So, my time in Ghana has come to an end. I'm flying home tonight, and with any luck and a little providence, I'll be in San Francisco (with all my bags?) Wednesday evening at 5:30 p.m. PST. My bags are packed and I'm ready to go (thanks John Denver), but I honestly can't believe that this trip is over. I'm ecstatic to get home to everyone and everything that's waiting for me there, but Ghana has a little piece of my heart. So do the mosquitos, literally, who have been eating me alive in recent days; I think they're just really sad I'm leaving. Regardless of the bugs, I hope to come back. I'm not done with this country, but it's time to come home. The following quotation, which Ryan provided from a book he read, summarizes it best: “It’s a long time to be gone, but a short time to be there.”
Anyway, even though this is the end of the trip, it's not quite the end of the blog. There's still a few story ideas and half-finished entries floating around, so once I get home and have a little more time for updating, I'll get those posted. In the meantime, I'm going to get out of the internet cafe and get back into the world ... I only have a few more hours here, and I intend to savor every one of them.
See you in the States!
Tuesday, August 5, 2008
Thursday, July 31, 2008
book club
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
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
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.
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