Hello again.
The story continues.
So, after being assured that the pack would be at the station in a time-defying 2 hours, Elena and I set off to find our hotel, drop off my pack and go get food. We find ourselves at the lovely Swap Fast Food, which sounds awful, but is actually one of the few places in the country to get pizza. Which we did. And a lot of beer, which in retrospect was probably super stupid, as we were both dehydrated and needed to be able to fight to the death over this backpack in about 2 hours. Oh well.
We left the restaurant at around 6:45 (We knew there was no way that thing was coming at 6) and then attempted to get a taxi down to the tro yard. Fortunately for the environment, but not so fortunate for us at the moment, Bolgatanga is a city with few cars but LOTS of bikes. So, we were having a little trouble grabbing a cab and were starting to consider hopping on the handlebars of some Ghanaian teen's 10-speed.
Enter Duncan. Duncan pulled over in his Datsun pick-up truck and we gratefully told him where we were heading and jumped in. Duncan is probably in his early to mid 40s, with a gold front tooth and works at a local school. He also owns one of many craft shops in the city of Bolga as well as having a restaurant and bar at his house. Duncan also lived for a few years in Brooklyn, New York. He was a miracle.
We told him why we needed to go to the tro yard and he was shocked about the bag being lost and decided that he would help us get it back. It was shortly after we arrived that Elena and I began to realize that Duncan was kind of a big man in this town. Everyone listened to him, and he was good friends with one of the station managers. This turned out to be very helpful as the bag was (shockingly) not there. He was an invaluable translator, telling the 6-or-so men now involved that all of Elena's everything was in that bag, including all her clothes, all of our toothpaste, her passport, her id, her credit cards... etc, etc. This mention of documents seemed to peak the interest (and perhaps panic) of all these men, who then told us to come back at 10 the next morning and "we will know the next steps to take." That is precisely what they told us, and I found it wholly unsatisfying. So I asked one of the older men if she would be compensated for everything that was lost, and I was of course looked at like a witch. Oh well. I think it scared them a little that I was ready to fight.
So, the next morning, without Duncan, who was at work, Elena and I went back to the station where we were quickly becoming entertaining gossip as the Oboruni whose bag was lost and her evil friend. We got to the office, and were again completely ignored by the now 12 to 15 men (and one woman) who were "on the case."
After awkwardly waiting for any of these people to make eye contact with us, we were ushered inside by the one person not in possession of a penis. We take seats on a bench and are then... ignored some more. As this was going on, we noticed that all of these people were passing some things around. We then realized that an American passport was among them. As well as a plastic card with Elena's picture on it. Okaaaaaay. The men eventually decided to take notice of us by holding these documents up and comparing Elena to them and then conferencing in a language neither of us understood.
Finally, someone addressed us. And they tell us that Elena's backpack is in the village of Bulungu. The obvious response is "why?" but we did not ask, we just listened. It turned out that the son of the chief of Bulungu found the backpack and Elena's presence was needed in the village to prove that it was hers. Never mind that her picture was on a multitude of the documents found in the bag, no, she must prove that the bag is hers.
So, Elena and I climbed into a tro with 5 men from the village of Bulungu, some who work at the tro yard and others who do not, and one man who may or may not have actually been the chief's son... this was never made clear. At least two of these men offered marriage to me at some point from the tro station to arrival in the village. But that is neither here nor there.
We get to Bulungu, which is about 20 km south of Bolga, and are stared at with interest as we walk to the chief's palace (a house) and await the arrival of all the village elders. They eventually come, and they are old, super, duper, old. At some point during the waiting, a man appeared, carrying the backpack, and then put it behind a curtain, even though Elena and I both exclaimed, "that's it!" the moment we saw it... that was apparently not enough proof.
Basically, it was required to explain the whole situation--that being that a backpack was lost by this white woman, that contained all of her documents, her clothes, her money, etc, and that a backpack had been found by the chief's son that matched the description given, and now we were all together to figure out what needed to be done. This was of course explained in the local dialect, and then translated for Elena and I.
Elena then had to describe what was in the backpack... in ridiculous detail in my opinion. She talked about her clothes, her toiletries, her money, her cell phone from home, her handkerchiefs... etc.
The bag then... appeared (from behind the curtain) and Elena was allowed to go through it. Everything was there except her cell phone and her wallet which were instantaneously produced from the pocket of the man sitting next to her. Her wallet was, however, missing approximately 70 cedis which is about equivalent to $50. We told the elders this, who were distressed, but, what was there really to do? Elena told them it was alright, she was glad the bag was back, and they were happy she was happy.
Then they asked for an offering to the spirits of the village for getting the bag back to her safely. Okay. I offered 10 cedis. Who am I to argue with spirits? The men were satisfied with our offering, and then we shook hands with everyone, and I was again proposed to, by a very, very old man who spoke enough English to tell me I was beautiful about 6 times while clutching my hand until I broke away. I guess it's nice to be appreciated sometimes...
We rode back to Bolga, where one of my other potential fiances insisted on sitting between Elena and I... and then went back to the station to tell everyone else that the bag had been returned safely (save a convenient 70 cedis...) this made everyone glad and we thanked the woman and the station manager, who had refused to even look at us during the whole ordeal but who was able to come out of his snobbery for enough time to propose to me also. Four in one day may be an all-time record.
Upon return to our hotel, Elena discovered that about half her clothes, her Nalgene bottle and the book she had been reading (and was almost done with) were all gone. We were temporarily tempted to go back to Bulungu and see just who the hell was wearing her Indiana Hoosiers t-shirt while reading her book and drinking Fanta from her Nalgene, but we decided against it. I guess you need to be satisfied with the bones the universe throws your way. Even if they are the spit-covered remains of your stolen backpack.
I love you.
Monday, January 18, 2010
Saturday, January 16, 2010
I am not making this up. (part 1)
Hello all,
Elena and I are currently in Kumasi, in central Ghana. We should have been in Burkina Faso for the last 2 days by this time, but sometimes the universe sends you signs, and sometimes you should just listen. The last 5 days have sent us many signs, and we (finally... and painfully) decided to listen. Let me continue.
On Tuesday, Jan. 12th, Elena and I left for Tamale in Northern Ghana with Sena, Anita's sister, who was returning to the north for university. We decided we would ride up with her to say goodbye, as we won't see her again during our visit. So we awake at 5am and pack our bags, making sure to remember tampons, bar soap for laundry and water purification tablets. We planned to be traveling for at least 3 weeks in Burkina Faso and Mali.
At 6 we boarded a taxi heading for Accra and Tema station where we had to arrive by 8 to buy our tickets for a 10am "Kufour" bus (the name of the former president, who implemented this bus system during his presidency) headed to Tamale. On the tro the adventure began when a "preacher" decided to first regale us with a praise song (in Twi) and then give us a sermon about staying on the right path and resisting the temptation to be friends with "evil doers" (ie: probably Elena and I...) for at least 30 minutes. While first hilariously ridiculous that I was literally shaking with my silent laughter, then absolutely irritating and then finally just monotonous as he said basically the same thing repeatedly, I was very nearly almost impressed with the conviction he had in his faith to share his concerns even in the face of white girls laughing at him. But then, he asked for money. I very nearly turned around to ask what the hell service he had provided me, other than this very story, but decided to pretend I had fallen asleep to avoid being pressured into parting with precious coins. Conviction my ass.
So, we eventually arrive at the station, and Sena has to pay 2 cedis ($1.50) for a woman to put her gigantic bag in a large metal tub and then carry it through the station (at lightning speed I might add) to where our bus was leaving from. We arrived at about 8:30. The bus was sold out. I would have been much more incredulous about the whole situation if this hadn't happened to me at nearly every attempt to buy a bus ticket I have ever made in this country. We were instructed to sit and wait... and what? I asked the ticket seller what exactly we needed to wait for and he just ushered us over to a bench to wait. And, lo and behold, about an hour later, he had procured us tickets. Absolutely incredible.
So, we load the bus, and it is uncomfortable and crowded and hot, and I get a sunburn through the window and it takes 12 hours. Awful, but fairly uneventful.
We part with Sena there, who goes to her father's house, and we load into a taxi and pay way to much to go the "Fucking Catholic Guest House." I call it the "Fucking Catholic Guest House" because it is literally the only hotel in Tamale that any cab driver ever knows, and it is also always, always full. Additionally, Elena and I, invariably always go there and are disappointed and then wander the streets of Tamale looking for a different place to say. Tuesday night was no different.
We eventually find a room at a different guesthouse, where we shower and sleep and wake up the next morning to catch a tro to Bolgatanga, north of Tamale, where we were told (by our increasingly unhelpful guidebook) we can catch a car to Hamale and on to Burkina Faso. The car was very cramped, so we each paid 1 cedi to load our packs into the back of the tro. Elena watched to make sure they actually make it into the car, as a friend of ours had a bag just not get loaded into her tro and it had to be delivered the next day. Again, we had a long, hot and uncomfortable ride, although this one only took 2 and-a-half hours.
We arrive in Bolga in the heat of the day, at about 3:30, proud of our foresight to reserve a room in a guest house in town. However, when the bags were unloaded, Elena's backpack was mysteriously absent.
We both stood there in mild shock for a few moments waiting for it to materialize from the empty boot, or the now vacant rack on top of the car, before we finally ask where the hell it was. We are met with resistance and the attempt to claim it as our fault. I was pissed. I began to talk quite forcefully to some poor young man, who ended up being only a passer-by trying to help, but who I assumed worked at the station saying something like: "We had two bags, and we paid 2 Ghana Cedi to get them here safely. There was no room inside the car, so this is not our fucking fault! This is yours!" Super fine moment for all. My irritation was increased exponentially when neither the mate (the man who takes money and also loads and unloads bags at stops) the driver nor the station director when talk to me (or Elena) or even look us in the eye. It got to a point that I began to rely on the general curiosity of the crowded station by saying things like "Someone needs to figure this out!" or "Where the fuck is he going now?" as these men continued to scurry around my rage and Elena's shock not communicating anything at all. I wanted to shoot someone. Multiple times.
Eventually, Mustafa (I kid you not) the driver, who did not speak English, but who was technically responsible, as it was his tro, attempted to communicate to us that they were calling the Tamale station to see if the bag had been left, and to get it to Bolga to us. There was a brief attempt to get us to go back to Tamale to claim it, which was met with a firm and loud no from me. I mean, seriously, Who the hell are you? We were told to come back in 2 hours (too bad it is at least a 2 and-a-half hour trip...) to get the bag (by Mustafa, who does not speak English). We had no idea that it was all about to get so much more insane.
I love you.
Elena and I are currently in Kumasi, in central Ghana. We should have been in Burkina Faso for the last 2 days by this time, but sometimes the universe sends you signs, and sometimes you should just listen. The last 5 days have sent us many signs, and we (finally... and painfully) decided to listen. Let me continue.
On Tuesday, Jan. 12th, Elena and I left for Tamale in Northern Ghana with Sena, Anita's sister, who was returning to the north for university. We decided we would ride up with her to say goodbye, as we won't see her again during our visit. So we awake at 5am and pack our bags, making sure to remember tampons, bar soap for laundry and water purification tablets. We planned to be traveling for at least 3 weeks in Burkina Faso and Mali.
At 6 we boarded a taxi heading for Accra and Tema station where we had to arrive by 8 to buy our tickets for a 10am "Kufour" bus (the name of the former president, who implemented this bus system during his presidency) headed to Tamale. On the tro the adventure began when a "preacher" decided to first regale us with a praise song (in Twi) and then give us a sermon about staying on the right path and resisting the temptation to be friends with "evil doers" (ie: probably Elena and I...) for at least 30 minutes. While first hilariously ridiculous that I was literally shaking with my silent laughter, then absolutely irritating and then finally just monotonous as he said basically the same thing repeatedly, I was very nearly almost impressed with the conviction he had in his faith to share his concerns even in the face of white girls laughing at him. But then, he asked for money. I very nearly turned around to ask what the hell service he had provided me, other than this very story, but decided to pretend I had fallen asleep to avoid being pressured into parting with precious coins. Conviction my ass.
So, we eventually arrive at the station, and Sena has to pay 2 cedis ($1.50) for a woman to put her gigantic bag in a large metal tub and then carry it through the station (at lightning speed I might add) to where our bus was leaving from. We arrived at about 8:30. The bus was sold out. I would have been much more incredulous about the whole situation if this hadn't happened to me at nearly every attempt to buy a bus ticket I have ever made in this country. We were instructed to sit and wait... and what? I asked the ticket seller what exactly we needed to wait for and he just ushered us over to a bench to wait. And, lo and behold, about an hour later, he had procured us tickets. Absolutely incredible.
So, we load the bus, and it is uncomfortable and crowded and hot, and I get a sunburn through the window and it takes 12 hours. Awful, but fairly uneventful.
We part with Sena there, who goes to her father's house, and we load into a taxi and pay way to much to go the "Fucking Catholic Guest House." I call it the "Fucking Catholic Guest House" because it is literally the only hotel in Tamale that any cab driver ever knows, and it is also always, always full. Additionally, Elena and I, invariably always go there and are disappointed and then wander the streets of Tamale looking for a different place to say. Tuesday night was no different.
We eventually find a room at a different guesthouse, where we shower and sleep and wake up the next morning to catch a tro to Bolgatanga, north of Tamale, where we were told (by our increasingly unhelpful guidebook) we can catch a car to Hamale and on to Burkina Faso. The car was very cramped, so we each paid 1 cedi to load our packs into the back of the tro. Elena watched to make sure they actually make it into the car, as a friend of ours had a bag just not get loaded into her tro and it had to be delivered the next day. Again, we had a long, hot and uncomfortable ride, although this one only took 2 and-a-half hours.
We arrive in Bolga in the heat of the day, at about 3:30, proud of our foresight to reserve a room in a guest house in town. However, when the bags were unloaded, Elena's backpack was mysteriously absent.
We both stood there in mild shock for a few moments waiting for it to materialize from the empty boot, or the now vacant rack on top of the car, before we finally ask where the hell it was. We are met with resistance and the attempt to claim it as our fault. I was pissed. I began to talk quite forcefully to some poor young man, who ended up being only a passer-by trying to help, but who I assumed worked at the station saying something like: "We had two bags, and we paid 2 Ghana Cedi to get them here safely. There was no room inside the car, so this is not our fucking fault! This is yours!" Super fine moment for all. My irritation was increased exponentially when neither the mate (the man who takes money and also loads and unloads bags at stops) the driver nor the station director when talk to me (or Elena) or even look us in the eye. It got to a point that I began to rely on the general curiosity of the crowded station by saying things like "Someone needs to figure this out!" or "Where the fuck is he going now?" as these men continued to scurry around my rage and Elena's shock not communicating anything at all. I wanted to shoot someone. Multiple times.
Eventually, Mustafa (I kid you not) the driver, who did not speak English, but who was technically responsible, as it was his tro, attempted to communicate to us that they were calling the Tamale station to see if the bag had been left, and to get it to Bolga to us. There was a brief attempt to get us to go back to Tamale to claim it, which was met with a firm and loud no from me. I mean, seriously, Who the hell are you? We were told to come back in 2 hours (too bad it is at least a 2 and-a-half hour trip...) to get the bag (by Mustafa, who does not speak English). We had no idea that it was all about to get so much more insane.
I love you.
Thursday, January 7, 2010
Congratulations on your penis, really.
Hello!
So much to share and I have forgotten so much already!
So, first, the title of this blog comes from my recent experience with the most selfish (male, only male) co-riders of tro tros I have been coming across with ridiculous frequency this last week. A quick re-cap for those who don't know: A tro tro (from now on referred to as "tro") is a gigantic vehicle something like a 15-passenger van that has had it's original seats removed and much smaller ones installed so any vehicle fits anywhere from 20 to 30 people. Needless to say they get very crowded and very hot, and it is literally the most annoying thing in the entire world when some douche bag man feels he has every right to spread his legs at an angle approaching 180 degrees and squishing me into either another passenger, or the window, or in my favorite example, the metal side of the car forcing me close to concussion every time we hit a bump. I'm really happy for you that you have a freaking penis, really I am, but it just can't be that big that it requires two seats. Seriously irritating.
The last week or so has been fairly uneventful. Except for a pretty gnarly case of food poisoning that I came down with the morning Elena and I were supposed to take Anita, Sena and Claytus to the Volta Region to see the country's highest waterfall, Wli. (I blame a rouge tomato.) Unfortunately, I had to stay behind, which was a bummer, but was actually good, because I can't even begin to think of the pain involved in a 4-hour tro ride with food poisoning. Not to mention climbing to the top of a waterfall. Besides, it gave me a chance to catch up on my South African soap operas, Hangin' With Mr. Cooper (best show ever!) and Oprah circa 2007.
Hmmmm... the African Cup of Nation is officially underway, though Ghana has yet to play a game, as Togo, the opponent in their first match dropped out of the tournament because their bus was attacked by gun fire in Northern Angola and three people were killed. Pretty lame start to the tournament. I honestly don't know much about it, but I'm sure BBC online can give you quite the update.
However, the first match of the tournament, Angola v. Mali was anything but lame! Angola led 4-0 going into the last 30 minutes or so, and managed to score 1 goal fairly early into the second half and then scored 3 goals in the final 16 minutes tying the game! Is was awesome. Elena and I watched the game at Anita's house and then promptly went to bed... even though we had taken a 4 hour nap that afternoon after church. Sometimes hearing sexist sermons about the spiritual benefits of fasting (you had to be there) and being forced to give an "offering" unto the lord even though you neither believe in "him" nor believe in his super-church takes it out of a girl.
Tomorrow begins the Burkina/Mali/etc adventure, so the mundane will most-likely become the ultra ridiculous soon!
I love you.
So much to share and I have forgotten so much already!
So, first, the title of this blog comes from my recent experience with the most selfish (male, only male) co-riders of tro tros I have been coming across with ridiculous frequency this last week. A quick re-cap for those who don't know: A tro tro (from now on referred to as "tro") is a gigantic vehicle something like a 15-passenger van that has had it's original seats removed and much smaller ones installed so any vehicle fits anywhere from 20 to 30 people. Needless to say they get very crowded and very hot, and it is literally the most annoying thing in the entire world when some douche bag man feels he has every right to spread his legs at an angle approaching 180 degrees and squishing me into either another passenger, or the window, or in my favorite example, the metal side of the car forcing me close to concussion every time we hit a bump. I'm really happy for you that you have a freaking penis, really I am, but it just can't be that big that it requires two seats. Seriously irritating.
The last week or so has been fairly uneventful. Except for a pretty gnarly case of food poisoning that I came down with the morning Elena and I were supposed to take Anita, Sena and Claytus to the Volta Region to see the country's highest waterfall, Wli. (I blame a rouge tomato.) Unfortunately, I had to stay behind, which was a bummer, but was actually good, because I can't even begin to think of the pain involved in a 4-hour tro ride with food poisoning. Not to mention climbing to the top of a waterfall. Besides, it gave me a chance to catch up on my South African soap operas, Hangin' With Mr. Cooper (best show ever!) and Oprah circa 2007.
Hmmmm... the African Cup of Nation is officially underway, though Ghana has yet to play a game, as Togo, the opponent in their first match dropped out of the tournament because their bus was attacked by gun fire in Northern Angola and three people were killed. Pretty lame start to the tournament. I honestly don't know much about it, but I'm sure BBC online can give you quite the update.
However, the first match of the tournament, Angola v. Mali was anything but lame! Angola led 4-0 going into the last 30 minutes or so, and managed to score 1 goal fairly early into the second half and then scored 3 goals in the final 16 minutes tying the game! Is was awesome. Elena and I watched the game at Anita's house and then promptly went to bed... even though we had taken a 4 hour nap that afternoon after church. Sometimes hearing sexist sermons about the spiritual benefits of fasting (you had to be there) and being forced to give an "offering" unto the lord even though you neither believe in "him" nor believe in his super-church takes it out of a girl.
Tomorrow begins the Burkina/Mali/etc adventure, so the mundane will most-likely become the ultra ridiculous soon!
I love you.
Sunday, January 3, 2010
Oh, oh dear.
Happy New Year!
Or as I have been stumbling over all week: Afisha paa, the Twi version. I generally just smile and say "Happy New Year" as most of the Ghanaians I meet won't understand anything I say anyway--my accent seems incredibly foreign.
After the Egyptian falafel excursion, Elena and I made it back to the airport, and then... slept all over it for our 3 hour wait, and then boarded a plane with maybe a hundred people heading for Accra. We again watched shitty movies (The Proposal) and ate crappy food (somehow we didn't request vegetarian meals) until finally landing, exhausted but so excited.
Accra was even more humid than I remembered. Stepping off the plane was like stepping into a bathroom after someone has taken a long, hot shower in it. It was suffocating, and made us both sweat instantly. We stopped in a bathroom at the same time as an Egyptian woman popped in to sneak a secret cigarette with a small child strapped to her back (uhhhh...) and then headed for customs. Surprisingly, we got a lot more hassle than ever before and the marriage proposals were waaaaaay down (could almost give a girl a complex...)
However, some things never change. Like the way we were immediately accosted by several taxi drivers as we waited for our friend Anita to come meet us. Or that we were stared at like ghosts, but only the rudest and most ridiculous of the crowd (douchy men) would actually talk to us. Luckily we had only one small suitcase and our backpacks, so we were not harrassed by people trying to move our luggage, and we carried the ammunition that we had been to Ghana before, so those who might attempt to take advantage of us were kept (somewhat) at bay.
Anita and her friend Claytus met us at the airport and we eventually made it out to Teshi, a suburb of Accra--where Anita, her mother and her sister Senna live. At midnight we ate Jollof Rice and drank pure wata (water in plastic bags) and then thankfully went to sleep. For 13 hours.
It is truly amazing the things that have just come back to me after a year and a half away. I natually talk with a "Ghanaian" accent, and rarely use contractions when speaking with someone. The water was out (they say "the taps are not flowing" here) in Anita's house upon our arrival, and is only turned on on Wednesdays and is shut off again Thursday afternoons around 1. We have filled and hauled many buckets of water this week, but it has seemed so natural and basic. The extreme heat has been slightly harder to feel comfortable with, but it's just part of the deal.
The church part of the deal has been harder to deal with. Anita and her sister attend a large "super church" based out of Nigeria called Winner's Chapel. It pretty much encompasses everything about Christianity I despise--money making scheme, brain washing, contains promises it has no way of fulfilling, hugely judgemental--on top of the fact that I'm not so comfortable with the idea of organized Christianity in the first place. So far Elena and I have gone twice; once on New Year's Day to... celebrate the New Year (?) and then again two days later on Sunday to hear that 2010 would be a year of spiritual restoration (as well as one where we will find Ghanaian husbands, get a new car, a job promotion, a baby, etc, etc) for 5 hours. Aiyeeee! Way too much God for me this week. But this is Anita's passion, and we are her guests, so Elena and I both have been trying to keep the intense judgement of our own quiet (at least until we escape to purge our frustration) and participate as much as possible. The church thing has introduced us to many nice people, including a seamstress who will make us the most ridiculously West African outfits ever (including gigantic HATS!) to wear on our last Sunday. More to come...
I love you.
Or as I have been stumbling over all week: Afisha paa, the Twi version. I generally just smile and say "Happy New Year" as most of the Ghanaians I meet won't understand anything I say anyway--my accent seems incredibly foreign.
After the Egyptian falafel excursion, Elena and I made it back to the airport, and then... slept all over it for our 3 hour wait, and then boarded a plane with maybe a hundred people heading for Accra. We again watched shitty movies (The Proposal) and ate crappy food (somehow we didn't request vegetarian meals) until finally landing, exhausted but so excited.
Accra was even more humid than I remembered. Stepping off the plane was like stepping into a bathroom after someone has taken a long, hot shower in it. It was suffocating, and made us both sweat instantly. We stopped in a bathroom at the same time as an Egyptian woman popped in to sneak a secret cigarette with a small child strapped to her back (uhhhh...) and then headed for customs. Surprisingly, we got a lot more hassle than ever before and the marriage proposals were waaaaaay down (could almost give a girl a complex...)
However, some things never change. Like the way we were immediately accosted by several taxi drivers as we waited for our friend Anita to come meet us. Or that we were stared at like ghosts, but only the rudest and most ridiculous of the crowd (douchy men) would actually talk to us. Luckily we had only one small suitcase and our backpacks, so we were not harrassed by people trying to move our luggage, and we carried the ammunition that we had been to Ghana before, so those who might attempt to take advantage of us were kept (somewhat) at bay.
Anita and her friend Claytus met us at the airport and we eventually made it out to Teshi, a suburb of Accra--where Anita, her mother and her sister Senna live. At midnight we ate Jollof Rice and drank pure wata (water in plastic bags) and then thankfully went to sleep. For 13 hours.
It is truly amazing the things that have just come back to me after a year and a half away. I natually talk with a "Ghanaian" accent, and rarely use contractions when speaking with someone. The water was out (they say "the taps are not flowing" here) in Anita's house upon our arrival, and is only turned on on Wednesdays and is shut off again Thursday afternoons around 1. We have filled and hauled many buckets of water this week, but it has seemed so natural and basic. The extreme heat has been slightly harder to feel comfortable with, but it's just part of the deal.
The church part of the deal has been harder to deal with. Anita and her sister attend a large "super church" based out of Nigeria called Winner's Chapel. It pretty much encompasses everything about Christianity I despise--money making scheme, brain washing, contains promises it has no way of fulfilling, hugely judgemental--on top of the fact that I'm not so comfortable with the idea of organized Christianity in the first place. So far Elena and I have gone twice; once on New Year's Day to... celebrate the New Year (?) and then again two days later on Sunday to hear that 2010 would be a year of spiritual restoration (as well as one where we will find Ghanaian husbands, get a new car, a job promotion, a baby, etc, etc) for 5 hours. Aiyeeee! Way too much God for me this week. But this is Anita's passion, and we are her guests, so Elena and I both have been trying to keep the intense judgement of our own quiet (at least until we escape to purge our frustration) and participate as much as possible. The church thing has introduced us to many nice people, including a seamstress who will make us the most ridiculously West African outfits ever (including gigantic HATS!) to wear on our last Sunday. More to come...
I love you.
Friday, January 1, 2010
Return(ing)
Greetings from Accra!
So this is the New Year... I feel so blessed to be back in Ghana, even though it is intensely hot, and though I told everyone I talked to that I would be making my return in the dry season, it is humid enough to make showering nearly worthless. At least the rain and subsequent flooding gutter situation I witnessed often two years ago hasn't happened yet.
Moving on. Bianca, Elena's friend who also went to San Francisco State and who now lives in Brooklyn was nice enough to come meet me at the airport and keep me company while we waited for Elena's flight from Denver which was delayed and also later than mine in the first place. Eventually, Elena arrived and we got her bag and stepped out into the cold and rainy New York night. Our flight to Accra wasn't leaving for about a day-and-a-half so Bianca was kind enough to let us stay with her and play tour guide for us during our visit.
I really hope I can spend time in New York some time. The city was really fun, and I really liked Brooklyn. I think I may be growing out of my desire to live in big cities permanently, however there is something so satisfying about just walking and wandering through busy streets, letting street lights pick your route. New Yorkers were also surprisingly kind, breaking down my "New Yorkers are mean and rude" bias.
So Elena and I leave our warm clothes and jackets, as well as our close-toed shoes with Bianca, and step out into a frigid Brooklyn afternoon to grab our subway to the airport. We stood on the open-air platform shivering, waiting for the J train for a good 20 minutes before we realize that the J doesn't come to this stop. What country bumpkins we had become! We figure it out; no big deal--just extra time in the cold. Woooo.
We finally make it the airport, and find our terminal with little problems, and then find our airline to see that apparently everyone in the world has decided to fly Egypt Air to Cairo two days after Christmas. The line was at least 100 people long, and everyone had stacks of luggage to check. Yay! Actually, we were lucky and were waived into the Business Class line because we were only checking one small suitcase (and I also suspect, because we are white--yes! the racial analysis begins here!) and so we were at our gate with time to spare.
It was here that I had my very first encounter with doxycycline the antibiotic I will be taking for the duration of my trip to keep me from getting malaria. The pills are a good 3 cm long and bright blue--basically they look like poison. They also kind of act like poison--making me incredibly nauseous if I don't take them on the emptiest of empty stomachs and eating something within about 10 minutes. Irritating.
So, fast forwarding a little. The flight to Cairo, where we would grab a flight to Accra was 10 hours of cramped legs and ridiculously bad movies (Ice Age 3 (ugg) something with Jessica Biel as a blond race car driver. (terrible) and something about a Scottish Stone? I don't know (also bad.)
We arrived in Cairo at about 12pm and set about our plans to get an Egyptian passport stamp and go into the city to get a falafel. We paid $15 for an Egyptian visa, and then asked the guy who changed our American dollars into Egyptian pounds where we should go to get a Falafel in 3 hours or less (we had a 6 hour layover, but didn't want to be late to an international flight) and he wrote something down in Arabic to show to a bus driver and we thanked him and left.
It turned out that whatever he had written down (Arabic just looks like pretty squiggles to me...) was far, far away from the airport and the center of Cairo in general, and so we were told by another airport employee to take a bus into the city center. Unfortunately, though English is one of Egypt's official languages, it is not widely spoken. So, no one could tell us which bus to take for quite some time, and then we found it was quite a long trip into the city center, where of course we would be faced with the whole "can you please tell me exactly where to go and how to get there?" thing we were currently doing very unsuccessfully. We swallowed our pride (and our wallets) and paid a taxi to take us to a falafel stand, wait for us, and bring us back to the airport. It was totally worth that shiny Egyptian visa in my passport.
I love you.
We arrived in Cairo at about 12pm and set about our plans to get an Egyptian passport stamp and go into the city to get a falafel. We paid $15 for an Egyptian visa, and then asked the guy who changed our American dollars into Egyptian pounds where we should go to get a Falafel in 3 hours or less (we had a 6 hour layover, but didn't want to be late to an international flight) and he wrote something down in Arabic to show to a bus driver and we thanked him and left.
It turned out that whatever he had written down (Arabic just looks like pretty squiggles to me...) was far, far away from the airport and the center of Cairo in general, and so we were told by another airport employee to take a bus into the city center. Unfortunately, though English is one of Egypt's official languages, it is not widely spoken. So, no one could tell us which bus to take for quite some time, and then we found it was quite a long trip into the city center, where of course we would be faced with the whole "can you please tell me exactly where to go and how to get there?" thing we were currently doing very unsuccessfully. We swallowed our pride (and our wallets) and paid a taxi to take us to a falafel stand, wait for us, and bring us back to the airport. It was totally worth that shiny Egyptian visa in my passport.
I love you.
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