush, and are far worse to encounter. Luckily, I recovered quickly enough to witness our two elephant friends start fighting one another, tusk-to-tusk. They were two males, probably trying to lay claim to a female we never saw. One already had broken tusks, which means he was probably a loser at least once before. It was an amazing spectacle to see ... one of those things that's so Animal Planet and that you never think you'll ever witness in person. Also, the good news here was that the elephants were far too preoccupied with one another to come trample us, so we were in the clear for a moment. We watched the two for a few more moments, and made our exit. We walked to a less-dense area of the bush and finally had an opportunity to see gazelles and more warthogs and baboons. The gazelles are really flighty, so they never stayed around very long, but were still very exciting and also, you know, not all that dangerous, which was a nice change of pace. We concluded our safari after about two hours, and trudged back to our tro-tro exhausted, but also exhilarated, by the morning's incredible events. Already quite sweaty and dusty, we piled back into Mr. Fatal's van and promptly started our drive back to Kumasi.
Given the ridiculously long nature of this installment, the rest of Sunday and Monday are upcoming in the 3rd and final post ... stay tuned!
Tuesday, July 15, 2008
the great northern adventure, part 1
as i've mentioned before, the great northern adventure was just too great to condense into one blog entry. so, over the next few days, tales of our exploits will be coming your way in multiple parts. here's your opener, to get things started...
THURSDAY - welcome to kumasi
We started off our northward trek with some time in the central region. Kumasi is the second-largest city in Accra, the seat of the Ashanti kingdom, and where we started our travels. On Thursday, we left the Legon house just after 7 a.m. and set out on the drive to Kumasi, taking only about four-and-a-half hours to complete the trip. We stopped at the hotel for a brief check-in before getting back on the bus to visit the Ashanti palace and a craft market. The palace we visited, which is now a museum, sits right next to the current palace of the Ashanti king. Ghana is definitely a democracy (and with elections in December, that great democratic tradition, campaign season, is in full swing), but the Ashantis still have a king who, despite his largely symbolic role, actually does preside over some important decisions and rules on tribal issues. Anyway, we toured the museum and saw some artifacts and some creepy life-size wood statues of the former kings and queen mothers. Afterwards, we went to a craft center which had the standard fare -- wood carvings, paintings, fertility dolls (which I am staying FAR away from, thank you very much), strips of kente cloth. To be honest, we were much more excited to return to the hotel for a swim and buffet dinner (we were starving children this whole trip, considering that we ate a real lunch maybe once the whole long weekend). The pool at the Royal Basin was nowhere near as nice as at Coconut Grove, but it did the trick nonetheless.
Kumasi, as a city, was pleasant and beautiful. Much more charming than Accra. It was hilly and the buildings were brightly colored and stacked very close to each other, so it reminded me a little bit of San Francisco. Except it was in Africa, so it was nothing like San Francisco.
FRIDAY - craft villages & the open-air market
The following day we toured some of the local craft villages. We saw the home of kente cloth, where the weaving technique was invented; visited an adinkra-stamping village, where we got to stamp African symbols on to strips of fabric and learn about the whole involved process; and finally, a woodcarving village, where we haggled and argued with shopowners over the prices of beautiful stools, drums and carved figurines. Each was beautiful in its own right, but my favorite was the adinkra village. Adinkra symbols all have complex meanings behind them, which makes the process of selecting and stamping a highly personal one. There are some that revolve around family, some around independence and personal success, some (because this is an ancient tradition) that pledge undying loyalty to the king and some that uphold faith and God. The dye, which is completely colorfast on fabric, is made from the bark of a tree, and is an incredibly interesting and involved process. We also learned that after the color has been sapped from the bark, they reuse the organic material to grow mushrooms, which they then eat. We Oregonians love the sustainability aspect, natch. We each did one or two stamps on a communal red strip of cloth, which we will later cut up so that each person can take home his or her own symbols. Some of us also purchased strips of cloth for our own stamping designs (you could also stamp on kente, which makes for quite the cool, cultural combination) and designed our own adinkra mini-tapestries. I wish that we could have spent more time at this village (which, actually does have a name, but it was complicated and I can't remember it), because if time had permitted, I would have stamped much more fabric and made many more great things to bring home. They also had intricately designed pieces, made by members of the village, for sale, but I didn't get a chance to look at them. They do sell adinkra in Accra, but, you know, at city prices.
We actually did eat lunch on Friday, and then took our full bellies to the Kumasi open-air market, which is the largest open-air market in all of West Africa. It was INSANE, and completely overwhelming. Leslie took us ladies towards the fabric section of the market, which took a five-minute, absolutely untraceable walk through vendors selling everything from radios to chickens. The fabric selection was expansive, and we found that if you ventured off the first aisle (where prices were steep and the ladies refused to cut the six-yard pieces into more manageable sizes), you could find equally beautiful prints and much better bargains. It was also less crowded, and we weren't constantly being jostled by passers-by as we all tried to share a foot-wide walkway. "Shops" were small inlets, open-kiosk style, down each aisle, and the women (this is a mostly female-dominated arena) who owned each shop would sit inside, sometimes on top of fabric piles, and call out to invite you into their shop. One lady from whom I bought multiple yards of multiple prints -- her name was Vic -- was so sweet and helpful that, once I was finished purchasing, I asked her if I could take her photo. She was tickled pink by the suggestion, and was absolutely giddy with excitement once I showed her the picture. I think it's a rare treat for the people here to see photos of themselves -- when we take pictures of children, they all clamor to see the image and squeal as they point to themselves on the screen -- and having a digital camera here is made even more fun when we get to share these moments with our new Ghanaian friends. Anyway, we continued on down the rows and rows of fabric, all of which was incredible. Since I arrived, I've had wanted to buy up all sorts of beautiful African prints and create a quilt out them when I returned. (I realize this news may surprise many of you, considering that I have NEVER quilted before ... and can barely sew). Despite the odds, I am very determined to make this goal a reality. So, I have been on the hunt for some good fabric, and probably bought five quilt's worth at the market. I may have gone a little spend-crazy, but everything is beautiful and will be put to good use. Towards the end of our shopping excursion, I actually cut myself off from all spending, and asked Jessica and Logan to help me uphold that vow, but as we walked out of the market, we passed a table that was selling even more fantastic prints for just 1.50 cedis a yard, and considering how cheap it was, I let myself buy a few more yards. I had to cradle my bag full of fabric like a baby back to where we were meeting the bus, because it was too heavy for its handles. It was really hot out, so Jessica and I indulged in FanChocos (somehow managing to balance my fabric baby at the same time) and chatted with some very sweet ladies who were cooking and selling ground-nut soup (aka peanut soup) on the market perimeter. The Kumasi crowd was very welcoming and it wasa treat to see how the Ghanaians shop. On the bus back, the boys talked about their afternoon exploring the meat section of the market. I'm normally a huge proponent of meat (Go MEAT, as we say), but apparently this was too much of a spectacle for even me. I don't know if I could have handled the pure stench of meat slabs hanging in front of every kiosk, not-so-seductively advertising themselves as "for sale," or the gutters running red with blood.
We didn't do much for the rest of the day ... went out to dinner at this weird little Chinese restaurant (it was no Jing-Jing, and that's all I have to say about that) and after-dinner, had some sangria that is 3 cedi and comes in a box. It's deeeelicious. We didn't get too crazy because we had to be up ridiculously early the next morning to trek farther northward, towards the much-anticipated animals...
The dish on Mole coming up in Part 2!
THURSDAY - welcome to kumasi
We started off our northward trek with some time in the central region. Kumasi is the second-largest city in Accra, the seat of the Ashanti kingdom, and where we started our travels. On Thursday, we left the Legon house just after 7 a.m. and set out on the drive to Kumasi, taking only about four-and-a-half hours to complete the trip. We stopped at the hotel for a brief check-in before getting back on the bus to visit the Ashanti palace and a craft market. The palace we visited, which is now a museum, sits right next to the current palace of the Ashanti king. Ghana is definitely a democracy (and with elections in December, that great democratic tradition, campaign season, is in full swing), but the Ashantis still have a king who, despite his largely symbolic role, actually does preside over some important decisions and rules on tribal issues. Anyway, we toured the museum and saw some artifacts and some creepy life-size wood statues of the former kings and queen mothers. Afterwards, we went to a craft center which had the standard fare -- wood carvings, paintings, fertility dolls (which I am staying FAR away from, thank you very much), strips of kente cloth. To be honest, we were much more excited to return to the hotel for a swim and buffet dinner (we were starving children this whole trip, considering that we ate a real lunch maybe once the whole long weekend). The pool at the Royal Basin was nowhere near as nice as at Coconut Grove, but it did the trick nonetheless.
Kumasi, as a city, was pleasant and beautiful. Much more charming than Accra. It was hilly and the buildings were brightly colored and stacked very close to each other, so it reminded me a little bit of San Francisco. Except it was in Africa, so it was nothing like San Francisco.
FRIDAY - craft villages & the open-air market
The following day we toured some of the local craft villages. We saw the home of kente cloth, where the weaving technique was invented; visited an adinkra-stamping village, where we got to stamp African symbols on to strips of fabric and learn about the whole involved process; and finally, a woodcarving village, where we haggled and argued with shopowners over the prices of beautiful stools, drums and carved figurines. Each was beautiful in its own right, but my favorite was the adinkra village. Adinkra symbols all have complex meanings behind them, which makes the process of selecting and stamping a highly personal one. There are some that revolve around family, some around independence and personal success, some (because this is an ancient tradition) that pledge undying loyalty to the king and some that uphold faith and God. The dye, which is completely colorfast on fabric, is made from the bark of a tree, and is an incredibly interesting and involved process. We also learned that after the color has been sapped from the bark, they reuse the organic material to grow mushrooms, which they then eat. We Oregonians love the sustainability aspect, natch. We each did one or two stamps on a communal red strip of cloth, which we will later cut up so that each person can take home his or her own symbols. Some of us also purchased strips of cloth for our own stamping designs (you could also stamp on kente, which makes for quite the cool, cultural combination) and designed our own adinkra mini-tapestries. I wish that we could have spent more time at this village (which, actually does have a name, but it was complicated and I can't remember it), because if time had permitted, I would have stamped much more fabric and made many more great things to bring home. They also had intricately designed pieces, made by members of the village, for sale, but I didn't get a chance to look at them. They do sell adinkra in Accra, but, you know, at city prices.
We actually did eat lunch on Friday, and then took our full bellies to the Kumasi open-air market, which is the largest open-air market in all of West Africa. It was INSANE, and completely overwhelming. Leslie took us ladies towards the fabric section of the market, which took a five-minute, absolutely untraceable walk through vendors selling everything from radios to chickens. The fabric selection was expansive, and we found that if you ventured off the first aisle (where prices were steep and the ladies refused to cut the six-yard pieces into more manageable sizes), you could find equally beautiful prints and much better bargains. It was also less crowded, and we weren't constantly being jostled by passers-by as we all tried to share a foot-wide walkway. "Shops" were small inlets, open-kiosk style, down each aisle, and the women (this is a mostly female-dominated arena) who owned each shop would sit inside, sometimes on top of fabric piles, and call out to invite you into their shop. One lady from whom I bought multiple yards of multiple prints -- her name was Vic -- was so sweet and helpful that, once I was finished purchasing, I asked her if I could take her photo. She was tickled pink by the suggestion, and was absolutely giddy with excitement once I showed her the picture. I think it's a rare treat for the people here to see photos of themselves -- when we take pictures of children, they all clamor to see the image and squeal as they point to themselves on the screen -- and having a digital camera here is made even more fun when we get to share these moments with our new Ghanaian friends. Anyway, we continued on down the rows and rows of fabric, all of which was incredible. Since I arrived, I've had wanted to buy up all sorts of beautiful African prints and create a quilt out them when I returned. (I realize this news may surprise many of you, considering that I have NEVER quilted before ... and can barely sew). Despite the odds, I am very determined to make this goal a reality. So, I have been on the hunt for some good fabric, and probably bought five quilt's worth at the market. I may have gone a little spend-crazy, but everything is beautiful and will be put to good use. Towards the end of our shopping excursion, I actually cut myself off from all spending, and asked Jessica and Logan to help me uphold that vow, but as we walked out of the market, we passed a table that was selling even more fantastic prints for just 1.50 cedis a yard, and considering how cheap it was, I let myself buy a few more yards. I had to cradle my bag full of fabric like a baby back to where we were meeting the bus, because it was too heavy for its handles. It was really hot out, so Jessica and I indulged in FanChocos (somehow managing to balance my fabric baby at the same time) and chatted with some very sweet ladies who were cooking and selling ground-nut soup (aka peanut soup) on the market perimeter. The Kumasi crowd was very welcoming and it wasa treat to see how the Ghanaians shop. On the bus back, the boys talked about their afternoon exploring the meat section of the market. I'm normally a huge proponent of meat (Go MEAT, as we say), but apparently this was too much of a spectacle for even me. I don't know if I could have handled the pure stench of meat slabs hanging in front of every kiosk, not-so-seductively advertising themselves as "for sale," or the gutters running red with blood.
We didn't do much for the rest of the day ... went out to dinner at this weird little Chinese restaurant (it was no Jing-Jing, and that's all I have to say about that) and after-dinner, had some sangria that is 3 cedi and comes in a box. It's deeeelicious. We didn't get too crazy because we had to be up ridiculously early the next morning to trek farther northward, towards the much-anticipated animals...
The dish on Mole coming up in Part 2!
Monday, July 14, 2008
back in accra
We are back from the Great Northern Adventure! It was AMAZING ... and will take far too long to elaborate on before my time at the internet cafe runs out ... but I promise a small novel's worth of posting in the coming days to fill you in on all the exciting details.
Some spoilers to hold you over until then:
- We did not get robbed on the highway.
- We saw ELEPHANTS!
- Elephants are actually really dangerous animals.
- Never take a bus trip with a driver named Mr. Fatal.
- Plant mango trees, they provide shade.
Okay, well now that you're all sitting on the edge of your seats in suspense (maybe?), I am going to go! I realize that this was a completely useless and borderline cruel update, so apologies, but I promise that the stories to come will be worth the wait. See you back here very soon!
Some spoilers to hold you over until then:
- We did not get robbed on the highway.
- We saw ELEPHANTS!
- Elephants are actually really dangerous animals.
- Never take a bus trip with a driver named Mr. Fatal.
- Plant mango trees, they provide shade.
Okay, well now that you're all sitting on the edge of your seats in suspense (maybe?), I am going to go! I realize that this was a completely useless and borderline cruel update, so apologies, but I promise that the stories to come will be worth the wait. See you back here very soon!
Wednesday, July 9, 2008
tema harbor
Work was so interesting yesterday! Some of you know I've been lamenting this cushy PR gig and envying my reporter friends for the exciting in-the-field reporting (and, by default, sightseeing) that they get to do daily. Well, I finally left Airport West on Tuesday and headed to Tema to do some field research with one of my coworkers. Tema is not far from Accra, maybe a 20-minute drive; on maps and in guidebooks, it resides in the Greater Accra region. The first marker I saw on the highway said "Tema: 24" (and that's kilometers), in case that gives you a better idea of the geography. In total, we were only out of the office for about two hours.
The lettering on the traffic circle as we entered city limits said "Ghana's Industrial City," which looked to be a fairly accurate description as steel cranes and smokestacks were visible on the horizon. Tema is also well-known for its port, where a large percentage of Ghanaian imports and exports pass through, and that's what motivated our (Naomi's and my) trip to Tema. GSMF runs an HIV/AIDS prevention campaign aimed specifically at harbor workers called "Portshield," which is largely run by peer educators, and we visited Tema Harbor yesterday for a little monitoring visit.
The lettering on the traffic circle as we entered city limits said "Ghana's Industrial City," which looked to be a fairly accurate description as steel cranes and smokestacks were visible on the horizon. Tema is also well-known for its port, where a large percentage of Ghanaian imports and exports pass through, and that's what motivated our (Naomi's and my) trip to Tema. GSMF runs an HIV/AIDS prevention campaign aimed specifically at harbor workers called "Portshield," which is largely run by peer educators, and we visited Tema Harbor yesterday for a little monitoring visit.
While we paid a short visit to the offices of the Ghana Dock Labor Company (I think that's what they're called), most of our time was spent talking to the workers. We never actually went down to the harbor itself, but instead stayed up the hill at the waiting area where workers congregate to receive their assignments (or, as I learned it's called here, "allocations") for the day. This area looked almost like a train station -- it had no walls, but a pitched roof, and many, many rows of benches, the majority of which were dilapidated and falling apart. Naomi introduced me to one of the more experienced Portshield peer educators, Kafui. A few other men wearing blue polo shirts with "Portshield" emblazoned on the left chest (but, in the logo, the "o" actually looks like a ship's wheel) gathered around, and Naomi sent me to interview them. This was the first really independent and important thing I've done for GSMF, so I was VERY excited, and of course, a little nervous, because I only had about two minutes to come up with some deep and thoughtful questions.
So Kafui, Gideon, Simon and I found a few benches to sit on and I just started asking them about how they do their peer education work. These guys were SO enthusiastic about the program and it was really great to see. Honestly, these were some of the kindest men (with kind faces, to boot) that I've met in Ghana thus far. And they were harbor workers, a group not well-known for being courteous and polite (I will admit that some of the other men around the waiting area were somewhat uncouth, definitely not quite as polished and sometimes a little grabby). These three explained how they bring the message of HIV/AIDS prevention to their colleagues whenever given the opportunity -- while waiting for allocations, if they have leisure time on the ships, in the evenings when back in their communities -- and said that they've received a warm reception from the other harbor workers. They mostly just talk to them in interpersonal, one-on-one settings, though sometimes they find a microphone and talk to larger groups. There's about 40 peer educators in Tema, a harbor with 5,000 workers, but this sub-1% figure is actually a pretty good statistic for the program, and the 40 men who do volunteer have a lot of success in informing and educating this at-risk population and recruiting additional members to join the peer education team. They also told me that many of the harbor workers have never been talked to about HIV/AIDS or condom usage, making the Portshield program all the more important. The only complaint they mentioned was a lack of materials. They requested more leaflets, to distribute to the men; a DVD system, so that they could hold audio-visual programs in the waiting area; and condoms to distribute, because apparently many of the men are too shy to go to the pharmacy and purchase them. It was a great and eye-opening experience to come to the harbor and see a GSMF campaign in action. I also think that it's pretty easy to forget about the AIDS epidemic when you're isolated from it, but going to the port and interacting with people who were so vulnerable to infection helped to shift my mindset and made the concept a little more tangible. Naomi said that we'd be returning soon for more monitoring, and obviously, I'm very eager to go back.
Anyway, we're off to Kumasi and Mole tomorrow, to see craft villages and elephants and maybe a lake ... the WORKS, pretty much. I'm SO excited! And I know that I still owe you all pictures from the last field trip, so I promise to work a little harder at getting photos uploaded when I return. At any rate, there will be plenty of exciting posts to look forward to after I get back to Accra on Monday. Take care until then!Tuesday, July 8, 2008
no day at the beach
I have to say that despite a wonderfully lazy Saturday, in which I slept until 11:30, finished an amazing book (Eat, Pray, Love) and had African dancers perform in my driveway, and a spiritual Sunday morning that you've just read about, the remainder of Sunday and the weekend was an absolute crazy disaster.
Three members of our group were mugged on Sunday afternoon at Coco Beach. I wasn't involved, and I wasn't even at the beach to be a secondhand witness, but it's still scary and I think we all still can't believe that anybody in our group was victimized like that. I don't want to attempt to tell someone else's emotional story, so please read this great blog entry by the beautiful and talented Jessica.
We're departing on another field trip on Thursday, this time to Kumasi and Mole National Park. The drive from Kumasi (which is in central Ghana) to Mole (waaaay up in the northern region), is long and slow, and we've heard reports of armed robberies along that road. We're taking great precautions to travel only in the daytime, when the roads should be safe, but it's still something I think we're all wary of, especially now in light of the weekend's events. It's extremely likely that the whole trip will be without incident, so don't worry too much ... but feel free to keep us in your thoughts and prayers!
Three members of our group were mugged on Sunday afternoon at Coco Beach. I wasn't involved, and I wasn't even at the beach to be a secondhand witness, but it's still scary and I think we all still can't believe that anybody in our group was victimized like that. I don't want to attempt to tell someone else's emotional story, so please read this great blog entry by the beautiful and talented Jessica.
We're departing on another field trip on Thursday, this time to Kumasi and Mole National Park. The drive from Kumasi (which is in central Ghana) to Mole (waaaay up in the northern region), is long and slow, and we've heard reports of armed robberies along that road. We're taking great precautions to travel only in the daytime, when the roads should be safe, but it's still something I think we're all wary of, especially now in light of the weekend's events. It's extremely likely that the whole trip will be without incident, so don't worry too much ... but feel free to keep us in your thoughts and prayers!
Monday, July 7, 2008
give the Lord a mighty clap
Molly, Ryan and I went to church on Sunday.
This was the first time any of us had attempted to worship here in Ghana ... the first Sunday, I think we were still a little too shellshocked from our recent arrivals to pursue anything so early in the morning, and the week before we were still in Cape Coast. But yesterday, we awoke around 8 a.m., and by 9, were out the door and in search of a church.
We'd heard there was a place near the A&C Shopping Mall, which we frequent for groceries and ATM service, so we took a taxi over there and hoped to easily spot a steeple or a sign from the A&C's front entry. No such luck. We tried to ask some people on the street where we could find a church, but were unsuccessful there, too. Everytime, we were asked, "What kind of church?" and nobody quite understood that we didn't really care what denomination it was, we just wanted to go to church. We started walking back the way our taxi had come, because we'd passed a few places enroute, and less than a block from the mall we heard music and singing. We stumbled upon Oasis of Hope Tabernacle International Ministries, a little congregation that met under canopies, for lack of a four-walled building. The sign outside said that service went from 8-10:30 a.m., and we decided we'd sneak in and catch the last hour of service.
So we walked in. I think we were all instantly surprised at how few parishoners were in attendance at 9:30. The congregation was divided into two sections: the kids' chairs, and the adults' chairs, both of which had large vacancies. With no building in which to put pews, we sat on plastic lawn chairs, choosing seats in the middle. We were welcomed with great, uplifting music. Despite not having a real facility, the church had a nice set of drums, an electric keyboard, bongoes and microphones for the singers. Of course, I likened it in my mind to a Creekside Crossings service back at LAUMC, but that's probably quiteeee a stretch.
Music continued for a while, and more people trickled in. The pastor took the pulpit and shared some words, and there was this music-preaching-music-preaching exchange for some time. 10:30 came and went, and I cannot remember what time we realized that we'd actually arrived at the beginning of services, but that realization descended and we buckled in for the long haul.
Religious services in Ghana are long, no matter where you worship. It's just how the Ghanaians do it. But at this church, it was also interactive and entertaining. At one point, we were all called to come up and dance to the music, which we did with great fervor. And when the small children -- some of the cutest I've seen in Ghana thus far, and that's really a statement -- came and joined in, weaving between us, it was definitely a highlight of the whole morning. It was not hard to find God in this little canopy-covered church, because faces were warm and bright, the music was fabulous, the sun shone through the cracks in our covering and the morning breeze kept us cool as it blew through the whole "room." All of the women in attendance were dressed in beautiful, vibrant tribal fabrics. Most of the little girls wore Sunday-best dresses and little frilly socks with Mary-Janes. The pastor was a passionate speaker, and the congregation worked hard to equal his emotion levels, frequently sending up devoted "Amens!" After something particularly rousing or moving, we'd all be encouraged by the pastor to not only shout our devotionals, but to "Give the Lord a mighty clap!" and the whole congregation (which, by the time things really got underway, had all but filled the arrangement of plastic lawn chairs) would start vigorously applauding. It's impossible to just sit there and not get caught up in the moment, so we'd contribute our "Amens!" and applause too. I'd never been to a service like this one before, but it was an unforgettable and very spiritually rewarding experience.
After the sermon preached about fellowship, and the trifecta of love, hope and faith, we were invited up to introduce ourselves. After the service had ended (around noon or later!), the pastor and many members of the congregation shook our hands and told us how happy they were that we had come. They were all curious about our internships and wondered if we would be coming back. We'll be in Mole next Sunday, but may return for another marathon morning the following week. I think I haven't felt as safe or secure yet in Ghana as I felt surrounded by the non-existant walls of this church.
We also learned that this little church is actually hoping to build itself a real home sometime in the near future. The pastor spoke of it as a huge evangelical center ... he mentioned 2,500 seats and several services each Sunday, both of which are a far cry from the turn-out featured on our visit. I have no idea how long this little church has existed, or how long they've been working on plans for this huge facility, but I hope they are successful in all they aim for.
This was the first time any of us had attempted to worship here in Ghana ... the first Sunday, I think we were still a little too shellshocked from our recent arrivals to pursue anything so early in the morning, and the week before we were still in Cape Coast. But yesterday, we awoke around 8 a.m., and by 9, were out the door and in search of a church.
We'd heard there was a place near the A&C Shopping Mall, which we frequent for groceries and ATM service, so we took a taxi over there and hoped to easily spot a steeple or a sign from the A&C's front entry. No such luck. We tried to ask some people on the street where we could find a church, but were unsuccessful there, too. Everytime, we were asked, "What kind of church?" and nobody quite understood that we didn't really care what denomination it was, we just wanted to go to church. We started walking back the way our taxi had come, because we'd passed a few places enroute, and less than a block from the mall we heard music and singing. We stumbled upon Oasis of Hope Tabernacle International Ministries, a little congregation that met under canopies, for lack of a four-walled building. The sign outside said that service went from 8-10:30 a.m., and we decided we'd sneak in and catch the last hour of service.
So we walked in. I think we were all instantly surprised at how few parishoners were in attendance at 9:30. The congregation was divided into two sections: the kids' chairs, and the adults' chairs, both of which had large vacancies. With no building in which to put pews, we sat on plastic lawn chairs, choosing seats in the middle. We were welcomed with great, uplifting music. Despite not having a real facility, the church had a nice set of drums, an electric keyboard, bongoes and microphones for the singers. Of course, I likened it in my mind to a Creekside Crossings service back at LAUMC, but that's probably quiteeee a stretch.
Music continued for a while, and more people trickled in. The pastor took the pulpit and shared some words, and there was this music-preaching-music-preaching exchange for some time. 10:30 came and went, and I cannot remember what time we realized that we'd actually arrived at the beginning of services, but that realization descended and we buckled in for the long haul.
Religious services in Ghana are long, no matter where you worship. It's just how the Ghanaians do it. But at this church, it was also interactive and entertaining. At one point, we were all called to come up and dance to the music, which we did with great fervor. And when the small children -- some of the cutest I've seen in Ghana thus far, and that's really a statement -- came and joined in, weaving between us, it was definitely a highlight of the whole morning. It was not hard to find God in this little canopy-covered church, because faces were warm and bright, the music was fabulous, the sun shone through the cracks in our covering and the morning breeze kept us cool as it blew through the whole "room." All of the women in attendance were dressed in beautiful, vibrant tribal fabrics. Most of the little girls wore Sunday-best dresses and little frilly socks with Mary-Janes. The pastor was a passionate speaker, and the congregation worked hard to equal his emotion levels, frequently sending up devoted "Amens!" After something particularly rousing or moving, we'd all be encouraged by the pastor to not only shout our devotionals, but to "Give the Lord a mighty clap!" and the whole congregation (which, by the time things really got underway, had all but filled the arrangement of plastic lawn chairs) would start vigorously applauding. It's impossible to just sit there and not get caught up in the moment, so we'd contribute our "Amens!" and applause too. I'd never been to a service like this one before, but it was an unforgettable and very spiritually rewarding experience.
After the sermon preached about fellowship, and the trifecta of love, hope and faith, we were invited up to introduce ourselves. After the service had ended (around noon or later!), the pastor and many members of the congregation shook our hands and told us how happy they were that we had come. They were all curious about our internships and wondered if we would be coming back. We'll be in Mole next Sunday, but may return for another marathon morning the following week. I think I haven't felt as safe or secure yet in Ghana as I felt surrounded by the non-existant walls of this church.
We also learned that this little church is actually hoping to build itself a real home sometime in the near future. The pastor spoke of it as a huge evangelical center ... he mentioned 2,500 seats and several services each Sunday, both of which are a far cry from the turn-out featured on our visit. I have no idea how long this little church has existed, or how long they've been working on plans for this huge facility, but I hope they are successful in all they aim for.
how we celebrated the fourth of july abroad
We actually spent the waning hours of July 4th in an Irish pub, cheersing Guinness, Club and Star to America's 242nd birthday. A little irreverent, yes, but a good summarization of a wholly unsuccessful attempt at bringing the American Independence Day to Ghana.
The vast majority of us left at our usual early hours to head to work. A few lucky souls have Fridays off, because their newspapers don't publish on Saturdays or whatnot. If I sound jealous, it's because I am. I arrived at my usual time, between 8:30 and 8:45, decked out in red, white and blue apparel (I love any excuse to dress in theme), and pledged early in the day, as I pored over edits to the GSMF webpage, to be on a tro-tro back to our sweet little American compound by 3 p.m.
I realized early on in the day that I'd made a completely American mistake: I wore my flip-flops to work. Ghanaians also observe some sort of "casual Friday" (in my office, some wore clothes made of tribal fabrics and kente cloths, others wore polos, t-shirts and jeans), but I still felt that my unintentional choice of footwear might be viewed as disrespectful or something else equally undesirable. I sit at a desk for most of the day, so I can keep my feet out of sight during those hours, but whenever I had to visit a coworker or when walking to the dining room for lunch, I would sort of shuffle my feet, because I thought this would make them less noticeable. I managed to go the day without anybody saying anything, but it was still mortifying.
At lunch, I started telling my coworkers about the significance of the 4th of July in America. Ghanaians understand this well -- they too threw off British colonialism, and their Independence day is sometime in February or March, I think -- and my coworkers loved hearing about the American celebratory traditions, though I found them difficult to explain. I wasn't sure whether they'd all understand what a "barbeque" or "summer vacation" meant, but the general concept of food, friendship and partying got across. An hour or two after lunch, another of my coworkers came to visit. He'd missed the lunchtime lesson, but was reeling with excitement. He told me, "Ketteh (which is how my name usually comes across in the Ghanaian accent), I was just listening to the radio, and they told me it was your Independence Day, and that I should wish any Americans I knew a Happy Independence Day!" So he did. It was very sweet. I think I was more aware of the significance of the holiday as I sat at work than I have been while celebrating at home with hot dogs and fireworks. Maybe it's because I was thinking and talking about it frequently during the day, or maybe it's because I was nostalgic for those comfortable traditions I had taken for granted.
Anyway, despite my best efforts, I left at 3:30. It was still bright, sunny and hot, and I was already feeling festive on the walk home, as I watched my red and blue-patterned skirt flap in the breeze. I purchased a FanChoco (basically a frozen chocolate milk that comes in a plastic wrapper, similar to an otter pop, but squatter, like chocolate-bar sized) from a vendor wheeling a cart (Ghana's equivalent of the ice cream truck), for the low, low price of 40 pesewas, and felt a little patriotic as I walked toward the tro-tro stop. I think that was the only time all day I did something -- eat chocolate ice cream -- that I probably would have done had I been celebrating the holiday at home. Traffic and tro-tro occupancy were light (they jam those things FULL, when given the opportunity), and quite satisfied that I'd beaten the rush hour, I headed home to celebrate. Unfortunately, not many people were back from their internships yet. I lounged around and did some reading for a while. Around five or six o'clock, we went to the grocery store ... not as exciting as it may sound. They sell hot dogs at this store, and we picked up and examined the packages for a moment or two, but sans grill, we weren't sure how exactly we'd prepare them, and finally concluded that eating no hot dogs on the Fourth would be better than eating weird boiled or fried (although THAT would have been very American, in retrospect) hot dogs on the Fourth.
I made some macaroni for dinner that night, inspired by the feather in Yankee Doodle's cap, and called it my patriotic meal for the day. People always start to trickle home around dinnertime, and after we'd all eaten, we purchased some all-American Coca-Cola's from the shop across the street ... and mixed them with all sorts of cheap liquor. You could say that we kick-started the night's celebratory festivities, but we didn't get to enjoy ourselves for too long.
New York University also runs a Ghana study abroad program, which we've all been fascinated with since Leslie returned from her midwinter trip to Africa with stories about the new and ridiculously luxe compound NYU had built for its students. Through the course of the week, a few members of our group had actually met a few members of their group, and we decided to join forces for the American holiday. We Oregonians had been invited to their place for the evening, and we jumped at the opportunity to see this palacial house for ourselves. Armed with some shoddy directions, we recruited a handful of taxis and headed towards the Osu district of Accra. We were dropped off near the TV station, because we had been told it was close to the NYU house, and were instantly lost. The streets were dark and vacant, and it was one of those scenarios your gut tells you to always avoid. So, starting to get slightly panicked about the situation, we walked towards the bright lights of a nearby hotel to find shelter and our bearings.
There were about five or six big Ghanaian bodyguards standing outside the Monte Carlo, and seeing us (Logan, Jessica, Sheena and myself -- four girls) walking towards them started opening doors and welcoming us to their hotel/bar/nightclub/whatever. We told them that we were just waiting for our friends to meet us and weren't really going to stay, but I am not sure that they heard us, and ushered us in. It was probably about 10 o'clock when we walked into the club, and it was EMPTY, making the mirrored walls and red-velvet upholstery only more noticeable. It was like Vegas in Ghana, and it was unlike anything we had ever expected to see in Africa. It was really weird. We all looked at each other with "This is REALLY awkward and uncomfortable" faces, and ducked into the washroom to escape for a few minutes. We finally met up with another taxi-full of our group, and left. Now rolling eight-people deep, we felt confident enough to roam the streets, with another set of shoddy directions, towards this hotel (Walara or something) that was actually very close to the NYU house. We walked for a while -- and oh, have I mentioned that all this happened on one of the few wet, rainy nights in Accra? What are the chances?! -- and finally, convinced that we were, again, painfully lost, and positive that we were painfully soaking, found a cab to drive us. We were desperate, and we paid out the nose for what would be a 45-second cab ride -- we had been so close!
So we FINALLY, after over an hour of traveling and getting lost, reached the NYU house, to find members of their group and members of our group standing outside, ready to head to the bars. We were tired and disappointed that we wouldn't get to exploit their marble floors and air conditioning, but followed suit. We all went to Ryan's Irish Pub, which my guidebook had described as "the expatriates' hangout," which it absolutely was -- the only Ghanaians we saw were the staff. Drinks were expensive (American or European prices, rather than African), so I just bought a beer and nursed it all night. At first, the UO kids and NYU kids separated, electing to stay with their own, but after a while we all converged and had a pretty fun night. I wasn't that impressed with the NYU crowd; I have very mixed feelings about the East Coast, and couldn't entirely figure out where to classify this group. I don't know if we'll hang out with them again or not, but it was nice to hang with an American crowd (and the token Canadians, too!) on the Fourth.
So, all in all, celebrating the Fourth in Africa was ... weird. We did weird things and went weird places. I never got my hot dog, and that's all I really wanted all day, but I did get to eat (weird) chocolate ice cream, at least. In the early evening, over dinner, a few group-members asked people what they liked the most about America. I couldn't put my finger on my answer at the time, and still really can't. But as I thought on the question, I felt really comforted, and that's probably where I will have to settle for now. America is comfortable -- both because of the material comforts we have, like nice homes and internet and familiar, delicious foods, and also because of the intangible comforts, like the family networks and friendships and opportunities for education and opportunities for anything, really. I am loving Ghana (well, we have our good and bad moments), but will also be happy to return home in a month. It's very belated, at this point, but cut an international traveler some slack ... Happy Fourth of July!
The vast majority of us left at our usual early hours to head to work. A few lucky souls have Fridays off, because their newspapers don't publish on Saturdays or whatnot. If I sound jealous, it's because I am. I arrived at my usual time, between 8:30 and 8:45, decked out in red, white and blue apparel (I love any excuse to dress in theme), and pledged early in the day, as I pored over edits to the GSMF webpage, to be on a tro-tro back to our sweet little American compound by 3 p.m.
I realized early on in the day that I'd made a completely American mistake: I wore my flip-flops to work. Ghanaians also observe some sort of "casual Friday" (in my office, some wore clothes made of tribal fabrics and kente cloths, others wore polos, t-shirts and jeans), but I still felt that my unintentional choice of footwear might be viewed as disrespectful or something else equally undesirable. I sit at a desk for most of the day, so I can keep my feet out of sight during those hours, but whenever I had to visit a coworker or when walking to the dining room for lunch, I would sort of shuffle my feet, because I thought this would make them less noticeable. I managed to go the day without anybody saying anything, but it was still mortifying.
At lunch, I started telling my coworkers about the significance of the 4th of July in America. Ghanaians understand this well -- they too threw off British colonialism, and their Independence day is sometime in February or March, I think -- and my coworkers loved hearing about the American celebratory traditions, though I found them difficult to explain. I wasn't sure whether they'd all understand what a "barbeque" or "summer vacation" meant, but the general concept of food, friendship and partying got across. An hour or two after lunch, another of my coworkers came to visit. He'd missed the lunchtime lesson, but was reeling with excitement. He told me, "Ketteh (which is how my name usually comes across in the Ghanaian accent), I was just listening to the radio, and they told me it was your Independence Day, and that I should wish any Americans I knew a Happy Independence Day!" So he did. It was very sweet. I think I was more aware of the significance of the holiday as I sat at work than I have been while celebrating at home with hot dogs and fireworks. Maybe it's because I was thinking and talking about it frequently during the day, or maybe it's because I was nostalgic for those comfortable traditions I had taken for granted.
Anyway, despite my best efforts, I left at 3:30. It was still bright, sunny and hot, and I was already feeling festive on the walk home, as I watched my red and blue-patterned skirt flap in the breeze. I purchased a FanChoco (basically a frozen chocolate milk that comes in a plastic wrapper, similar to an otter pop, but squatter, like chocolate-bar sized) from a vendor wheeling a cart (Ghana's equivalent of the ice cream truck), for the low, low price of 40 pesewas, and felt a little patriotic as I walked toward the tro-tro stop. I think that was the only time all day I did something -- eat chocolate ice cream -- that I probably would have done had I been celebrating the holiday at home. Traffic and tro-tro occupancy were light (they jam those things FULL, when given the opportunity), and quite satisfied that I'd beaten the rush hour, I headed home to celebrate. Unfortunately, not many people were back from their internships yet. I lounged around and did some reading for a while. Around five or six o'clock, we went to the grocery store ... not as exciting as it may sound. They sell hot dogs at this store, and we picked up and examined the packages for a moment or two, but sans grill, we weren't sure how exactly we'd prepare them, and finally concluded that eating no hot dogs on the Fourth would be better than eating weird boiled or fried (although THAT would have been very American, in retrospect) hot dogs on the Fourth.
I made some macaroni for dinner that night, inspired by the feather in Yankee Doodle's cap, and called it my patriotic meal for the day. People always start to trickle home around dinnertime, and after we'd all eaten, we purchased some all-American Coca-Cola's from the shop across the street ... and mixed them with all sorts of cheap liquor. You could say that we kick-started the night's celebratory festivities, but we didn't get to enjoy ourselves for too long.
New York University also runs a Ghana study abroad program, which we've all been fascinated with since Leslie returned from her midwinter trip to Africa with stories about the new and ridiculously luxe compound NYU had built for its students. Through the course of the week, a few members of our group had actually met a few members of their group, and we decided to join forces for the American holiday. We Oregonians had been invited to their place for the evening, and we jumped at the opportunity to see this palacial house for ourselves. Armed with some shoddy directions, we recruited a handful of taxis and headed towards the Osu district of Accra. We were dropped off near the TV station, because we had been told it was close to the NYU house, and were instantly lost. The streets were dark and vacant, and it was one of those scenarios your gut tells you to always avoid. So, starting to get slightly panicked about the situation, we walked towards the bright lights of a nearby hotel to find shelter and our bearings.
There were about five or six big Ghanaian bodyguards standing outside the Monte Carlo, and seeing us (Logan, Jessica, Sheena and myself -- four girls) walking towards them started opening doors and welcoming us to their hotel/bar/nightclub/whatever. We told them that we were just waiting for our friends to meet us and weren't really going to stay, but I am not sure that they heard us, and ushered us in. It was probably about 10 o'clock when we walked into the club, and it was EMPTY, making the mirrored walls and red-velvet upholstery only more noticeable. It was like Vegas in Ghana, and it was unlike anything we had ever expected to see in Africa. It was really weird. We all looked at each other with "This is REALLY awkward and uncomfortable" faces, and ducked into the washroom to escape for a few minutes. We finally met up with another taxi-full of our group, and left. Now rolling eight-people deep, we felt confident enough to roam the streets, with another set of shoddy directions, towards this hotel (Walara or something) that was actually very close to the NYU house. We walked for a while -- and oh, have I mentioned that all this happened on one of the few wet, rainy nights in Accra? What are the chances?! -- and finally, convinced that we were, again, painfully lost, and positive that we were painfully soaking, found a cab to drive us. We were desperate, and we paid out the nose for what would be a 45-second cab ride -- we had been so close!
So we FINALLY, after over an hour of traveling and getting lost, reached the NYU house, to find members of their group and members of our group standing outside, ready to head to the bars. We were tired and disappointed that we wouldn't get to exploit their marble floors and air conditioning, but followed suit. We all went to Ryan's Irish Pub, which my guidebook had described as "the expatriates' hangout," which it absolutely was -- the only Ghanaians we saw were the staff. Drinks were expensive (American or European prices, rather than African), so I just bought a beer and nursed it all night. At first, the UO kids and NYU kids separated, electing to stay with their own, but after a while we all converged and had a pretty fun night. I wasn't that impressed with the NYU crowd; I have very mixed feelings about the East Coast, and couldn't entirely figure out where to classify this group. I don't know if we'll hang out with them again or not, but it was nice to hang with an American crowd (and the token Canadians, too!) on the Fourth.
So, all in all, celebrating the Fourth in Africa was ... weird. We did weird things and went weird places. I never got my hot dog, and that's all I really wanted all day, but I did get to eat (weird) chocolate ice cream, at least. In the early evening, over dinner, a few group-members asked people what they liked the most about America. I couldn't put my finger on my answer at the time, and still really can't. But as I thought on the question, I felt really comforted, and that's probably where I will have to settle for now. America is comfortable -- both because of the material comforts we have, like nice homes and internet and familiar, delicious foods, and also because of the intangible comforts, like the family networks and friendships and opportunities for education and opportunities for anything, really. I am loving Ghana (well, we have our good and bad moments), but will also be happy to return home in a month. It's very belated, at this point, but cut an international traveler some slack ... Happy Fourth of July!
Friday, July 4, 2008
the dollar is up!
For all you statesiders lamenting the economy, I wanted to share some good news: the American dollar is now more valuable than the Ghanaian cedi! This was not the case when I arrived two weeks ago, and means that my 30-pesewa tro-tro rides, 40-pesewa mangoes and 1.20-cedi beers are now even cheaper than before. Anyway, I would love to stay and discuss economics some more, but I have to go max out every ATM I can find before exchange rates fall again.
God bless America!
God bless America!
Wednesday, July 2, 2008
obrunis do republic day
Yesterday was Republic Day, which celebrates the moment when Ghana, having declared independence from British colonial rule a few years prior, became free from the queen's control. I'm a little confused as to how that all worked back in the late 1950s, but at any rate, it's a huge deal here. Almost everyone has the day off from work (although Elon and Josh had to work half-days at their internships) to allow time for celebrations.
We all took the morning kind of easy (savoring the chance to get a few extra hours of sleep in between days with 5, 6 or 7 a.m. wake-up calls), but finally dredged up enough motivation to schlep ourselves to the big holiday parties at the beach. Just as we were walking out the door, monsoon rains rolled in, so we sheltered ourselves on the patio as golf ball-sized raindrops fell from the sky and seriously debated just how much we actually wanted to go do anything ... but the rain subsided after about 15 minutes and we hit the road. I split a taxi with Krista, Molly and Ryan, and it took us about an hour and a half to get from our home in East Legon to the beach, because beach-route traffic was horrendous. When we finally reached our destination, congestion was just as bad -- but this time with bodies rather than cars. There were people EVERYWHERE, mostly speaking (or shouting) in Twi. The four of us started wandering around to find the entrance, but the hoards of people and sopping-wet mud from the earlier rain made walking difficult. We finally found an entrance, but they were charging five cedis for entry. Some members of our group who were already at the beach had called earlier to inform us of a back entrance only charging one cedi for entry, and being frugal travelers, we went searching for cheaper admission. (We kind of thought that, logically, the back entrance at a beach would be the ocean. Apparently, this is not so in Ghana.) Along the way we met up with the last members of our group, so there were about nine of us total, and trooped together along the side of the road, following Ghanaians who looked like they knew where they were going. As we neared the back entrance, a man approached us and asked if we were trying to get into the beach, because he could help get us in. I don't think anybody actually ever told the man we wanted his assistance, but he kind of latched on to us anyway and there wasn't a lot that we could do to shake him. The back entrance was a mess, because it was one small gate and there were 40 to 50 people clamoring and pushing to get through. It was stressful and uncomfortable, and as I took a glance around the group everybody's faces seemed to reflect the same doubtful feelings. Our so-called guide advised us to watch our pockets, so I swung my purse to the front of my body and put a hand over it, for good measure. (Despite our best efforts, Ryan had six cedi pickpocketed.) Molly grabbed my hand and we shoved through, slipping and sliding in the mud. Everybody made it across the threshold, and we trudged through the slop towards the beach. On the way, we saw a Ghanaian boy, who was probably about 11 years old, pee on the side of the path while still walking ... which was lovely. There was eventually another gate to pass through, less crowded than the first, and guarded by a policeman with a HUGE automatic gun. I never really found out if this whole one-cedi-entry operation was legitimate or not, but the police are sort of corrupt here (but not dangerous, at least), so that presence could have really gone either way. We finally made it on to the beach, and the so-called guide man demanded payment. He actually said it as "Pay me!" Not so subtle. We all handed him one cedi (we'd never paid the admission fee, anyway), and he got really mad and demanded that we all pay him three cedis. You can bargain for almost anything here, and we said we would only pay one cedi each. He continued to get mad, and some people handed him a little more money, and we all quickly walked away from the situation. Anyway, that's the story of how we got to the beach.
The beach itself was super, super crowded. Even the La Jolla Shores on a Saturday couldn't compare. There were also vendors set up all over the place and a stage in the center, which added to the chaos. We had to find the rest of our group, so we walked by the stage and found them pretty quickly. It's not too hard to pick out four light-skinned people in a sea of Ghanaians. Everyone, both the early- and recent-arrivers, were already tired and weary from our multitude of beach adventures. We were disappointed, too, because the live music was delayed. We found a restaurant and a table and ordered some sustenance: food and beer. After about an hour (restaurant service is slooooow here), our table was covered with several plates of potato chips (french fries) and we were happy. We got to sort of just relax and observe for a while, and the view was intriguing. Impromptu soccer matches could be seen all over the beach, and there were cute kids everywhere. We definitely noticed the obvious overconsumption of alcohol -- if there's one thing Ghanaians love, it's GIN. People were chugging it in these little clear cups, straight, with no ice and no mixer. So, clearly, people got rowdy. I don't really think we were celebrating with the uppercrust of Ghanaian society. As we were sitting, we'd be visited by one vendor or another about every five minutes. They'd be selling the most random items you could think of -- sunglasses, kebabs, jewelry, pirated DVDs, etc. This is common practice all over Accra, and vendors (or "hawkers" is another name) stand on, and sometimes in, the highway trying to sell you everything from ice cream to toilet paper. We're pretty used to it by now, and have our deflection down to an art. Music finally started to play sometime between five and six o'clock, but it really wasn't all that exciting, so some of us headed home soon thereafter. As we proceeded to exit the beach, we walked past the public bathrooms, which at the beach were so awful and crowded that we saw several young ladies relieving themselves in the completely public areas just outside the bathrooms. It's common practice in Ghana to urinate pretty much wherever, but still shocking whenever I see it happen. I think this beach wasn't quite the underbelly of Accra, but it might have been close.
We found a taxi fairly quickly and headed back to Legon. There were still tons of people heading to the beach when we departed, so we may have left the party very, very early, but we returned home, had dinner, did some reading and fell asleep early to be well-rested for work the next morning. An uneventful ending to a crazily eventful day.
We all took the morning kind of easy (savoring the chance to get a few extra hours of sleep in between days with 5, 6 or 7 a.m. wake-up calls), but finally dredged up enough motivation to schlep ourselves to the big holiday parties at the beach. Just as we were walking out the door, monsoon rains rolled in, so we sheltered ourselves on the patio as golf ball-sized raindrops fell from the sky and seriously debated just how much we actually wanted to go do anything ... but the rain subsided after about 15 minutes and we hit the road. I split a taxi with Krista, Molly and Ryan, and it took us about an hour and a half to get from our home in East Legon to the beach, because beach-route traffic was horrendous. When we finally reached our destination, congestion was just as bad -- but this time with bodies rather than cars. There were people EVERYWHERE, mostly speaking (or shouting) in Twi. The four of us started wandering around to find the entrance, but the hoards of people and sopping-wet mud from the earlier rain made walking difficult. We finally found an entrance, but they were charging five cedis for entry. Some members of our group who were already at the beach had called earlier to inform us of a back entrance only charging one cedi for entry, and being frugal travelers, we went searching for cheaper admission. (We kind of thought that, logically, the back entrance at a beach would be the ocean. Apparently, this is not so in Ghana.) Along the way we met up with the last members of our group, so there were about nine of us total, and trooped together along the side of the road, following Ghanaians who looked like they knew where they were going. As we neared the back entrance, a man approached us and asked if we were trying to get into the beach, because he could help get us in. I don't think anybody actually ever told the man we wanted his assistance, but he kind of latched on to us anyway and there wasn't a lot that we could do to shake him. The back entrance was a mess, because it was one small gate and there were 40 to 50 people clamoring and pushing to get through. It was stressful and uncomfortable, and as I took a glance around the group everybody's faces seemed to reflect the same doubtful feelings. Our so-called guide advised us to watch our pockets, so I swung my purse to the front of my body and put a hand over it, for good measure. (Despite our best efforts, Ryan had six cedi pickpocketed.) Molly grabbed my hand and we shoved through, slipping and sliding in the mud. Everybody made it across the threshold, and we trudged through the slop towards the beach. On the way, we saw a Ghanaian boy, who was probably about 11 years old, pee on the side of the path while still walking ... which was lovely. There was eventually another gate to pass through, less crowded than the first, and guarded by a policeman with a HUGE automatic gun. I never really found out if this whole one-cedi-entry operation was legitimate or not, but the police are sort of corrupt here (but not dangerous, at least), so that presence could have really gone either way. We finally made it on to the beach, and the so-called guide man demanded payment. He actually said it as "Pay me!" Not so subtle. We all handed him one cedi (we'd never paid the admission fee, anyway), and he got really mad and demanded that we all pay him three cedis. You can bargain for almost anything here, and we said we would only pay one cedi each. He continued to get mad, and some people handed him a little more money, and we all quickly walked away from the situation. Anyway, that's the story of how we got to the beach.
The beach itself was super, super crowded. Even the La Jolla Shores on a Saturday couldn't compare. There were also vendors set up all over the place and a stage in the center, which added to the chaos. We had to find the rest of our group, so we walked by the stage and found them pretty quickly. It's not too hard to pick out four light-skinned people in a sea of Ghanaians. Everyone, both the early- and recent-arrivers, were already tired and weary from our multitude of beach adventures. We were disappointed, too, because the live music was delayed. We found a restaurant and a table and ordered some sustenance: food and beer. After about an hour (restaurant service is slooooow here), our table was covered with several plates of potato chips (french fries) and we were happy. We got to sort of just relax and observe for a while, and the view was intriguing. Impromptu soccer matches could be seen all over the beach, and there were cute kids everywhere. We definitely noticed the obvious overconsumption of alcohol -- if there's one thing Ghanaians love, it's GIN. People were chugging it in these little clear cups, straight, with no ice and no mixer. So, clearly, people got rowdy. I don't really think we were celebrating with the uppercrust of Ghanaian society. As we were sitting, we'd be visited by one vendor or another about every five minutes. They'd be selling the most random items you could think of -- sunglasses, kebabs, jewelry, pirated DVDs, etc. This is common practice all over Accra, and vendors (or "hawkers" is another name) stand on, and sometimes in, the highway trying to sell you everything from ice cream to toilet paper. We're pretty used to it by now, and have our deflection down to an art. Music finally started to play sometime between five and six o'clock, but it really wasn't all that exciting, so some of us headed home soon thereafter. As we proceeded to exit the beach, we walked past the public bathrooms, which at the beach were so awful and crowded that we saw several young ladies relieving themselves in the completely public areas just outside the bathrooms. It's common practice in Ghana to urinate pretty much wherever, but still shocking whenever I see it happen. I think this beach wasn't quite the underbelly of Accra, but it might have been close.
We found a taxi fairly quickly and headed back to Legon. There were still tons of people heading to the beach when we departed, so we may have left the party very, very early, but we returned home, had dinner, did some reading and fell asleep early to be well-rested for work the next morning. An uneventful ending to a crazily eventful day.
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