Greetings from the hottest place in the entire world!
"Hottest place in the entire world" could be an exaggeration...some friends of mine are traveling through Burkina Faso (directly north of Ghana) where it is currently 45 degrees Celsius (approx. 113 degrees Fahrenheit) so...maybe Ghana is like...12th or something (in the entire world.) in terms of hott-ness. I am sweating through everything I wear nonetheless.
So, after weeks and weeks of being supportive of Elena's participation on the University of Ghana swim team, which she would be competing with in the WAUG (West African University Games) Tournament, my patience failed me. I must now explain that Elena and I had somewhat extensive travel plans for the remaining 3 months of the semester, but swim team made these very hard to follow through with. Also, adding to the frustration, this freakin' tournament was postponed to 2 weeks later than it was supposed to be, so more travels were suspended. And then, I was informed that because of worries about safety and space, no spectators were allowed to watch the competition. So...I felt I had pretty much wasted the last 3 weeks (including the super-duper long Easter weekend. Ghana celebrates "Easter Monday"...) and was annoyed. Also, it had become quite evident that it was pretty unnecessary for me to actually attend classes, as we don't actually learn anything in lecture, and since all my professors assign readings that are much more interesting/easier to understand than anything said in class, going to school seemed...irrelevant.
So, I decided to go on an adventure alone. I packed up my stuff, and headed for Ghana's western region, home of the best beaches in the country. I arrived at the STC bus station around 12 in the afternoon, and was informed all buses to Takoradi, my first destination, were sold out until 4:30. Okay. I bought a ticket for the 4:30 bus, and just waited...forever. Finally, the bus came (about 30 minutes late), and it was a brand new bus, which had everything you could ask of an STC bus...except seat numbers. This caused a bit of a riot, but eventually we all just sort of pushed our way on, and I sat down in the middle of the bus, at a window seat, and because I was the only white person on the bus, of course no one sat by me. (being liked/disliked for being a different color is just so bizarre.) Anyway, sadly, I did not get to actually sit alone, however. There were two Indian men waiting around the station, hoping there would end up being open seats on the bus, and...there were. So this super-duper tall Indian man (like, from the country of India...not Indigenous American) sits next to me, and we begin this incredibly awkward conversation.
Sometimes I am incredibly resentful of the "oboruni solidarity" clause that seems to be part of the contract I didn't sign before coming to Ghana. This basically suggests, that no matter how much of an idiot or asshole your fellow foreigner is, you must be friends with them in public situations. This rule is doubly-true when there are only 2 of you. This clause has led many a complete douche-bag of a white South African (thus far, NOT impressed with any South African I have ever met) to not only hit on me, but tell me that South Africa is so much better than Ghana because there are so many white people there. (In this instance, I nearly vomited) The solidarity clause has also forced me to hang out with bitchy American women and their idiot Irish boyfriends, and was no exception in the case of the Indian man sitting next to me on the bus. At first, the conversation was boring and awkward (where are you from? how long have you been in Ghana? etc, etc) And then it became more and more obvious that my ideas about Ghana were very different from his. This guy, I found out, has all his food cooked for him by a Ghanaian woman who has learned to cook Indian food, the various food-stuffs required to make Indian food are sent to him by family and friends--he never eats Ghanaian food. Also, when I told him that I was studying African history, he made the comment (over and over), about how Africa doesn't really have any history...ya know before the Europeans came and RUINED EVERYTHING. It was all I could do to not start screaming "You are the problem! It is losers like you who perpetuate all the ridiculous ideas about Africans being savage and stupid and living in trees and all the other completely ridiculous things I have heard since the moment I got here! I hate you!" Obviously, I did not do this. I just sat there contradicting him respectfully, trying to throw in historical evidence whenever necessary, but he didn't really listen, because even though I am white, (and therefore more like him) I am only a woman, and therefore only somewhat intelligent and obviously emotionally weak. Sigh.
We finally get to Takoradi, where I had made reservations at this really weirdly named hotel, The You 84 Hotel...or something like that...however, as it turned out, the number for the You 84 in my guide book was the same number as for the Alheni (or something...) hotel, and that was where I had made my reservation. (You may wonder why I did not realize this when I made the reservation...and my answer is that after nearly 9 months...Ghanaian accents are just really hard for me. So there.) Anyway, so I call the hotel number again to find out how to get there from the STC station in Takoradi, and it is impossible for me to understand anything excepts the info that the hotel is near the Catholic Church (apparently there is only one), so I walk out to the road to hail a taxi.
It occurs to me while I am trying to get a cab, that I should stand on the side of the street going toward the hotel, and so I ask a young woman nearby who (I assume) had just come from Accra also, which way the Catholic Church is. Enter Margaret. Margaret lives just outside Takoradi, and she not only told me which direction the church was in, but also hailed me a taxi, argued with the driver for a good price (this is a reality) and then escorted me to the hotel, because she could tell I didn't really know the area. We exchanged numbers, and parted ways, and she called me about an hour later to make sure I was still okay, and to tell me she had made it home safely. Yay! New friends already!
The next day, I met Joseph. Joseph sucks. While trying to find an internet cafe in Takoradi the next morning (so I could get the correct number for the hotel I planned on staying in at the beach, as NONE of the numbers in my guidebook were correct) Joseph, a twenty-something Ghanaian man appears out of nowhere and insists on walking me to the internet cafe, even though I got pretty decent directions from my hotel, and could have easily found it on my own. Joseph then demanded money, (I gave him 20 pesewas...or 20 cents) and then followed me into the cafe to wait for me and escort me back to the hotel. (At this point, I told him firmly and clearly, in front of at least 20 people that I did not want his help and to please leave me alone. He finally left.) Being a girl is such a drag at moments like that.
I get the correct number, make my reservations at The Hideout at Butre Beach, and then pack up my stuff, and hop in a tro headed toward this-junction-that-starts-with-an-A-that-i -can't-remember-the-name-of-right-now, where upon arrival I am completely accosted by all these liars. These sucky, taxi-driver liars, who told me there were absolutely NO tros to Butre, and I HAD to take a taxi. For 10 cedis ($10). Yeahhhhhh right! 10 cedis is SO much here, especially for a taxi, like, that better be FAR. I argue my way down to 6 cedis, and we are off. I arrive in Butre, where I have to walk along the beach about 5 minutes to get to the guesthouse. This place is paradise. Hammocks, bungalows, puppies, palm trees, and a pristine beach, complete with limitless beach chairs and perfect waves.
So it is here that I stay for 3 days, eating wonderful food, drinking wonderful coffee and wonderful beer and reading my new favorite book: Eat, Pray, Love. This book might not be for everyone, but it is a type of travel-memoir about this woman's (Elizabeth Gilbert) search for spiritual fulfillment and self-forgiveness. I found it very touching and inspiring, and it made me want to visit Italy, India and Indonesia RIGHT NOW. I also got a lot of writing done, both for this blog and for my sanity, as well as letters to some friends and my grandma.
It is also here that I got more mosquito bites than I thought humanly possible. I felt the majority of the bites happen on my first night. But it was my second night that they really began to itch. As I was lying in my mosquito-net-covered-bed in the dorm room (which I was sharing with no less than 5 Austrian backpackers...) in the middle of the night, the scratch of the mosquito net on my feet and the relentless sand all over everything overcame my self control. I began to scratch, and scratch and scratch and...cry a little because by this time I was bleeding, and my feet HURT because I had, ya know, inflicted wounds on myself with my bare hands but they still itched. It was the absolute, number one, most uncomfortable experience of my entire life.
Until the next night, which was a complete re-enactment of the previous night, only the Austrians were gone. It was at a point where more of the skin on my feet was red, and bumpy (and scarred at this point) than normal foot-skin. I also suffered vicious attacks on my arms, and parts of my upper thighs. I have taken pictures. They could make you cry. Seriously.
I leave Butra, and take a tro back to the "A" junction JUST LIKE I KNEW I COULD, urgh. I then head back to Takoradi, where I find out that all the STC buses going to Accra for that day are sold out, so I buy a ticket for the following morning, and set out in search of a new (and hopefully cheaper than the first I stayed in) hotel. I ask a Ghanaian man outside the station if he knows where the hotel I want is, and he doesn't know, but then gets his personal taxi to come pick us up, and even though I tell him that really, I can find it, don't worry, I can ask someone else for directions, he insists, and asks his taxi driver to take us to the hotel, to drop me off. (Note: this sounds very creepy, but it wasn't. This man was very nice to me, did not ask for my phone number, and also, it was 1 in the afternoon, so I feel like nothing too bad could have happened anyway) So we get in, the taxi crosses the main street the STC station is located on, and turns up an adjacent street. We drive up this street for about...7 seconds, and the taxi pulls over, in front of my hotel. It was embarrassing. But it might have been embarrassing for the guy too...I hope so.
I spend the rest of the day wandering around Takoradi's central market, where I bought a few gifts and really good fried rice. Then I retired to my hotel, showered, and went to bed early. I got up the next morning, caught my bus (which left on time!) and got to Accra by 3pm. After ridiculous haggling with taxi drivers to take me back to campus (I have lived in Accra for 9 months and I know that it does not cost 10 cedis to go anywhere! Stop being a hater!) I make it back to campus in one piece.
3 days later, I got malaria.
I love you.
