Alive With Such (ridiculous) Possibility

I am not making this up. (part 2)

2010-01-18T01:16:00.000-08:00

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.

I am not making this up. (part 1)

2010-01-16T04:35:00.000-08:00

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.

Congratulations on your penis, really.

2010-01-07T08:46:00.000-08:00

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.

Oh, oh dear.

2010-01-03T08:20:00.000-08:00

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.

Return(ing)

2010-01-01T12:27:00.000-08:00

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.

So the return trip. My lovely parents agreed to drive me to the airport at 3am the day after Christmas, to make my 6:25 flight into New York. My flight was uneventful except for the lack of food served and my intense hunger pains. The landing was pretty intense as New York was quite windy and rainy, but we got there alive.

I then proceeded to get lost for about 30 minutes in the JFK airport trying to find baggage claim. That place is fucking huge. It was ridiculous. Like an idiot I just followed people from my flight instead of signs and ended up in the international terminals baggage claim, and had to leave the airport and walk around it looking for my correct terminal. Super ridiculous and definitely led me to some "am I really this country??" self-questioning.

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.

Hippopapaapaa

2008-05-27T03:25:00.001-07:00

Hihihihihihi,

The papaapaa means "very much" or "a lot". The common way of using this expression is the more simple, and much more boring: "paa". For example: Madasse papaapaa/paa means "Thank you very much". Mete Twi papaapaa/paa means: "I understand a lot of Twi". Meyare papaapaa/paa means: "I am very sick". And, I have decided that hippopapaapaa means: a lot of hippos. Here we go.

It has been the single goal of my roommate Elena this entire year to see hippos in Ghana. We tried once before to head all the way to the Upper East Region, to Wa, to see hippos back in late January, but were denied by time, money, and energy. So, we had promised back then that we were going to see hippos before leaving Ghana. Our solution: Bui National Park, in the Brong-Ahafo Region on the western side of Ghana, at the Cote d'Ivoire border. So about 3 weeks ago, we took a(nother) week off school, and headed west.

On our first day, we knew we weren't going to make it all the way to the park, so we set our sights on the village of Wenchi, where we would leave the next morning to get to Bui. Wenchi was apparently too optimistic. We left Accra early in the morning, taking a tro to Neoplan station, where we boarded a car going to Sunyani, the capital of the Brong-Ahafo region, and about 2 hours northwest of Kumasi. Too bad the man who helped us lied to us, and our tro went to Kumasi instead. So, in Kumasi, we took a taxi to another station, where we boarded a tro for Sunyani, and...just sat in it for two hours, waiting for the driver. Oh. My. God.

Eventually we left, and by the time we actually got to Sunyani we have been either riding in tros or sitting in tros for going on 9 hours, and we were tired. So we found a hotel with a restaurant in our guidebook, took a taxi there, got our room, and then were informed that the restaurant is only serving fufu. Fufu is okay, but after 9 hours on a tro it may be the least appealing thing in the world. So, we set off to find food, ending up at this pretty lame restaurant that only served plain rice, jollof rice or fried rice (or fufu) for way too much. So this is where we ate mediocre food for too much money, and then we walked back to our hotel where we passed out until 5 the next morning.

The next day, we were delighted to find that it was not only very easy to get to Wenchi, but also that we could take a taxi there for only 30 pesewas more than a tro. Ummm, yes, pleeeease. Our tro from Wenchi to Bui was hypothetically supposed to leave around 9am, so when we arrived in Wenchi, we had approximately 3 hours to kill. We went looking for breakfast, and found not only the best egg sandwiches this-side of the ones I make myself, but also the man who made them. He was around 5'6'', and wore a green felt hat which greatly resembled one you might see in a 3rd grade Christmas pageant. He also said the phrases "small-small" and "big-big" (very common Ghanaian expressions truthfully) more than I have ever heard before in this country, forcing me to only love him more.

But THEN: after breakfast, we wandered toward where the Bui tro would eventually leave from, and found that a tro leaving for Bui was there. Two hours early. We soon learned why as the two of us (in case you don't know: we are both white, young women--we don't look Ghanaian, or tough at all) squeezed into the most crowded tro of my life with only young, virile Ghanaian men, heading to Bui to look for work at the new damn site. (Sadly, the Ghanaian government has decided that it is in the country's best interest to build a damn at the village of Bui effectively wiping out the village and the park--including the hippo population--in the next 5 years. The construction has been underway for about a year.)

So, there we are, in the back corner of this tro built for about 12 people, but holding 22. (A note: Elena and I have named the very back corner of a tro the "Oboruni Seat", because not only do we constantly find ourselves there, but it is also the seat that would most likely insure death in the event of an accident. Not to try and scare you...but there you go.) This meant that the tro-tro mate (the one who collects the money, shouts out stops, etc) was literally hanging out the window, sitting on the door of the car. (This is REAL!) As we ride along, one of the back tires of the truck in front of us explodes!! I swear to God, it was the loudest pop I have ever heard. I thought it was a gun-shot! I ducked and covered!! (Well, as much as I could in the oboruni seat...) And the mate was almost hit!! It was insane, and so, so scary. Of course, no one seemed too concerned except Elena and I. I think it was then that I began to have elaborate fantasies about Dairy Queen and In N Out.

About 15 days later (15 days or 2 hours...), the tro stops and the mate turns to us and says "Last Stop". Almost everyone in the tro has to get out so the two of us can get out, but then, they get back in the car. Elena asked the mate in confusion: "If this is the last stop, why isn't anyone getting out??" The mate explains that we are here. We are at Bui Camp, where we should be staying. There is nothing around us. And then, the tro pulls away.

After about 5 minutes of staring at each other (how the hell will we get out of here??) We begin to wander around, and low and behold, there is a small compound down a hill where we find a woman hanging laundry and about 7 children who think we are ghosts and burst into tears. The woman tells us that the care taker is out, so we can wait for him. Okay, why not? We settle ourselves down under a tree and wait.

For about 5 minutes, until the care taker rides up on his bike. He takes us to our room, which is bare with a single bed. He then tells us that the canoe rides to see the hippos only leave at 6am and that there is a 6km walk to get to the water. (This is sounding familiar.) It was around 11am, and it was beginning to become obvious that there was really nothing to do at this place except see the hippos the next morning. And, the knowledge that only one tro leaves Bui camp a day, at 5:30am was beginning to sink in. It was a Friday, meaning we wouldn't leave until Sunday. What would we do here for 2 whole days?? Then, our caretaker informs us that no tros leave on Sundays. Correction: WHAT WILL WE DO HERE FOR 3 DAYS????????????

Upon seeing our desperate and exacerbated expressions at this news, the caretaker, Osmond, says he will call the guide to see if he can take us NOW. Which he does, and David, our guide, appears in less than 10 minutes. Thank you.

On the down side, it was nearing 12 by now, meaning it was around 108 million degrees, and we had exactly half a Nalgene bottle (500ml) of water between the two of us. We also had a total of 12km of walking and a two hour canoe ride ahead of us. Yayyyyy.

We begin walking, and walk for about 15 minutes until a truck shows up on the road, which our guide flags down. It turns out David knows the guy in the truck, and so they drive us a good 3km down the road before diverging to someplace else. Incredible.

We eventually reach the village of Bui (not to be confused with Bui camp where we are staying) and get into two canoes with some of the local fishermen. Elena was in the canoe with David, and David's big gun which was supposed to protect us from the hippos. (FYI: Hippos are Africa's most dangerous land mammal, because not only are they huge and fast, but also are prone to panic if anything get in the way of them and water...so I was a little bit nervous about the lack of weapon in my canoe.)

After about 30 minutes on the water, our canoes pulled over, and we looked across to see at least 7 hippos swimming in the water. Well...we really only saw their pink ears sticking out of the water at first. BUT THEN: This hippo just shoots out of the water, and we see its brown back and its whole head. It was enormous!!!!!! And...really scary from a good 100ft away. We sat and watched the hippos swimming around for about an hour, until one mother hippo and her baby started getting closer, and closer, and closer until Elena said, in a somewhat high-pitched voice: "Umm...David, we can go now...if you want."

And we did. We headed back to the village, and then walked back to the camp, playing geography games with David the whole way. First, there was the name all the states in America, then there was name a town or village in Ghana for every letter of the alphabet. We then continued this alphabet game for all of Africa, then Europe, then Asia, and then: We were back. David left us there, and we bought literally 10 water sachets each (500 mL each), and some Fanta soda and sat in the shade and ate peanut-butter sandwiches ALL evening, and played with the little girls in the village until it was dark (no electricity) and we went to bed.

We woke up at 4am to get ready to catch our 5am tro back to Wenchi, and went outside together to find the bathroom in the dark, and looked up to see more stars than I had ever seen in my life. The sky was practically white with them, and I wished on 3 separate shooting stars. I felt so small, but so connected, and so lucky that I found myself in this random village away from so much stuff. The walk, the tros, the de-hydration; it was all worth it for that moment.

I love you.

I Need a New Backpack

2008-05-27T02:46:00.001-07:00

Hello hello,

I am following up my super-duper sad and serious blog with this summary about one of my recent adventures. I am in a constant state of awe at the things I have been able to do this year.

Immediately after crossing the border from Cote d'Ivoire back into Ghana, Luci and I bid goodbye to Elena and Becky who had to get back to Accra (and definitely had their own adventures on the way) and went on our own merry way to Nzuezlo, a village built on stilts above the water on this beautiful lake which I'm sure has a name that I don't know. Getting there proved challenging. After 2 hours and 3 shared taxi rides, we arrived in the village of Beyin, where the canoes that take you out to the village operate from. We planned on staying the night, which was good, because after all our frolicking around the Western Region of Ghana, it was almost 4pm, and was getting dark fast.

In Beyin we met our guide, Ben, and we headed off to the canoe. Note to everyone who might ever want to visit this fabulous place: GO IN THE WET SEASON. While the wet season is now currently moving into Ghana (proved by the infinite number of mosquitoes that make it into my room--mysteriously--at night) at the time Luci and I visited it was only just beginning, so the water levels of the lake were very, very low, resulting in our hour and a half hike through mud just to get to the canoe. This was fine, but I was carrying a backpack I bought for about 7 cedis, meaning it may have been meant for anything but hiking through mud, and thus, my shoulders--which I'm finding are more and more over Ghana everyday--were ready to dislodge themselves from my back and give me the finger. Luckily they did not.

We finally reached the canoe, and were off through this freaking Wildlife Safari. For anyone who has ever been on that wildlife safari ride at Disneyland, where you are on a river going through vines and narrow passages, Disney totally copied the canoe ride from Beyin to Nzuezlo. Okay, I didn't actually see monkeys hanging from said vines, and elephants didn't just come out to drink water, but it was absolutely incredible. My pictures, sadly, do not do it justice.

We then arrived at Nzuezlo, the stilt village. It was adorable, although a little bizarre to see these houses just jutting up out of the water. It was much more bizarre later when we walked around the village seeing the school, the restaurant for visitors, the church, people cooking dinner, etc, and there were tons of children between the ages of 1 and maybe 8 just running around and causing me to have several heart palpitations thinking about them falling in the black water that surrounded them. Kids learn to swim early here. Probably.

Sadly, no one could ever really explain to us exactly why these villagers had chosen to build a village on top of the water, but the people seemed happy and not bothered at all that to get anything from Beyin they would not only have to canoe for an hour, but then walk an hour and a half through the mulch. If it makes them happy, I'm happy for them.

There was no electricity (obviously) so around 7pm it was pitch black and cloudy--so sadly we missed a potentially amazing starry sky--so Luci and I ate the bread and cheese spread we had brought from Cote d'Ivoire and then retired to our adorable room with the walls papered in magazines and newspapers.

The next day we were treated to a canoe ride by two little girls of the village--both around 9 years old, both with arm muscles bigger than I can ever dream of having--which turned into a raid of my purse and the eating of any/all food I had--mainly mangoes and peanuts--and then the demand of a reading session from the book I had brought. Neither girl spoke much English, so they quickly lost interest. After this, we left with Ben who took us back to shore, and then walked us (an hour and a half!) to the tro tro stop, where we could catch a tro to the village of "T-1" (no idea) and then from there we could go to Takoradi, and then to Accra.

So this is what we did. For 11 hours. The duration or our travels was increased, frustratingly, by our tro simply stopping and kicking us off about 20 km outside Accra and then the subsequent traffic jam we found ourselves in for about an hour. We got into Accra around 10pm. I have never been so sore or exhausted in my life. It was completely worth it.

I love you.

This Is For the Ones We Loved

2008-05-27T01:55:00.000-07:00

Hello all,

So I am down to two weeks left in Ghana, and unsurprisingly, my schedule is packed with finals and various activities--mainly gift buying, and having maybe more fun than ever before with my Ghanaian friends. I speak specifically of my neighbors, who not only made Elena and I dinner last week (rice and vegetable stew, that I am trying to get the recipe for), but who also came over on Saturday night to have a real California veggie burger night. (Which they loved.) We also have plans to go get super cheesy pictures taken at some jankie studio on campus. Yessss. It is so typical that now, as I am really emotionally ready to get out of here, people start to be more wonderful than ever, and I am constantly faced with the reality that soon I'll leave, and maybe never see these people again.

This fact has been compounded--HARD--by several recent deaths of people close to people I am close to. I don't want to say "luckily" about these people not being those whom I myself was especially close to, because I have seen the pain in my friend's experience, and that is incredibly difficult to face. Four people have died in the last month, two I knew (not well) and two I did not know at all. It has all sucked equally.

The two I did not know: First, a girl on campus who was affiliated with (but did not live in) my dorm died of malaria about 3 weeks ago. I did not know her, but it was a real wake-up call to everyone, especially me, because I have been taking the multitude of malaria cases of my friends and I very lightly, and honestly (sorry, Mom) have definitely not made it a priority to remember my medication. (I am really trying now.) Second, a good friend of a friend back home was recently killed in a car accident. I have done the only thing I can do from 8,000 miles away, call her, and just let her know I love her and will be home soon. I don't know how to comfort people over the internet. I feel like positive thoughts are my only weapon against grief.

The two I knew: First, a level 400 (senior) girl in my dorm drowned about a month ago. She had literally two months of university left, on the cusp of getting her BA in psychology. She was engaged to be married. Everyone knew her or knew of her. She followed her own rules, she did not apologize for herself--which is incredible. If I could truly explain Ghanaian women to you, you still might not understand how amazing she was. We are all trying to take comfort in the fact that she really did live life the way she wanted to--unafraid and with passion. I am trying to remember this everyday.

The last person: This one was the hardest for me, by far. A guy James, from South Carolina, who had studied in Ghana the fall semester, died about a month ago in a hiking accident. Despite the fact that he was a certified hiking guide, he, for whatever reason, slipped on a trail, fell down a waterfall, and died. When I let myself think about this, I am sometimes paralyzed, I am sometimes nauseous. I did not know him well, although he dated one of the girls on my rugby team, and he traveled to Mole National Park the same week I did--so he will forever be linked in my mind with a 22 hour bus ride and monkey attacks. What is so frustrating, as my friend Maureen explained to me perfectly, is that James went home. He left the scariness and uncertainty of life in Ghana--where people die of malaria, where the water goes out, where animals actually attack, where tro-tro accidents are common occurrences--and he went to a safe place. And he died there. Apparently there is no refuge from life.

These deaths have been weighing heavily on my mind this last month, because I know when I say goodbye, it might really be forever. I am trying more than ever to be thankful for the chances I have been given, that I have had the courage and support to actually take them, that the people I love love me back. With no real safe place, there is no reason to be scared to live.

I love you.

The Way We Were

2008-05-18T06:57:00.001-07:00

Dear Ghana,

I will leave you soon. I’ll be so sad to go, but as our time together grows ever smaller, I feel like everything I have back home is glowing brighter than before. I realize this is probably only home-sickness, just like I thought everything with you would be incredible and easy and fun and one big adventure. However, I can’t help feeling like a burrito could cure me of any ill I’ve ever had. Besides, while it has been an adventure you have really done your best to kick my ass. Touché, Ghana, touché.

Remember that time I got an ear infection and possibly malaria? I do. While it seemed like you were only testing my physical strength after a mere 4 weeks, I know now you were really testing my patience. I suppose me breaking down into tears in the third hour of being ignored is proof that I failed that particular test…hmm. You should be proud to know though, that just the other day I road no less than 5 tro tros from Beyin back to Accra for no less than 11 hours. Who has patience now?? That’s right, it’s me.

Remember Professor Korsaw? Sure you do, he taught my Africa Under Colonial Rule class. I think he only came to class 6 times…what an ass. But, it got so much worse when he failed to come to the last class, then decided to reschedule for dead-week (I hate how professors can get away with anything here!) and then, he showed up drunk! I know, I know, I only heard about it after the fact, as I had given up on that class long ago, but still, I believe the 20-or-so eye witnesses who told me about it afterward.

Then there was that time the bathroom situation got so bad (apparently the urge to defecate on a floor does not leave everyone at the age of 2) in my dorm that we had to lock all the toilet stalls, and then the lock to me and Elena’s stall broke, and before we could get it fixed, someone shit on the floor of our stall—right in front of the toilet!!!!!!! I’m sure you think it’s funny, but I assure you, neither Elena nor I felt the same, especially when the cleaning lady refused to clean it up, and Elena ended up mopping it up, and I boiled water to clean out her bucket, which she had to use. Gross, gross, gross.

You probably think I hate you, don’t you?? I don’t, I promise! We have had a lot of wonderful times together, that had nothing to do with poop, or drunken professors or potentially fatal diseases. Like the time Elena, Anita, Maureen, and I went to play rugby at La Badi beach in Accra. We got to meet up with our French coach Thebeau, and Amuzu, our Ghanaian coach, and we played a really fun game of “touch” rugby in the sand with the high school girls we used to play last semester. Then we got beers at the beach and took pictures making hilarious faces, and were the biggest losers and had the most fun ever.

And then there was the Elvis incident. Remember Elvis?? He was in that Religion in Gender and Society class I took, the one who always said things like: “Every woman I know loved being pregnant” or “The reason there hasn’t been a female president in Ghana yet is because women are just not as capable” you remember, I hated him. Well he is running for School President, and has posters all over campus. Late at night a few weeks ago, I stole one. I put it up on the inside of my door, so that Elena and I could laugh at him as much as we wanted. Well, the next day, Becky was hanging out in our room, and we were eating fried yams and cookies and just talking about our day…and there was a knock at the door. I get up to open it, and ELVIS WAS AT THE DOOR!! He had come to Volta Hall campaigning! I opened the door around 5cm, and tried to get rid of him, but he insisted on coming in and introducing himself to Elena and Becky. So, I opened the door all the way, against the wall, so he wouldn’t see the poster and told him we were right in the middle of something…so he had to leave. (Yams and cookies out…we were in our pajamas…at 7pm) After he left I think we laughed for about 20 minutes.

And while I don’t necessarily appreciate that my next-door-neighbors wake me up at 5:30 every morning singing worship songs, or getting dirty looks from everyone I see on Sunday as they come home from church and see me hanging my laundry in my pajamas, it does make for funny stories. Also, a lot of the worship music is wonderful. I need to invest in about $600 worth of amazing West African High Life music before I leave. I’ll miss your music so much.

I will also miss Thursday nights. After a long, hot day, I love meeting Maureen and Elena, and sometimes Kayla at Desperados, the bar at the top of the hill, right behind Commonwealth Hall and having a Star and banku and hearing hilarious stories while simultaneously denying passes from the Commonwealth guys—more commonly called Vandals. I need to figure out how to make banku…who knew fermented corn dough dipped in pepper and ketchup could be the best thing ever?? I guess you did…well done.

I know I complain, but I will miss your food. Not everything…but Red-Red (black eyed peas in a spicy, oily tomato sauce served with fried plantains), Banku, Kenkey (more fermented corn dough…only different), and pineapple, paw-paw, mangos, and your local bananas…oh, I’ll miss those a lot.

We haven’t always gotten along, but I’m really trying to make the most of our last 3 weeks. I know you’ll try too.

I love you.

Cote d'Ivoire

2008-05-18T06:42:00.000-07:00

Bonjour!

Once again, knowing that I hold no skills with the French language, I decided to travel to a francophone country. This time, The Ivory Coast. I will refer to The Ivory Coast from here on as CI, for Cote d’Ivoire—the French and more common pronunciation. So CI has a pretty intense history, which I will attempt to effectively summarize here, for your better understanding of my experience there.

(FYI: much of this summary is being plagiarized from the book: An Introduction to African Politics by Alex Thomson…don’t go thinking I have become an expert on neo-colonialism and conflicts in African States…I’m trying though.) So, CI was colonized in 1893 by France, and gained its independence in 1960—when most, if not all French colonies in Africa were granted liberty from their colonizers. CI was an immediate success story—second only to South Africa in per-capita income, its main products of export being coffee and cocoa. From independence CI had only one ruler, Felix Houphouet-Boigny. (There are some accents and things omitted from the name…sorry) FHB was the leader of the Democratic Party of The Ivory Coast—PDCI, which soon became the only political party of the nation, ruling with an iron fist, and absorbing any oppositional parties. FHB kept close ties with France, and in this way was able to insure economic success…for awhile. Toward the end of FHB’s life, prices of both coffee and cocoa began to fall, and more and more Ivorians began to demand a more balanced political representation. In 1985, the Ivorian people got what they wanted, and FHB was forced to run in a multi-party election, where he won by a landslide. FHB died as the first and thus-far only president of CI in 1993. Upon his death the problems facing CI became more and more apparent. His successor, Henri Konan Bedie ruled through intimidation and faced ceaseless labor strikes, student protests and ethnic tension. In 1999, he was removed by a military coup which was followed by more and more political unrest and violence. Full-scale rebellion exploded in 2002, which was eventually quelled by the international community. While a peace treaty was signed in 2004, in that same year, the UN advised against entering only two countries in the world: Somalia and Cote d’Ivoire. Today, it is still only safe to visit the largest city, and capital in all but name, Abidjan, rebel troops still control the north.

So, knowing this…as I did, more or less before leaving, it may not have been the brightest idea to go…seeing as I DO NOT SPEAK FRENCH. Hmmm…we went anyway, and no worries, everything was fine.

We only visited two cities: Abidjan and Grand Bossam—the former colonial capital. Abidjan was beautiful. This place, which was once, only 10-or-so years ago a booming industrial city was full of skyscrapers, and was landscaped to look like any big city I’ve ever visited in the States. Despite how breathtakingly different Abidjan was from Accra, it was completely bizarre. Every building, hotel, restaurant bore the signs of a complete halt in development about 10 to 15 years ago. The colors used, the style of furniture, the menus, everything just seemed dated. And, in some parts of town, there were crumbling cement walls, and other various signs that a war had been fought there. The best word to describe any of it was surreal.

I visited CI with my friends Becky and Luci—we left on Monday, at 4:30am and got into Abidjan around 6pm Monday evening. (Crossing borders takes FOREVER.) Then, Elena, who had a group project she couldn’t miss, met up with us on Tuesday. Upon our arrival on Monday we found a taxi and spit enough badly-pronounced French at him to get to a hotel. Hotels in Abidjan are so, so, so expensive. We got to one in a section of Abidjan called Treachville—which seemed a little lower income than the skyscraper-filled Le Plateau and after finding two hotels which we could not afford to save our lives, we found Hotel Terminus, which we were able to bargain down from around $30 (each!!) a night to about $18. (Note: The most I have EVER paid for a hotel in Ghana is $16…and I had a huge room all to myself, and it was a complete miss-communication. $18/night/per person to be sharing rooms was astronomical.) We found cheap food from a street vendor, and fell asleep, exhausted from 14 hours of riding buses and being harassed by immigration officers.

Tuesday we set out to find, in this order: An ATM, coffee, croissants and a phone chip which would work in CI with which to call Elena and tell her when and where we would meet her. The ATM, coffee and croissants were all easily accessible and wonderful, respectively. The phone chip was not too hard to find—although all in all for the chip and credit to put on it we spent $24!! However, getting the new chip to work was ridiculous. The way phone sim-cards work in West Africa, when you have a new chip, to activate it, you must have another phone call it before you can make any calls from it. The women who sold us the chip tried to explain this to us—through sign language, and also to call us from their own phones, but there was no service in the particular store we were in. Of course.

We finally figure out how to overcome this most recent obstacle by going to a random phone kiosk outside the place we are breakfast and begging her in a ridiculous hodge-podge of “vous!” (you, in French) and “Appelle!” (call, in French) followed by complete abandonment of even trying, resulting in: “No…no…it needs to be activated!! No! YOU call THIS phone!” and finally… “Yes!! Merci! Merci!! Thank you!!” It was quite a spectacle, but I’m sure we gave that poor kiosk girl the laugh of her day…or week…or life.

We eventually met up with Elena, and went out to dinner, and then returned to the hotel to watch Liverpool play Chelsea (UK football/soccer teams—Drogba, one of Chelsea’s best players is Ivorian) sadly, it was a pretty lame game…ending in a completely undeserved tie of 1-1. Liverpool should have won, sorry Drogba. (Note: since then, Chelsea played Liverpool the next week, where Drogba scored TWICE! Also, Ghana's darling, Michael Essien, who also plays for Chelsea also scored...however for unknown reasons, the goal did not count. No matter, Chelsea won, and GO West Africa!)

The next day we explored this HUGE hotel called Hotel Ivoire which back in the boom days was the place to go. This hotel, despite being obviously run-down in some ways, is pretty incredible. We were allowed to go to the top floor to take pictures of the amazing view of Abidjan, then we got coffee in this adorable French-inspired café, tried to see a movie in the IN-HOUSE MOVIE THEATER (!!) but they were all in French, then walked around the private grocery store, the (empty) moat, and explored the BOWLING ALLEY, but sadly did not play. The insanely rich are so terrifying and fascinating to me.

We then met up with Becky’s friend and fellow Bahai, Patrick, an Ivorian man in his late 20s (I think…) he took us to this really cool market where I bought some more gifts and a really cute pair of leather sandals—which I really needed as the pair I brought with me are facing their final days. He then drove us back to Le Plateau where we bought snacks for that night’s football match (Barcelona—for whom Cameroon’s Samuel Eto’o plays—vs. Manchester United—Beckham’s old team and current team of the little bitch known at Ronaldo.) Once again, it was another bad game—ending in a 0-0 tie. Sigh. (The next week, Manchester United beat Barcelona, so they will face Chelsea in the finals on May 21st--watch if you can! Go Chelsea!!)

Thursday, we ventured to Grande Bossam the former colonial capital, about 40 minutes east of Abidjan. There we visited the building that used to house the French governor, which is now the home of a very cool museum of Ivorian clothing through the last 200 years or so. It also had miniature re-creations of different housing compounds in different regions of the country. Our tour guide, Antonio, did not speak great English, but he tried so hard and was so nice, it was really fun.

Then, we headed down to the beach where we browsed around at some outdoor shops, and then got lunch. We ate a traditional Ivorian dish called akyidia (I think...) which is a cassava cous cous served with a spicy, almost jalapeno-tasting sauce, an onion-olive oil sauce and this tomato paste. It’s eaten with the hands and was SO good! My only regret is that they don’t serve it in Ghana.

On Friday, we left our hotel and attempted to get back to the border not by big, safe, expensive bus—like we had taken to Abidjan, but by regular tro. This proved not so bad, because we found a few good Samaritans to speak a little English with us, who helped us find the right bus, and then translated for us when we were being somewhat-scarily interrogated by one of the Ivorian soldiers at maybe the 8^th of 36 checkpoints between Abidjan and Elubo (the Ghanaian border town).

It is my life’s goal to travel in Francophone Africa without being dependent on the kindness of strangers. Someday…

I love you.

Morocco Part 6: Meknes, Take Two

2008-05-18T06:32:00.000-07:00

Bonjour!

Having fallen in love with Meknes when we were there for 3 days-and having realized that 3 and a half weeks of traveling in Northern Morocco is quite ambitious…Elena and I decided to go back for another 2 days of fun. (And another trip to the Hammam. We had somehow managed 1 lukewarm shower at the hostel in Fes, but Chef had been a no-go. So, we were once again going on about 5 days without a shower. Yum.)

We emailed Bouchra, our Moroccan soul mate, that we would be in town again and would love to see her, but sadly, no reply. Goodbye (forever) Bouchra.

We were also SET on visiting the city of Volubilis—which I may have mentioned before we tried to visit upon our first trip to Meknes. As a recap: Basically, on our first attempt, we had asked some Grande Taxi drivers how much it would be to go to Volubilis. The taxi drivers conversed among themselves in Arabic for a moment or two (figuring out how much exactly to over-charge us dumb suckers) and then pronounced the figure (or rather, wrote it down—still don’t speak French…) of 300Dh!! 300Dh is approximately $45. Volubilis is around 15 miles away…meaning, that this was entirely ridiculous. Elena and I had refused in anger, fully aware these assholes were trying to take us for all we were worth and resigned ourselves to never seeing Volubilis—the most intact Roman ruin in Morocco, and the furthest south in the world.

However, upon our second trip, we were DETERMINED to find our way there—the legitimate way. I mean, Volubilis is a TOWN, people live there for Christ sake, these people, I am SURE, are not paying anything like 300Dh to get there.

So, Elena has the brilliant idea to just go to the tourist office. The tourist office is about an 8 minute walk from our hotel. Sadly, Hotel Noveau was booked when we arrived the evening before, and we were forced to stay in Hotel Meknes, which had two separate beds—much better than the 1 crooked bed in Hotel Noveau. However, Hotel Meknes also had, instead of a toilet…a hole in the floor of the washroom, and a pipe, with which you filled a small bucket of water to wash away your…ahem…waste. This presented many problems at first, but thanks to many adventures in Ghana, we were already fairly practiced at peeing standing up and now had only to refine our technique in this new porcelain environment—porcelain gets quite splashy, unlike dirt. I would like to take this opportunity and just say that I am now quite the professional at peeing standing up. It’s really all about straightening your back.

Back to Volubilis. So, Elena and I walk down to the tourist office (buying fresh strawberries (!) and tangerines (!) on the way). We are then informed by the woman workin’ the desk that if we walk to a completely different grande taxi station—in the opposite direction from our first attempt—we can get in a shared taxi (which uncomfortably fits 6 people—two in front with the driver and 4 in the backseat) going to Molay Idriss, a neighboring town, for 15Dh, and from there we can take another shared taxi to Volubilis for about $1.

So, this is what we do. I eek out just enough French to ask where exactly the station is when we are in the vicinity, and we find it, pay our money, and we are soon looking at Volubilis.

When we arrive, we are bombarded by “Official Guides” who want to show us around. However, according to our guide book this is highly unnecessary, and after an expensive few days in Fes, we were trying to be slightly more frugal. So, we refuse, about 15 times, as these men follow us and harass us until we are finally far enough into the actual site that they leave us alone.

Volubilis was fantastic. It was huge, and was mainly the floor plans of this old Roman village. The interesting part was that many of these houses had mosaic floors, which were still in very good shape. There were still some walls and columns up in some areas too. Because we did not have a guide, Elena and I mainly just ran around taking pictures (many of us posing stupidly like Muses) and looking for signs to tell what exactly we were looking at. This became a game of sorts for us…as we were walking around one of us would yell (much to the chagrin of our fellow tourists I’m sure) “Signage!” and the two of us would run over to “ooh” and “aah” about what we were seeing, and then try to figure out where the hell we were on the tour guide map of the compound.

After getting back to Meknes we again found the Hammam we had visited before and received more than a few looks of surprise from the women working to see us again in all our no-Arabic, no-French splendor. The tiny little woman who had laughed at my attempt at modesty the first time around continued to be adorable…and laugh at us. When we left we gave her a goodbye gift of Cocoa Butter—made in The Ivory Coast, and she seemed pretty smitten.

After that we explored the Medina again, but DID NOT BUY ANYTHING…although, we did buy the most expensive tagines…definitely got the “white person price” oh well.

The next day we were off to Marrakech, home of the world famous Djima El Fina, this huge, incredible outdoor market. This is also where we met up with Greg, an acquaintance of mine from San Francisco State who was studying abroad in Sweden. Things from this point on got…interesting.

I love you.

Adventures and aftermath

2008-04-10T02:20:00.000-07:00

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.

Morocco Chapter 5: Chefchaouen

2008-03-10T07:11:00.000-07:00

Hello,

Quick Ghana update: I am miraculously better and have (sadly...I guess) gained about 5 of the 10-or-so pounds I lost last week back. While I still have a small appetite, I can get through most meals without getting sick, which is a kind of big accomplishment. Also, I had the mole checked, and will most likely get it removed in the next 2 weeks. I have a consultation with a plastic surgeon on Friday, and I assume we will then make a removal appointment. The mole will then be tested to make sure it isn't malignant. If it is...then I don't really know where we will go from there...so let's all just hope it won't be. Okay?

So back to Maroc. (That's the French spelling/pronunciation, fyi) We left Fes and from there headed to the north of Morocco to visit the small and very tourist-friendly town of Chefchaouen. On the bus, which was incredibly similar to the STC buses we've been riding in Ghana recently, Elena and I sat behind a woman with two sons who were both under the age of 5, one of which was definitely wearing a dirty diaper for the entire 5 hour bus ride (even though we stopped twice, giving his mother ample time and opportunity to change it) and which also made me so nauseous I could barely see straight. I am not one to get car sick, but the winding road and high altitude, coupled with the smell of this kid's soiled undergarments was just too much for me.

Needless to say, I was overjoyed when we finally came to a stop outside the gorgeous white and blue city of Chef. (Chefchaouen is a pain in the ass to spell repeatedly) The entire city is blue and white...you have to see a picture to really understand it, but the effect if breathtaking. I was overjoyed that is, until I realized it was around 30 degrees outside and raining. (still wearing same jeans and hoodie...no new development there...) Luckily we had strapped on our new ultra-sexy wool long-johns so we were slightly more insulated than we would have been without, but damn...it was cold.

Eventually, through ridiculousness that involved a guy from Spain who talked like Speedy Gonzalez, we got to a hotel where we also had dinner and walked around in the gorgeous city square for about 17 minutes until we were completely frozen and also getting our only warm clothes (we still had 40 pound backpacks full of useless warm-weather clothes) wet (no umbrellas) making for a somewhat unpleasant premonition for the following day.

The next day in Chef rained. Elena and I tried to go out and explore, beginning with a wonderful breakfast with fresh squeezed orange juice, real coffee and all the toast and apricot jam we could eat. Can I just take a minute to say I LOVE apricot jam? I love apricot jam! Okay. So, this breakfast was wonderful and not just because of the jam. It also gave us the chance (under cover of a rain tarp) to start to understand what exactly Chef was all about. The more we sat and ate, the more the various men who worked at the restaurant smoked pot. In public. The more everyone swayed around singing the same Reggae song over and over and over again. The more we took notice of our fellow travelers. Everyone was young-ish, and at least 50% had dread-locks. Another large majority wore peasant blouses and long flowing skirts under the army jackets they wore to protect themselves from the intense cold . We had stumbled upon Europe's own hippie getaway in the mountains of Morocco.

This realization was some-what disturbing. It seemed, the more time we spent in Chef, that this was a place for the well-off to disappear to for a long weekend, relax in the beautiful scenery of the blue and white architecture, eat great food, and buy hand made hippie crafts. And, smoke pot. I think this last piece is taken the most seriously (except by Elena and I, fyi, Mom.) judging by the fact that besides just walking around exploring at random, there isn't actually anything to do in Chef. Except...eat. You get me?

I should take a brief moment and say that marijuana is legal in Morocco. It is also a very big export. And the best Kif (as it is called there) is grown in the areas around Chef. So, young Spanish travelers (and travelers from all over the world, and less-young hippies who can somehow afford to do this type of traveling while rejecting capitalism) often make it down to Chef for a fun, if uneventful, weekend.

Many of these people Elena and I christened "Establishment Bohemians" These were the (mostly) young people with dread locks (often dyed unnatural colors, like purple), peasant skirts, backpacks containing everything they owned, hands full of random musical instruments (like drums or lutes) and chain smoking like they were all racing to see who could get lung cancer first. This is what made them "Establishment Bohemians" and different (and less likable, if you like that kind of thing, which I do) from your typical "Damn the man and live the dream" type of Bohemians. These people might really be living the dream (although I have become skeptical in my old age about who-like parents or trust funds-is behind the scenes making this dream-living possible. Just a small rant: ALL of these "E.B." were white. Okay.) but they are negating all their damn-the-manness by smoking. Cigarettes are one of the biggest, and most evil corporations in the world. (Although I might argue that soda is the most evil of all) So, unless these bohemians were rolling their own tobacco into their own rolling paper, they were a sham in my opinion. Chefchaouen was really kind of shammy in a lot of ways. Oh the sociological discussions Elena and I had!

Moving on. Eventually, the sun did come out, and Chef was not only beautiful in the sun, but also surprisingly warm. So, Elena and I did what we do and explored both the Medina and Ville Nouvelle, and of course got lost, but did find our way back, after running into this beautiful river that sits under this huge hill with a big, ancient looking mosque on top. During this adventure, I also was able to reach into the depths of my soul and haggle for about 15 minutes in Spanish with a 9 year old boy for a wool blanket. (I got him from 120 (cien y viente) Dh to 85 Dh (ochenta cinco), by the way)

Speaking Spanish in Chef was nice. So, so, so nice. While I am in no way fluent in Spanish, I at least: A.) understand the pronunciation. Unlike French. B.) Have a decent stock of vocabulary that can be used when needed. Unlike French. C.) Understand the grammatical structure, making it possible to read and at least have basic comprehension. Unlike French. So, in conclusion, I love Spanish, I hate French, and while Chef wasn't my favorite place, and was potentially full of fake hippies and Establishment Bohemians, the fact that I felt like an idiot only about 60% of the time (as opposed to the 97% in the rest of Morocco) makes it hold a special place in my heart.

I love you.

Who ARE you?

2008-03-06T09:40:00.000-08:00

Hello,

I have 30 minutes, and I will finish this super quick Ghana-update-blog if it kills me!

First: My health. For the past 10 days or so, I have been getting nauseous EVERY time I eat. It does not matter what I eat, how much I eat, where I eat, who makes the food. Every time, I get nauseous. I have not once vomited from said nausea. However, I have lost at least 8 pounds in these past 10 days, which, being a girl who has been wanting to shed an extra 10-15 pounds for some time now, is something I am a little conflicted about. For one, I am a little scared about the speed with which the weight has fallen from my body. Also, none of my clothes fit correctly now. All my pants are too big, and all the things I have had made for me here are literally falling off. (Especially in the boobs. I have lost about half my breasts. In 10 days!)

I went to the doctor, who listened to me talk for about 90 seconds, before telling me (condescendingly) that it is really hot here, (believe me, I know!) and then giving me a blood test for both malaria and typhoid fever. I have neither. Which, according to a second doctor, means I am perfectly healthy. I tried to stress the rapid-weight-loss-situation, wherein he prescribed me medication for malaria. Sigh. Currently I am forcing myself to eat at least 2 times a day, and am hoping it will go away on its own.

Also, I am getting the scary potentially-cancerous mole checked tomorrow when the dermatologist comes in to the hospital (on his once-weekly visit) if I don't get in to see him I might kill someone. Namely one of my current physicians.

Second: Dating. So about 2 weeks ago, I met a Ghanaian guy at a "party" I went to for Elena's swim team. Elias, as is his name, seemed to have a lot of potential. He is TALL. Like 6'3'', which is my preferred height in a male, 22 years old, NOT a scary Christian, as so many guys on campus tend to be, and friends with Elena and our friend Tristan.

We go on a "date". It was nice, he was nice, if not kind of intense ("I want to be in a relationship with you") but I liked him, really. The following week (our date was on a Sunday) I talked to him only a little, as classes had just started and he was a participant on both the swim team, who practiced twice a day, and the first University of Ghana baseball team. (It is truly hilarious.) So, on Friday, I was excited that we were to have our second "date."

He came to my room and we sat around and just talked about our week, and somewhere in there, he kissed me. It was terrible. Really awful. Like a kiss in junior high. (I assume...my first kiss was in 9th grade, and it was better than this one.) I had no choice but to pretend I was really shy about this all of a sudden because it was THAT BAD. So this had kind of diffused a little and then out of nowhere, he says: "Do you know Karen?" Karen is a girl from the States somewhere, who is a mutual friend of some of the swim team people and who I had heard liked Elias. Also.

Me: "I know who she is."
Him: "She is my friend."
pause.
Me: "Is she your friend the way I am your friend?"
Him: "Yes."
Me: "Do you kiss Karen?"
no answer.
Me: "So you do."
embarrassed nod.
Him: "Is that bad?"
Me: "It is for me."

Anyway, so this turns into this completely ridiculous next full week of my life. Basically, I told him that I could not, would not, continue to date him if he was dating other girls. He took this as a "choose her or me situation" and so continued to call me and tell me he missed me and to also try and come over to my room to convince me that this all wasn't his fault, and I just didn't understand. My favorite part of these conversations was when he told me that he knew me (10 days does not "knowing me" make) and he liked me, but he didn't know Karen very well. My rebuttal of: "so you want me to wait around for you to get to know Karen and decide if you like her more than me?" was met with some frustration. Damn my female logic.

Needless to say, we are no longer dating. I assume he and Karen are very happy, and I have decided to remain dateless for the rest of my 3.5 months in Ghana.

Okay, the end, for now.

I love you.

Morocco Chapter 4: Fes

2008-02-26T02:30:00.000-08:00

Bonjour!

This whole blogging-about-Morocco thing is a lot harder than I anticipated it being, especially as so much has been happening lately in Ghana. So sorry for the absence(s) and here we go:

The night before Elena and I left Meknes we called the Youth Hostel in Fes we planned to stay in to reserve beds. The man I talked with spoke perfect English (yay!) and said no problem to us getting beds (yay again!) and then...told us something like this: "Don't talk to anyone on the train. If anyone asks, you have been in Morocco for 1 month, and you are only staying in Fes for 1 night. Don't let anyone help you with your bags, there are a lot of professional thieves around. Don't trust anyone at all." I got off the phone slightly afraid. Fes here we come! (Oh god.)

Elena and I got to the train station in Meknes on the morning of New Year's Eve ready to FIGHT for seats on the train. We also gave dirty looks to anyone who looked our way. We were gonna get seats and we weren't gonna trust anyone Moroccan in the process, goddammit.We were all tense and ridiculous and told this Russian couple that it would be really crowded and to get ready. When the train arrived I literally pushed an old lady out of the way to get in the door. (A 40 pound backpack can come in handy sometimes...) We got seats! So did everyone else. Because this train, unlike the one we had taken 4 days before was NOT the most crowded train in the whole world. We were then slightly embarrassed about the whole "old lady" incident.

The ride from Meknes to Fes was only about 45 minutes, so we got to the train station around 11 in the morning. Game faces ON. Since we had backpacks, offers to help with our luggage were minimal. That did not stop a million really gross taxi drivers trying to charge us like a million dollars to get to the hostel. Finally we settled on only paying twice as much as we should for the ride, and got to the hostel, where we met the two scariest men in charge of our well-being and lodging ever.

I don't remember either of their names, but they were more-than-likely: Ali, Hassan, Abdul, or Mohammed...they were both in their early 40s (I would guess), and all they liked to do was kick us out of the hostel for hours at a time (out from 10 to 12, out from 2 to 6), make sure we got a good nights sleep (must be back in by 10), and tell us how scary and dangerous Fes was, especially for girls, and that if we wanted to do anything we would have to book an Official Guide through the hostel. Money making scheme anyone???? They kind of sucked.

After hearing the second of what was to become MANY lectures on safety (if you are so worried about my safety, why are you kicking me out of the hostel ALL DAY??), we went to go drop our stuff off in the dorm. There we met a girl from Quebec who was traveling for 6 months with her boyfriend. She told us her name at least 6 times, but it was really hard to pronounce...and I can honestly tell you that I NEVER had any idea what it was. From now on she will be called Mary. So Mary told us about what she had been up to, travelling Europe mainly, with a pop down to Morocco for a week or so. She still had at least 3 months left...but was sadly running out of money, and so would soon start looking for work in France. (Oh to speak FRENCH!) She was very nice and invited us to the New Year's Eve "Party" that would be held at the hostel after we all had to come back in at 10pm. She told us where we could buy some beers (Islamic country= little alcohol) and we left her to go explore Fes. We were a little apprehensive...but then again, we had no choice.

We wandered around the Ville Nouvelle ( where the hostel was located) because the Medina was REALLY far away, and we had already relented to the creepy schemers and had agreed to have an official guide take us around the Medina (which is HUGE and very labyrinth-like) the next morning. So we got lunch in this cute cafe in a park nearby, and wandered around, window shopping, at scarf stores. It makes sense, but I was still surprised and delighted to see entire stores devoted only to scarves! Very fun (and practical too!)

Around 7 that night we were so cold we couldn't feel our hands or feet (Fes is both further inland than Meknes, and also closer to the Atlas Mountains making it the 2nd coldest city we visited), so we went to the "Alcohol Store" and got a few tall cans of Heineken (which turned out to be really bad) and some snacks for the fiesta. No one else was back yet (most likely because they possessed warm coats...) so we got in our beds and tried to get warm until people came back.

Around 9 we had all gathered (outside. sigh.) around this table with our various boozes and had fun drinking and talking about grown up things like foreign policy and the importance of travel to the growing international community (justifying unlimited money used on travel? maybe.) We also talked about the importance of language and why Americans usually don't speak any second languages, and I was kind of relieved when one of our fellow hostelers made the point that America is so big, that there is less need to speak any language other than English. While I think that language should be stressed much more than it is in the States, it was nice not to just have an "Everyone hates America" talk.

Later in the evening, and much closer to midnight, this group of Belgian men came into the hostel after a day out. Most likely the fact that they were all both male and over 60 made the creepy wardens less strict on the "back by 10" policy, oh well. These men were nice...if not a little strange, and also drunk, and very actively rolled a joint in front of me (I declined their offer) but the craziest thing about them was their Ghanaian driver! Yes, a man who had been born and raised in Ghana and had relocated to Belgium, just happened to be in the same youth hostel in Fes, Morocco, as Elena and I. (The world is so freakin' small)

We attempted to speak Twi with him (in a somewhat desperate attempt-on my part at least-to prove to all these multi-lingual European/Canadians that we are at least making the effort to speak a language other than English) but our new Ghanaian friend was not as friendly as those we have met and become friends with in Ghana. After rolling a joint of his own though, he became much nicer.

The next day, New Year's Day, we met Ozdean (this is phonetic spelling, obviously) our OFFICIAL guide who would be taking us around the huge and somewhat intimidating Medina of Fes. This whole tour thing was a scam, seeing as we had to pay for our taxi to the place and then had to go to all these craft shops to see scarves being woven, leather being tanned (not sure that is proper English usage...) jewelry being made, etc. And, of course, after all of these fun displays and free pictures, there was immense pressure to buy. Ozdean always seemed to disappear for long periods of time when we were getting hassled.

Despite the buying pressure, we did learn a lot about how the Medinas in Morocco are set up. For every bakery, hammam and drinking fountain there is a different district of the city. We also got to take some pretty sweet pictures of people doing their thing making various crafts which was nice. After the 3 hour tour, we had to take this really expensive van-thing back to the hostel, because we could not get a taxi to save our lives, and then payed Ozdean too much and a tip because even though we were a little bitter about the whole experience we still have manners.

The next day, we adventured back to the Medina to do shopping of our own without the pressure of a guide. We were a little worried about getting hopelessly lost, but were determined. We might have missed out on a lot of stuff as we decided to stick to two very long and windy paths which us took us through the craft part of the medina (a different and much less touristy part than the day before) but we did not get lost and we were still able to buy some really cool gifts. We then grabbed lunch (vegetarian cous cous and tajine!) and then wandered a little further.

While we were wandering, it occurred to us that our next stop, Chefchaouen, was literally in the Atlas Mountains and would, somehow, be colder than Fes. (We knew if but could not really fathom it...) and it might be in our best interest to purchase some long underwear to wear below our jeans and thin sweatshirts. This would also be a helpful purchase because after around 12 days of not washing any of our clothes and wearing the majority of them every day our jeans especially were starting to sag. Long-johns could be the answer to that problem as well. This is how we had the best retail experience of our lives.

Okay...maybe not best, but funniest.

So, Elena and I spot a booth-like-thing selling many different colors of wool long-johns. I immediately pick out a pair of steel gray ones, because in my head, I will admit, I only ever think of myself wearing steel gray long-johns were I to wear them at all. Elena, surprisingly, also had picked out steel gray in her mind, and was somewhat disappointed to see that I had taken the only pair.

Enter the salesman. He was a short, thin Moroccan man, who I would guess to be in his mid-to-late 50s. He walked with a stoop, and had completely gray hair. He also spoke English, in the way most merchants in Morocco (or at least Fes) did, really only knowing phrases like "good deal", "global price" (what could that possibly mean?), and "make me a good price". Anyway, so this man comes up to us, and we eventually get it across that we both want hideous steel gray wool pants. He finds Elena some with blue and green embroidery on the bottom of the leg before the elastic cuffing. (hot.) We are immediately wary of this development, as he will most likely try and charge us like 100Dh more for embroidery, but when we ask about this he is surprisingly good natured.

Man: "You see? These have decoration!"
Me: "How much for these decorations?"
Man: (looking slightly offended) "Decorations are free! Decorations are free!"
Me and Elena: "Hey! Okay."
Man: "So you will take 2?"
Me: "How much for both?" (buying in bulk is always the smarter option)
Man"Give me 100Dh." (approx. $15)
Elena: "ummmm....how about 70?"
Man: WHOA!!!!!!!!! (I mean he screamed this at us. Elena and I could do nothing but try not to burst into uncontrollable laughter.)

small pause

Man: "Give me 80."

In complete, painful silence, Elena and I bring forth the 80Dh, and take away our pants. When we are about 20 feet from the man and his booth, we burst into the laughter that had been welling up for the last 75 seconds. Then Elena said: "I think that 'whoa!' was worth an extra 10Dh." I had to agree.

The next day, after spending a small fortune on gifts/warm weather clothes, we boarded a bus to go to Chefchaouen, a small hippy-village in the mountains. Absolutely everyone we had talked to thus far insured us that Chef was the best stop in Morocco. After a 5 hour nausea-inducing bus ride I was hoping everyone was right.

I love you.

Ghanamania

2008-02-21T01:20:00.000-08:00

Hellohellohello,

Just an update on my current activities in Ghana. I am trying desperately to finish my blogs about Morocco but there are literally 8 to go, and I am starting to wonder how the hell I will ever get there...plus my current adventures are starting to take a backseat...oy vey!

Okay, so a new batch of Californians arrived a month ago and it is strange. They are very nice (for the most part) and are interested in learning and not teaching (which is a big step, seriously) but they are SO young in so many ways. Things like doing their laundry by hand in a bucket, or scrambling for candles and flashlights during a blackout, or hauling buckets of water up 4 flights of stairs is still interesting and fun for them, when in reality, it's not fun, or very interesting, its actually kind of a pain in the ass. I know I was like them in the beginning, and so I am trying to not be judgmental, but it becomes ridiculous when all you want is to bitch for a minute about the lack of water, and some big-hearted new kid is laughing and smiling over the whole thing...it makes you feel like a jerk. But I know I am not a jerk, I am just experienced, and I now understand (after a lot of trial and tribulation, I might add) that just because you are grateful to be in a place and really do like it for many reasons, does not mean you need to like carrying buckets of water up stairs.

Moving on: Elena and I went on a 5 day adventure this week. Our plan was to head North to go back to Mole (Mole-lay) National Park and then head to the Northwest corner of Ghana to go to Wa, to a Hippo Sanctuary where we would be allowed to sleep in a TREEHOUSE above the hippos! So we set out Friday morning and boarded a bus to Tamale, which is about 12 hours away. Unlike the last time we headed north, where our bus broke down 3 times and the 12 hour trip took 27 hours total, after only a short delay we were on our way, making it to Tamale by 9pm, a mere 13 hours after we were scheduled to leave Accra.

We stayed at the Catholic Guest House in Tamale Friday night, where we had called ahead to make a reservation, that they lost, so we were forced to sleep in a single bed, which wouldn't have been so bad except for the fact that it was easily 95,000 degrees (at 9pm) in Tamale. Ick.

We awoke at 4:00 am so we would get back down to the bus station by 4:30 to buy tickets heading toward Wa, but we would alight in Larabanga, only 5 km from the park. So we make our way through the crowded and putrid-smelling Tamale bus station, where we are informed by several people that the bus heading toward Wa is sold out. This is impossible, and we know it, because the last time we were in the Tamale bus station at 4:30 in the morning, the tickets to Wa did not go on sale until 4:30 in the morning, and as it was actually 4:35 by this time, there seemed to be no possible way, at all, that this bus, that only leaves once a day, and was the cornerstone of our entire trip going the way it was planned, could be sold out. So there.

Sadly, Ghana IS a developing country, and one development made in the city of Tamale, at this stupid bus station, was that of selling advanced tickets. The bus WAS in fact, sold out. Crap.

Just when we were about to get a little frustrated Elena meets this older gentleman, who tells us that the conductor of the bus will usually sell tickets when the bus leaves, and that way we could STAND. Okay. The two of us had done this ride from Tamale to Larabanga in December, and could attest to the fact that it was the absolute bumpiest ride in the entire world...and took nearly 3 hours. I was in serious doubt that my body would like me a whole lot after 3 hours standing on a bus that was literally jumping up and down.

But, that is exactly what we did, body be damned. It was pretty awkward, mainly because I was standing in between seats where two teenage boys sat, and had virtually no control over what they were saying about me/my body while I bounced around...so yeah. That kind of sucked. It was made more tolerable by the fact that the entire aisle of this bus was full of people, so it wasn't just the two oboruni women standing in the middle of the aisle to get laughed at. And everything became more amusing when some young Ghanaian man started trying to sell herbal remedies for all our bodily ailments. (The same cream could cure a sore throat, a runny nose, erectile dysfunction and vaginal discharge!)

After 3 hours of pure ridiculous, we got off the bus at Larabanga. We were the ONLY people to get off the bus, and about 15 more people were trying to get on. This was a problem, because our plan the next day was to catch this SAME bus heading toward Wa, to get to the Hippo Sanctuary, which was about 5 hours ride away. Meaning, if we decided to stay with our plan, we would have to most likely stand in an even more crowded bus for nearly twice as long...no thank you.
Our new plan became to try and go to Kintampo Falls, south of Tamale, and about halfway toward Kumasi, and then the Boabeng-Fiemma Monkey Sanctuary. Then back to Accra by Tuesday.

After getting off the bus, we then mounted a moto (motorcycle) with some young Ghanaian, who drove us up to the park, and then at the gate, after we paid the entrance fee, the moto took Elena up to the hotel (only one at a time on the back in the park) and I hopped in the back of some Danish family's truck, and hitched my way up to the hotel. Sometimes I am amazed by Ghanaian forms of transportation.

We took beds in the female dorm, where we met this really nice girl from Switzerland who had volunteered in Kumasi 2 years ago. While Elena napped I talked with her about what its like to miss Ghana. She said that she had never been homesick for Switzerland in all the traveling she had done, but that she was so homesick for Ghana when she left it. It was very sad and scary, but good to know that she is fine now, and makes it a priority to come back, and still has strong ties with the community she lived in.

In the afternoon, we went on a Safari walk, where we only saw one elephant, but it was really close, and I got some great pictures! We also saw tons on Bushbuck, Kob, and Crocodiles. We also saw this BEAUTIFUL bird that may have been a Great Blue Herring. This is according to this RIDICULOUS woman on the walk with us...who was completely covered in tarp-like stuff and putting bug repellent all over her socks (which were pulled up over her tarp pants) and who kept talking about wanting to see snakes or something...so who knows about the accuracy of this sighting.

The next morning we left the park (at 4:30) to go back to Tamale. The bus ride was full of all these arguments, that I could not understand, and ended up taking 4 hours. By the time we got to Tamale we were starving and irritated. We also found out that the tro we needed to take to Kintampo Falls had already left, and we were forced to take another one, heading further south to Techiman, and we would drop at Kintampo. This tro took about 40 minutes to leave, and was the biggest tro I have ever seen. In addition to the 6 or so rows of five seats running down the car, there were also two rows of 6-8 in the back that were raised up. No one wanted these seats, so all the seats in the main part of the car, including the fold out ones in the middle were taken first, forcing everyone to get up and move every time anyone needed to get in or out of the back. This problem was made worse by the fact that this tro was so incredibly cramped, for the fold out seat to fold UP the person sitting nearest to the hinge had to somehow move to allow the seat to fold. This was me, fyi. I had to do this squish-into-the-back-of-my-seat thing to let people pass at least 15 times, and on about the 11th time around, I cut myself on the metal part of the seat, making my back bleed all over my shirt, and so I was forced to hold a bandanna over the cut for the duration of the ride. Yep.

We eventually got off at Kintampo, where we found a taxi who would take us to the falls, wait for us, and then take us to Techiman, where we were staying the night, all for 11 Ghana Cedis. Not bad. The falls were nice, and very relaxing, and much needed after that freaking tro tro ride from hell. It was a little awkward because there are 3 different falls, the third only for swimming/bathing, and at all three falls, there were people praying. Kind of a damper on the fun of two oborunis in two-piece swim suits...oh well. We got over it, and presumably so did the pray-ers, and we got in the water and stood in the falls and it was wonderful. (I also got to clean up a little of the blood.)

We then headed to Techiman, but not before picking up 2 more passengers. Two men, one I never met, the other was Kwame. Kwame had to be at least 35, and talked at me for the 40 minutes of our ride about how he wasn't scared of anything and he was very brave, etc, etc. When he asked for my number I told him I didn't have a phone. Que Sara.

We then got into our hotel in Techiman, which for 20 cedis (too much...but who cares) we got running HOT water, toilet paper in the room, soap in the room, and A TELEVISION!!!!!!! The TV only got one station, but we still watched for 3 hours. Sometimes you just need to veg.

The next morning, we set out toward the Boabeng-Fiemma Monkey Sanctuary. We took a shared taxi to Nkrawnza, then a tro from there to Fiemma. We walked over to the orientation house-thing, where we met our guide, Robert, and off we went on a 2 hour walk to learn about monkeys.

This monkey sanctuary has two kind of monkeys: The Mona monkey, which is very social and a complete pain in the ass to all the people who live in the neighboring villages, and the Black and White Colubus Monkeys who are much more shy. Ironically we mainly saw the black and whites, which was fine, because we had seen the Mona at a different sanctuary in the Volta Region. They are pretty crazy looking with these SUPER long white tails and very wise faces. According to Robert, when these monkeys moan and cry between the hours of 11pm and 2am, it means someone in the village will die in the next 7 days. When this happens all the older people of the village walk around wondering if it will be them or one of their friends. And, if the monkeys moan and cry between 2am and 6am, it means it will rain. The people in the villages were hoping to hear them crying soon. (It was CRAZY hot and dry there).

We also saw the monkey graveyard, where the monkeys found dead must be buried, or bad things will happen to the villagers, and also where the fetish priests who have a special relationship with the monkeys are buried too. One of the priests who was buried was (according to his gravestone) 120 years old when he died. And, according to Robert, a woman in the Boabeng village is currently 160. I'm not sure if I believe it though...

When we left the sanctuary, we were told to wait at the junction down the road and a tro would come by and we could get on there. After an hour and a half, we had been passed by 2 full tros and were beginning to get worried. When it looked like we might have to just start walking, a pick-up truck came around the corner and stopped in front of us.

The driver, William Osu, was on his way to Techiman, to sell corn. We asked if we could hitch with him, and he said yes. So I climbed into the little seat behind William, and Elena in the passenger's seat and we were off. On the way, William stopped and picked up around 10 people from neighboring villages, on their way home after a day working on farms. He also told us all the names of the villages, and which where smaller or bigger, which had schools, etc. He was a complete life-saver. We gave him 5 cedis when he dropped us at the Techiman bus station and he wished us well.

We then got on another tro, this time toward Kumasi, where we planned to stay the night, and then grab an STC bus in the morning to Accra. By the time we got to Kumasi it was around 5pm and we were FILTHY. We dropped from our tro in downtown, and then grabbed a taxi to the STC station so we could buy our tickets in advance. After that we walked to this really cute hotel/hostel place very near the bus station where we promptly took showers, and then went in search of dinner and a much deserved beer.

The next day we got our bus (only left 90 minutes late) and got to Accra around 3pm. All in all not our most successful of trips, and we spent TONS on transportation (relatively...) but it was good, and now we have two more destinations off our lists of stuff to do before we leave...in less than 4 months.

Okay, there is more Ghana news...mainly that I might have a cancerous mole (getting it checked on Friday), I was bitten by a monkey, on campus, it did not draw blood, and I do not have rabies (but now really hate monkeys a lot), and that I still have yet to have an actual class. Oh, Ghana.

I love you.

Morocco Chapter 3: Meknes

2008-02-07T02:27:00.000-08:00

Chah-laaaay!

The use of the phrase "Chah-lay" (most likely spelled "Charlie") is one that Ghanaians use to express excitement, among other things. With the prominence of the Cup of Nations this phrase has been used like nobodies business and I have decided to take it up, there is no better way to create habit than by repetition...so I'm doing my best to use it often, even though that often results in giggles...and blatantly being made fun of.

Okay, back to the Moroccan Madness. After leaving the youth hostel in Rabat, we walked back to the train station and boarded a train going to Meknes, a city just south of the much more famous Fes and reputed for being much more laid back and much less touristy. The train ride was supposed to be about 3 hours. 3 hours didn't seem like very long, except for the fact that when we boarded the train, so did every other person in Morocco...and the two of us, along with many many Moroccan riders were forced to wander aimlessly throughout the train, car after car, trying in vain to find a seat, and succeeding in hitting everyone me passed in the head, or arm or leg or hand or whatever with our huge backpacks. We are talking 35 lbs of (largely useless) clothes, sleeping bags, bath products, and Luna bars. So...it is pretty likely we were hated on a lot in the first 40 minutes or so of the ride.

Finally we stopped in between cars where we hung out with all the chain smokers who had most likely chosen to stand out the middle of two rocking train cars to insure they could light one cigarette with the other for the duration of their ride. Yum. Eventually, after about an hour of this, Elena found us two seats in this closed off compartment with 6 people in it, and just barely enough room for 2 white idiots and really no room for their bags of crap, but everyone was nice and accommodating and we eventually fit.

In this car was a couple from Malaysia, two Moroccan brothers, and a slightly older Moroccan guy and a Moroccan woman. The woman spoke only Arabic, so we didn't get to talk to her at all, the one man spoke quite a bit of English, the brothers a modest amount (much more than I speak French...if that means anything) and the Malaysian couple (as Malaysia was a British colony) spoke perfect English and quite a bit of French too.

So...Elena and I are ridiculous, and having read about recent anti-Western violence (specifically against Americans) we decided to tell everyone we were from Canada. (Note, we looked up Anti-American sentiments, but NOT weather, therefore were freezing our asses off pretty much all the time. Smart girls.) Anyway, so when the Malaysian woman, who will be known from now on as MW, asked us where we were from we said Canada, BC to be specific. I have been to BC literally once. I spent about 3 days in Vancouver on a choir trip in 12th grade, and while I loved it, I don't actually know anything about it. To our great dismay, this couple, who were quite the travelers had been to BC and began to quiz us about it. Crap.

We made ourselves look like complete ass-holes because we kept referring to the US dollar when talking about money (the Canadian dollar is currently worth more now), admitted to spoke more Spanish than French (seriously) and looked for the slightest provocation to talk about Ghana instead of Canada. (Example: When asked about the weather in BC our response was something like this: "Ya...Canada is really cold right now, because its winter. Nothing like Ghana where it is really really hot and so humid! You wouldn't even believe it." Actually they would...because they are from Malaysia.) The real low-point of the lie was when they asked us about this donut chain that is all over Canada. According to them, there are drive up donut houses and they are virtually everywhere. We made up the most incredibly transparent lie about not knowing about it because we don't eat donuts of something. It was terrible. This embarrassment was recently magnified when we asked our friend Tristan, who is from Canada (unlike Elena and I) about these donuts and he answered that they were most likely talking about this chain (that I don't remember the name of now...) that is literally more prominent in Canada than McDonalds is in the US. I may be the worst fake-Canadian ever.

After the incredibly awkward ride, where not only did we practically prove that we were lying about our nationality, but Elena and the MW engaged in this ridiculous "who's-developing country-is better" competition where both just talked about Ghana and Malaysia respectively and pretended to be interested in the other's but really just wanted to hear themselves talk. (I wanted to kill them both after the debate about prominence of indigenous languages.) We got off the train, said bye to the (really cute) Moroccan brothers, and set off in search of our youth hostel.

We took a petit taxi to the hostel, and after the taxi rolled away, we realized that the door to the hostel was firmly locked. The hours on the door gave the impression that the hostel should in fact be open...and this hostel was kind of in the middle of nowhere, so we shrugged and decided we would have to get a taxi to the Medina, and look for a cheap hotel. Out of nowhere, this young woman pops up and miraculously spoke English. She told us that the hostel would open at 3. It was 2 right then, so we decided to sit on the stoop and eat a Cliff bar and wait for someone to show up.

About 40 minutes later a man pulled up right in front of us. He looked at us with some puzzlement, and we beamed back at him. He did not exit the car to let us into the hostel, but instead pulled out his cell phone to make a call. After about 2 minutes he got out of the car and approached us, speaking French. (see previous blog entry) After a few minutes of this our blank expressions notified him of our ignorance, and he began to speak to us in English. His name was Hassan, and he was a former employee of the hostel and had just called his former boss to notify him of two American/Canadian girls sitting on the steps of the establishment. Unfortunately, Hassan said, the boss-man was not going to open the hostel today, but would open in the following day (Sunday) at 6pm. Okay...not gonna help.

We thanked Hassan for his kindness, and then asked him where the best place to catch a taxi to the Medina would be. Hassan offered to drive us there himself, and in a moment of what some would consider insanity, and also where Elena probably wanted to hit me, I accepted.

Hassan was very nice, apologizing repeatedly for smoking in the car (I was practically immune to cigarette smoke by this point) and told us that after leaving the hostel he had moved to Saudi Arabia to do some very scientific sounding work for 7 years. He had just returned to Morocco this week. He took us to Hotel Agadir, the first in a line of about 5 run-down and cheap hotels on the Medina's main strip, and insisted in waiting in the car to make sure we got a room. There was no vacancy. We insisted right back that he had done enough for us, and we would find a hotel, and so Hassan left, and we began to walk down the strip of hotels (uphill, wearing the backpacks) looking for a room.

After 3 hotels where our poorly pronounced "bonjour!" ended nowhere helpful, we were starting to lose our gusto for this little adventure. I should mention that we originally had no intention to visit Meknes, and this was a spur of the moment detour that was starting to piss me off. We then entered, Elena leading, Hotel Noveau.

Elena: Bonjour!
No response
Elena: Bonjour!
No response
Elena: Bonjour?
Man out of absolutely nowhere who appeared behind the check in desk: Bonjour!!!!!

This man was Lechet. Lechet was a slightly overweight, jolly, Berber man who (thank god) spoke English and became our friend. Mainly because he had one room available. One small-as-a-tool-shed room, with walls decorated completely in mosaic, making it look, somehow, smaller, a clogged sink, and a bed where the middle was completely broken making Elena and I roll into each other no-matter-what, when we slept. All for about $9 a night. Without said room, Lechet might not have been so dear to us.

In Meknes we ate Tajine for the first time. Like a casserole, a tajine is named such because of the dish with which it is made, not what is in it. (I completely plagiarized the above comparison of a tajine to a casserole from a guide book, FYI) It is somewhat difficult to get a vegetarian Tajine in Morocco as Moroccans are very into their meat products, but it can be done, and it is quite tasty. Usually, the tajine, made of a flat bowl-like bottom and a funnel- shaped top is filled first with vegetables (like carrots, squash, potatoes, zucchini, bell peppers, onions, prunes, and olives--most of which I have not eaten in the last 6 months) and then with meat (beef, chicken, lamb, pigeon, anything) and then cooked slowly for several hours. It is then eaten with bread cut into triangles, for easier scooping. Restaurant tajine doesn't get quite the same care, but is wonderful all the same. Especially to our vegetable-starved bodies.

In Meknes we also went to a Hammam. A hammam is a public bath, used at different hours during the day for men and women (usually men in the morning, women in the afternoon) where the bather brings all their own soap etc, and are provided with all the hot and cold water needed to get clean. Up until this time, which was about 5 days into our trip, Elena and I had only bathed once, and had to do so with very, very, cold water. It was terrible.

So, we located a Hammam by stealthily following a woman who was carrying a duffle-bag, in the area we knew a hammam to be, and voila! There it was. It cost 10Dh ($1.25) and was awkward, because all the women spoke mainly Arabic, and a little French, so figuring out what the hell to do was kind of crazy. We had read that swim suits were customarily worn in the bath houses, but going topless was acceptable. Elena, who is much more comfortable with nakedness than I, who am very, very, maybe embarrassingly, modest, so she was going to go topless, and I was going to wear my bathing suit top. That was until this tiny little woman who was in charge of the lockers in the hammam laughed (somewhat cruelly) at me, and removed my top for me. Okay...I will be naked in public. I can do that. I guess.

And I did. And it wasn't bad. If hammams existed in the States, I think body issues would be much less a problem than they are. It was actually really nice. Being warm, for one thing was incredible, and washing my hair, shaving my legs, and generally being clean was a sensation I was starting to forget about. The glory of the moment was dimmed slightly when we had to put on dirty clothes (still on the hunt for a laundry of some sort) but after we rewarded our cleanliness by buying these big pink frosted cakes and retiring to the hotel.

We really didn't DO that much in Meknes...we visited a Moroccan McDonalds (the McArabia is all the rage...I don't even want to think about that sociological discussion) where we were laughed at, we got lost in the Ville Nouvelle (new city, built by the French) ate strawberries (oh how I miss you!) and literally dozens of chocolate croissants and cups of coffee. We also got lost in the Medina. And that's how we met Bouchra.

Our last night in Meknes, after being denied a day trip to see the Roman ruins at Volubilis (a taxi was going to charge us 300 Dh, aka $45) we began to wander the cobble-stone streets of the Medina and got lost. It then got dark, and we began to get a little afraid. Out of the darkness, a man appeared, who tried to help us, but we sadly do not speak French, and upon realizing we spoke only Anglais he knocked on the door in the wall beside him, which was opened by a young woman, who he spoke to briefly, and then left us. We looked around awkwardly, and then the woman surprised the dirty jeans off of us by asking us in English where we were going. We told her where we were staying, and asked us if she could tell us the way. She replied that she would take us herself, but to come in first. We looked at each other, and decided to hope she didn't want to hurt/rob/eat us, and went inside.

Once inside, we met Bouchra's mother and father (who did not speak English) and her brother and sister in law, who served us coffee, and a plate of cookies. It was wonderful. Bouchra, had decided, out of the blue, to learn English at the American Language Institute in Morocco, and we talked with her about our trip thus far, our problems with language, Ghana, and her family for the next hour. She laughed heartily at us when we told her we had gone to the Hammam. Her family invited us to stay the night, but we politely declined, as we had already paid for our hotel. Bouchra then walked us home, where she made mean faces at all the creepy teenagers hanging out wanting to harass the hell out of tourist girls.

Meknes was by far my favorite city, mainly because we met some of the best people there. And, the pastries were to die for. The next day, New Year's Eve, we headed north to Fes.

I love you.

Morocco chapter 2: Rabat or "No I am not lying. I do not understand French. Really."

2008-01-27T06:39:00.000-08:00

Bonjour!

I don't speak French. I have had literally no desire in all my 22 years to learn anything about France, or the French language. I know I like french toast, french fries, and saying moi when I am being stupid. I know France colonized Morocco, and therefore French is one of the 3 official languages (along with Arabic and Berber). But, having this information did NOT inspire me to learn anything before traveling there. Boooo on me.

Again, I say it: I do not speak French. Nor do I understand it when it is spoken to me. This is a fact that I attempted to ignore in myself when trying to buy train tickets from Casablanca to Rabat. I greeted the man at the ticket counter with a Bonjour! like a freaking idiot, because he then assumed (as is his natural inclination) that I actually spoke French. (see above.) This inadvertently caused me to request 1st-class tickets on the train for about 3 times the price. Boo on me again.

However despite the 55 Dh (8 dollars?--7.5 dirham in one USD means I am doing estimation math in my head all the time...no wonder I spent like $300 more than I planned on. Boo. again.) as opposed to the...maybe 20 Dh we spent in 2nd-class, it was SUPER nice, and there was actually room for our backpacks, and we could sleep comfortably, or we could have if the ride had been more than its swift hour. All in all it was wonderful! It was also a little stressful, because we DO NOT UNDERSTAND FRENCH, meaning: We did not know where our stop was, and also had no idea if we had a transfer or not. We were hoping for not. The only thing we could do was strain for the name of our stop: Rabat Ville, which thankfully did eventually come up, and we got off the train with little drama.

The train station is in downtown Rabat, which looks like downtown LA, according to Elena. I have not spent enough time in LA to make such an assessment. We refer to a map in our travel guide Africa on a Shoestring (which our wonderful friend Megan left with us when she went back to home in December, because we had no other info on Morocco). Anyway, we decide that the Auberges de Juennes (Youth Hostel) is UP the street from the station, and we turn out to be wrong, so we head back DOWN toward the Medina (old city) and eventually arrive at our Hostel, which was lucky as my left shoulder was beginning to threaten to fall off.

There we meet Lydia. Lydia is a wonderful Muslum woman, probably in her 40s, and is in charge of the hostel during the day, and seemed a little lonely. She spoke quite a bit of English, and was probably the cutest hostel-mom ever. We decided to just get beds in the dorms, because they are cheaper than rooms, and we set our stuff down, paid Lydia, and went out into the madness to find an English bookstore, (and therefore a French dictionary) which, according to our guide did in fact, exist. After literally 2 hours of wandering around looking for it, I was beginning to doubt this fact very much.

Eventually, after employing the help of at least 7 different Moroccan men who spoke English in varying degrees, we found the bookstore. Just as it was closing. We begged for just 5 minutes so we could find a better guidebook, and a French-English dictionary, and luckily the man obliged, and after 5 minutes and 180 Dh (27 USD) we were out, and hopefully a little more prepared for our adventure.

We then got food (pizza again...) and then wandered around in the Medina, I bought a really cute shoulder bag made of wool, and Elena got a backpack, and then we went back to our hostel where we froze to death in our sleeping bags and the provided wool blankets piled high on top of us.

The next day, we went to the Royal Palace, which was BEAUTIFUL, and then went to the Kasbah (an old fort once used to defend Rabat against enemies, now home to many people) where we were convinced to get Henna tattoos on our hands, and paid WAY too much . (We each paid 100 Dh, when it should only be like 25 for one hand--when Lydia found out she was scandalized.) and then wandered the Kasbah, got a mint tea, and then went back to the Medina, where we were followed around by these creepy Rasta guys, escaped--thanks to Elena's quick thinking and very convincing performance as a white woman from Ghana who spoke only Twi (hahahahahah!) and then found sanctuary in a pastry shop where I got a Cafe au Lait and this little maple cake that I could not finish. But it was wonderful all the same.

The next morning we planned to leave Rabat to go to Meknes. Like Casa, it was beautiful, but also a little boring...and also a little too ritzy and expensive. At breakfast (provided by the hostel) a Moroccan man was sitting at the table and we went to join him, where he proceeded to talk to me: In French. (see beginning of 1st paragraph) I tried to make him understand that I did NOT understand him, but he spoke no English and maybe he thought I was just being coy or something? So...I was talked at for no less than 30 minutes by this man who seemed to think that if he just repeated what he said over and over, louder and louder, with somewhat frantic hand gestures I would eventually understand what the hell he was saying to me. Shockingly, I did not. Although, out of sheer frustration and resignation I began to smile and nod and pretend I could nearly follow the flow of the conversation. I got very little actual breakfast-eating done.

We left Rabat feeling like we were slightly more prepared for Meknes, as we boarded the train. The adventure was only beginning.

I love you.

Update on the boring and ridiculous.

2008-01-27T06:00:00.001-08:00

Wo ho te sen??

I will begin by saying I am crawling out of my skin right now. Campus is boring, I can't go anywhere in Ghana because all hotels in major cities are booked because of the Nations Cup, (CAN 2008) and I don't have the money to go to another Francophone country right now. Francophone countries like Togo, Benin, and Cote d'Voire are at least twice as expensive as Ghana...and when you have grown accustomed to paying only 60 peswas (60 cents) for a meal, paying like 1000 CFA (3 dollars...I think) is awful. I can just imagine how I'll be when I get back to the States. Sigh.

So, I am frustrated. I feel like I should be doing something. But I am not. I feel accomplished when I cook food or do my laundry and am trying to use up the time by reading The Mists of Avalon which is 900 pages and only mediocre. I have decided I will reward myself for finishing it by letting myself read The Poisonwood Bible for a second time. Seriously, if you haven't read it DO IT, right now! Its incredible and parts of it are so incredible in the way they describe the problems facing Africa historically and in contemporary times. READ IT! It cannot be said enough.

In good news, the rats are gone. Presumably dead. Our neighbor Markeida found a dead rat on her balcony, so...yay! I am a vegetarian and I believe in animal rights, and I believe that things like rat poison are harmful to the environment...but...if I could do it again, I would still poison the little bastards. I would also poison the biggest rat in the entire world--which I saw 2 nights ago. I was on the phone, and I looked down at the ground floor of my dorm, and saw a black thing winding its way through the shrubbery. My first thought was: "What is that dog doing?" And then as it came out in the open, I suppressed a gasp as I saw its TWO-FOOT-LONG TAIL. The biggest rat in the world!!!!!!!! This thing has to weigh at least 20 pounds! Oh my god, oh my god oh my god! If that beast ever gets caught on MY balcony I will unleash the fury of 1000 boxes of rat poison. I swear it. Groooooooooosss.

Ooooh, I got my grades back. Well almost all of them. Betty, the advisor from Satan still has not returned my 46 page special study project, but other than that I got 2 As, 2 A-s, and a B+. Not too shabby considering I had little idea what was going on most of the time.

I attended one of the Nations Cup games. Actually 2...I saw Morocco get beat (what????) by Guinea, and I saw Ghana play a terrible game against Namibia, who they should have beaten by like 6 to 0, but ended up with only 1 to 0. The fans were pissed. Rightfully so, it was a really bad game--I mean, just take a shot! Thousands of your country men and women used their hard earned money to see YOU play, just TRY and make a goal! Try!!!!!. But Ghana plays Morocco on Monday, so they better step it up if they want to make the quarter finals. In happy CAN 2008 news, Cote d'Voire is still kicking ass! Yay Elephants!

Okay, those are my Ghana updates, I will post this separately from Morocco stories, because then blogs get tediously long, and I don't want to create tedium. Okay, I will write about Morocco and then I am off to Champs Sports Bar to eat mediocre veggie fajitas. I dream about Mexican food lately...gotta get a fix somewhere...even if it is a cheap imitation of real fajitas.

I love you.

Morocco chapter 1: Casablanca

2008-01-22T03:35:00.000-08:00

Hellohellohello,

So I have now been back in Ghana for 5 days (I got back at 5am Friday morning) and am now attempting to update all on my adventures in Morocco. Its been kind of a pain to get this done as campus is still closed and I am a little afraid to venture into Accra because the African Cup of Nations is in full swing. FYI: Ghana won its first game, yay! And my second choice (and probably more likely to go all the way, sadly) Cote d'Voire beat Nigeria last night in a really good game. Tonight Cameroon and Egypt battle it out, which should be pretty intense, and if I can just avoid this total gangsta man I met and who decided we were meant to be while watching the Ghana game on Sunday, everything is gonna be alright.

Also, to make my life a little more ridiculous, Elena and I's room has been attacked by not one, two or three, but FOUR rats starting Saturday night, when I got up to go to bed to see a RAT in my open window, threatening to JUMP INSIDE! Screaming ensued. As did a completely sleepless Saturday and Sunday night, and a trip into Accra to purchase rat poison, which was ALL GONE this morning when we woke up from a much more rest full sleep. Eww, ick, eww.

Alright, Morocco.

So, our flight to Casablanca was scheduled to leave Accra at 4:30 Christmas morning, which FYI is most likely when my family was watching Scrooge, a Christmas Tradition I sadly missed out on, over there in the Pacific Standard timezone. We arrive at the airport at 2am, where we are forced to wait in line for about 30 minutes, then are told we must go through customs, no one seemed to understand that we were not tourists in Ghana. After customs which was a complete joke, as I could have stolen the Golden stool of the Asante and this poor woman who obviously hated her life would not have noticed. (2am, understandable)

Then, we go through immigration where it is obvious that all the men working have gone maybe longer than they would prefer without any human, and by human I think I mean female contact, because after Elena (who is pretty and blond and everyone loves her) gets through 10 minutes of mild harassment where she told Maximilian (one of the immigration officers) that she was married, Max wanders over to me, where he begins to question me about my marital status and Elena's too.

Max: "Hi."
Me: "Hello. How are you?" (man in charge of if I can leave/reenter Ghana...must be polite)
Max: "You are going to Morocco."
Me: "Yes I am."
Max: "Do you want to know how I know that?" smile and giggle are added.
Me: "I saw you talking with my sister over there." sister means friend, or sister, or that to Ghanaians think all white people look alike.
Max: "She said she was married."
Me: "She did? That's because she is. She's married." Not so quick on the lying to creepy Ghanaians at 2:30 in the morning.
Max: "Her ring is not very nice." (Elena has a silver ring with a flower on it that she wears on her ring finger and which no Ghanaian ever believes is a wedding ring when she tries to prove she is married with it.)
Me: "She doesn't like to wear her real ring her, because she is afraid it will be stolen. So she wears the other one to remind her." hahahaha.
Max: "How old are you?"
Me: "22."
Max: "Your sister is only 20."
Me: "Yes."
Max: "Why is your sister married and you are not, when you are 22 and she is 20?"
Me: "I guess I haven't found the right man yet."
Max: "Would you ever marry a black man?"
Me: "I don't think I really want to get married." This is a lie, mom and dad, I probably want to get married some day, just not to Max.
Man looking at my immigration form who has not talked to me at all thus far: "Rules are made to me broken." What?
Me: "Well, I still have lots of school to finish...I won't get married until I am done with school."

This statement seems to satisfy both men who continue to smile and make stupid jokes, which I continue to laugh stupidly at until I have my passport back, because that is just what you have to do.

After 2 hours of waiting, we board our plane which takes off and then lands 30 minutes later, in Lome, Togo, where about 60% of the passengers get off, leaving many empty rows, which Elena and I stretch out across and sleep in until breakfast is served around 8am.

While eating breakfast it becomes more and more obvious to both of us that we speak neither French nor Arabic, and this could be a kind of big problem in about 2 hours when we land in Morocco.

Land we do, and while waiting for our HUGE backpacks to appear on the luggage belt, we meet a 20-something guy from upstate New York who is a Peace Corps volunteer in Ghana, in the Eastern Region. He has a one day layover on Casablanca, and is planning on going to the same youth hostel as us, so we become instant friends. Sadly, John, as is his name, speaks about as much French as I do. Awesome.

We take the train from the airport to Casa Port Gare de Train (just a little Francais for you) after a small crisis where we needed to transfer trains, and luckily a few people around us spoke English and were able to help us in the right direction. We get to the train station and are given the BEST walking directions (down street, lane, NO! lane, NO! lane, left, YES!) by a good natured Petit taxi driver who gave us directions even after we did not choose to take a cab with him.

We arrive at the hostel which thankfully had rooms available, (do people often vacation to Morocco on Christmas? I do not know) and after putting on an extra hoodie--because most Mediterranean climates get cold in the dead of winter, a fact that Elena and I drastically underestimated--the 3 of us set out to the Al Hassan II Mosque, which can fit up to 120,000 worshippers. Damn, that would be an incredible religious experience, no matter who you are.

The Mosque, built in the last 10 years (I think...) was made by the former King, Mohammad V, in an attempt to give Casa a big attraction. Its gorgeous, and one of the only Mosques in Morocco where non-Muslims can enter (only certain parts, obviously). It is located on the ocean, so there is a beautiful view, and we got there around 2pm, so the sun was out and it was relatively warm. I took about 50 pictures. The whole thing is blue, green, white and gold and done completely in mosaic. Its truly incredible how much time and effort must have gone into it.

After the mosque, we walked back to our hostel to get yet MORE warm clothes as we were all freezing. (We live in GHANA where the temperature was around 35 degrees Celsius=really hot) and then wandered through the Medina (old city, where all the souks and markets were) we bought postcards, which later became an addiction of mine, and THE BEST DONUTS IN THE WORLD!

The donuts were round discs of dough, deep fried in front of us, making them hollow in the inside. They are then cut open with scissors, filled with apricot jam (of my god! The apricot jam!) and dipped in sugar. They are then eaten to enter a state of euphoria. For 2 Durham (about 25 cents...I think) they were perfection.

We then got lost in the Medina, found a cafe, got our first of MANY Moroccan Mint Teas for about 1USD and wandered around until we were all too tired and cold to continue, and retired back to the hostel.

John left us the next morning to go meet friends in France (good luck with the French buddy!) and Elena and I spent our second day in Morocco wandering around in the RAIN! We were forced to buy hats and scarves and hid in a restaurant for about 2 hours watching Moroccan music videos and eating really good pizza. (It had been so long...) We also went to the creepiest Internet cafe IN THE WORLD where not only were cockroaches crawling everywhere, but the youth who set up the computers for us decided he loved Elena, and while I was hurriedly browsing the web, Elena was able to tell me (IN TWI) that the guy was a big creeper. (Uhhh...Andrea...obaa ye creeper paa!) I turn to see this 17 year old douche bag stroking Elena's face as she looks horrified. The only thing I could think to do was shout NO! at him which made Elena laugh at least...we quickly peaced it out of there. Poor Elena.

Casa was fun, but pretty ritzy...so we decided 2 days would be enough, and after MORE pizza for dinner and getting lost in the Medina, where a man who spoke NO English helped us find our way back. This was to become a recurring theme. The next morning we boarded a train for Rabat.

I love you.

I guess thats the problem, huh?

2008-01-11T05:41:00.000-08:00

bonjour from Morocco!

So I will preface the following with the statement that I am typing on a keyboard meant for french and arabic but not english and I cannot for the life of me figure out where the apostrophe is, so forgive my contractions their lack of apostrophe, please.

I found out today that my wonderful grandpa died on Wednesday evening. I found out via myspace message from my little sisters myspace and that is strange. But how else could I be reached. My Ghanaian phone does not work in Morocco and my family has no idea where I am staying, mainly because I dont know where I will stay until I am at the doorstep.

I wish so much that I could talk with my family, my mom especially, but I cant figure out how to call the states from a pay phone here, and it will be like 20 dollars, which I need to eat with, and this one moment is so frustrating because I have so many plans to run away and travel and explore but what about all the people I LOVE who I leave behind. In the case of my grandpa we all knew it was coming, and I am very thankful that he isnt in pain any more, because he was, for so long, but what about all the people HE left behind who are in pain, and I am halfway across the world not being able to comfort them or go the funeral or say goodbye one more time, and I hate that so much.

Is this the sacrifice I make by seeing the world? What a terrible bargain. On the other hand you cant live your whole life afraid something horrible will happen when you leave for a while, right?
Fear is such a cage, but I guess love is too.

By the way, Morocco is wonderful, and very very cold. I have a novel of stories in the works, which will be up eventually, most likely when I have a computer I understand back.

I hope you all are safe and well. As Chris Walla says, Take care of each other.

I love you.

Blahhhh alykrelteworwsdiogsdlktjew;rpspejdjdfg'dgkols!!!!

2007-12-23T08:31:00.000-08:00

Ahhhh!

There is so much to say and I have limited time in the Internet cafe and it will be closed tomorrow and I leave to travel Morocco on Tuesday, and I don't know when I'm gonna be able to get online again, and I know when I get back I will tons of MOROCCO stuff to say, and I will have forgotten all my GHANA stuff to say. Yeeeeeeesh.

So: Out of an original group of 60 people there are about 15 of us left. The day that most everyone left was TERRIBLE. Oh my god. I haven't cried so much since I said goodbye to Tyra and Melody outside Holy Cow at like 2am my last night out in the city. So...there were a lot of tears. SO many tears. My handkerchief ( I have several--to wipe sweat, not tears or snot) was DISGUSTING. It got quite the scrubbing in a bucket of cold water and bar soap in between my jeans and one of my 5 wife beaters. Let me tell you.

I realized as I was hugging goodbye all these incredible fascinating people I have met here that I am always the one leaving. I don't think there has ever been a time when I have been left. That was the strangest feeling. I mean, I left Sweet Home for San Francisco, I've left like 6 jobs on my own, and have left really wonderful friends behind. I left San Francisco for Ghana, and now 45 people left me in Ghana to figure out how to function without this huge group around me. They shifted my reality and perception of what my Ghana experience IS. The second half will be infinitely different from the first. Different people, a new sense of belonging, the fear that I will do something wrong has been numbed, it's still there under the surface...but Ghana has become my home...at least for the time being. Wow.

All of these people leaving also made me realize that I am leaving eventually. I still have 6 months, which is longer than I've even been gone...but that time is only going to get smaller, and that is SO terrifying. There is so much to do and see and feel and experience in such a small amount of time. I find myself wishing I didn't have to go to school...even though that is the purpose for my stay.

The last 3 weeks here have been really intense. I finished my finals, maybe not with flying colors...but then again, a 70% is an A here...so who knows? I finally finished that research paper, with my advisor being horrible and heartless until the end. In the process of finishing that paper I got to meet and interview the former First Lady of Ghana, Nana Rawlings. She is the president of a women's organization I was writing my research about, and a total feminist. I really liked her, even though I was a little afraid of her. I travelled to Ada Foah (Adda Fo) Estuary, where the Volta river meets the ocean (it was practically a calendar picture, perfect beaches, palm trees, hammocks, amazing) and climbed Wli (Vlee) Falls. This is maybe the hardest thing I have done in a long, long, time--4 hours up and back down an incredibly steep mountain to see both the upper and lower falls, but totally worth it because we totally got to SWIM in the water fall pools. It was wonderful. And then just hanging out with people until they boarded planes to go back to a world I am starting to blur with everything I've grown used to here.

After everyone left campus (international and Ghanaian students alike) the National People's Party (NPP) held their election on campus to pick their candidate for the upcoming presidential election in 2008. 19 men covered the campus in their campaign posters and billboards, and in a matter of about 2 days, 2300 delegates from around the country arrived to cast their votes on Saturday. With them came what seemed to be half of Ghana in the form of supporters, merchants, protesters, and general ass-holes. All of us oboruni (white/foreign) girls hid in our dorms for the majority of the weekend in order to save ourselves from the inevitable harassment. (not being able to blend in EVER can really be a pain) The elections are over, and now campus is covered in garbage. Tons of food remains, campaign posters, water sachets (pure water is sold in about 16oz plastic bags for 5 pesewas--not sure I mentioned before...) among the mess.

I've also been planning a 3 week trip to Morocco with Elena. We leave on Christmas day (4:00am flight--yummm) and are visiting Casablanca, Rabat, Fes, and Marrakesh, and might pop over to Spain for a day or two. It is going to be a really nice vacation from everything. Different from both Ghana and the States. We're hoping that the different cultural climate will be fun, but won't put us through a new form of culture shock...here's hoping.

I will write about my Morocco adventures when I get back--possibly along the way, depending on the availability of Internet cafes.

Have a wonderful Christmas and a Happy New Year!

I love you.

And then there were 9...

2007-11-22T01:53:00.000-08:00

Hola!

This has taken a little longer than I wanted it to...but this blog site has been a little finicky as of late. I just got back from a 5 day trip to Northern Ghana where Elena, Megan and I visited Mole (Mole-lay) National Park. Like it usually goes, the journey was as exciting (if not more so) than the destination.

The whole thing was to start Friday morning at 8am when our STC (stands for intercity travel or something...) was scheduled to leave. Due to IMMENSE traffic, we didn't arrive at the bus station until 8:30. Thinking we had missed our bus, we were pretty panicked and ran into the station wondering if it had indeed left without us. Thankfully, the bus hadn't even arrived yet. We sat down to wait, and were pleasantly surprised to see our friends Tristan and Michael show up, with tickets to the same bus, and plans to travel to Mole as well.

We proceeded to make plans, book hotel rooms for Friday night in Tamale, the main transfer point when travelling from Accra to Northern Ghana, including Mole. The drive takes about 14 hours, and there are only a few buses going from Tamale to Mole, so we had to stay the night in Tamale. Then, as the bus still hadn't arrived, we proceeded to play card games, and had a Speed tournament, which Megan won, but had to stop pretty quickly because apparently we were being so loud we were disturbing everyone else. Whatever.

At 10:30, the bus finally arrived, and so by 11am, our journey had finally begun. Unfortunately, after getting to Achimota, which is literally like 15 minutes outside Accra, the bus broke down. We waited for almost 2 hours before a mechanic finally saved us, and so by 1pm, we were back on the road. We drove about 3 hours before getting to a rest stop where we proceeded to pay 10 pesewas (10 cents) to use the bathroom, and were then informed that the bus was unfit to make it to Tamale, and another one would be sent. From Accra.

We sat down in a small restaurant at the rest stop for the next 3 hours and played Egyptian Rat Screw and Spoons (more card games) with a young German girl who had just arrived in Ghana and was volunteering at a childrens home in Tamale. What a welcome for her I'm sure. So, at 7pm, the adventure had REALLY begun.

We arrived in Tamale at 4:30 in the morning to find that our hotel reservations had been given away. (Big surprise) Just when we were about to panic, one of the many boys who hangs around the bus station offering to take your bags for money informed us that a bus would be leaving at 6am going to Larabanga, which was just 6km from Mole, and we could walk or take a taxi from there. We bought our tickets, crammed onto this incredibly packed bus, and were off. By this time, we hadn't slept in nearly 24 hours--except a few stolen naps on the pretty uncomfortable bus--we hadn't showered or changed our clothes, hadn't brushed our teeth, and had eaten nothing except the snacks we had brought, mainly peanuts, cookies, crackers and tangerines.

On the bus to Larabanga, I sat next to this young Ghanaian man, Osmand, or Ishmael as you prefer, who proceeded to tell me that he really liked me, and wanted my contact information, etc, etc. Seriously, the fact that this kid could even look at me much less handle my ridiculous morning breath shows a firmness of spirit. Anyway, I proceeded to lie, and tell him that not only did I have neither a phone nor address, but that I was leaving Ghana in a mere 3 weeks. Oops. Osmand was not discouraged. He told me that God-willing we would meet again, and that if I decided to stay in Ghana he would buy me a Cannery.

"A Cannery?" I asked, confused.
"Yes. A Cannery." replies Osmand.
"Wha...? I don't know what that is..." say I, confused and less amused than I should be. (24 hours! No sleep!)
"A Cannery! A Cannery! You don't know a Cannery? It sings and it is yellow..." Somewhat desperate to be understood Osmand.
"A Canary? Like the bird?" I am a little taken back by his passion to be understood.
"Yes! Yes! You know a Cannery?" Relieved Osmand.

In my head I am thinking: That's all I'm gonna get for staying in Ghana FOREVER with this guy? Incredible. Anyway, the ride continues with Osmand continuing to win originality points for telling me that he plays basketball and that he knows Michael Jordan. In fact, they chat online, and he was on his way to go home and chat with MJ right at that moment. Yow.

Eventually, after the bumpiest ride of my life we arrive in Larabanga, and I say goodbye to Osmand forever. (although if God wills it...) Then, the boys Tristan and Michael and their Ghanaian friend Matthew, in their wisdom decide that it would be a GREAT idea to walk along the dirt path to Mole in the 6000 degree heat. (FYI: Northern Ghana is not nearly as humid as Southern Ghana, but is also SO much hotter) I lost interest in this idea pretty quickly and Elena, Megan and I hop in a taxi to the park.

We arrive and it is wonderful once we finally get our room. It had 3 separate beds and was huge and very nice, definitely did not have running water all the time, but you learn to live without that stuff when you need to. Besides, management left us 3 buckets full of water to shower with. Which we did.

After lunch and a much needed nap, we got up for a 3:30 Safari walk through the park. It was SO incredible. We saw elephants, kob and bushbuck (from the Antelope family), baboons, warthogs and a lot of beautiful birds. We were the only group to see elephants in the last 2 days because it was their mating season, and most were further into the park where humans don't get to go. After the walk we showered, ate and fell asleep at like 7:30. It was amazing.

We had another walk at 6:30 the next morning, which was much less successful than our walk the day before. We didn't actually see anything for the first 90 minutes of the 2 hour walk, and didn't see elephants at all. However, after the walk, we were about to get lunch when 2 elephants appeared at the watering holes which are perfectly visible from the hotel restaurant and pool, so we were able to watch them drinking for a while.

After a refreshing swim in the chlorine filled pool (seriously, eyes burning after 65 seconds) we were sitting around continuing to watch the elephants, and decided to order french fries to munch upon. While we were waiting, 3 Pettris Monkeys wandered out of nowhere and started walking around the pool, eating bugs and being really cute and we were all damning ourselves for not bringing our cameras with us, and wasn't it so cure when that monkey tried to take that girl's purse and we all laughed heartily when the girl tried to get it back and then the monkey kind of swung at her, ha ha ha. Right?

Well, the fries arrive, and literally 2 seconds after they are set on our table, we see this monkey walking up to us. Surely he won't get closer right? WRONG! Just as we're kind of giggling about how the WILD MONKEY will not jump on our table, THE WILD MONKEY JUMPS ON OUR TABLE AND BEGINS TO EAT OUR FRIES!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! The monkey is quickly shooed away by restaurant staff who look a little put out by our request for more fries. (Monkeys carry RABIES and probably Ebola too, FYI) However, the monkey returns, tries to take our stuff now, and it is a little less funny--I might venture to say really scary--when the monkey hisses and swipes at US. Yeesh.

So, the day continues. Megan and I go on one last Safari walk while Elena takes a nap, where we are put in a group with 4 of the rudest Dutch bitches I've ever met in my entire life. (probably the only ones...but still) They talked at loud as they could the entire time, scared off all the animals, made fun of us when we asked them POLITELY to please just shutthefuckup, and were really rude to our guide. Lame end to a very fun/terrifying day.

The next morning (at 4:30) we boarded a bus from the Park back to Tamale, where we decided to take a Tro Tro to Bolgatanga (further north) and then continue on to Paga at the very north of Ghana on the Burkina Faso border. Paga is the home to a sacred pool of crocodiles which are said to have never hurt a human. We were about to find out.

After taking 2 tros--the first threatened to BLOW UP (I kid you not) leaving us in Walewale (wally-wally) where we were befriended by the local Postmaster, who ended up inviting us to stay the night at his house, and sleep in his wife's bed (we politely refused) and then went on to try and charge us 65 cedis ($65) for a taxi from Walewale to Paga. (about an hour away=ridiculous) We then took our second taxi which was at least a million degrees and which we were forced to sit in for at least an hour before actually going anywhere. Thank god for men on bikes who sell Fan Ice (frozen chocolate and vanilla milk and strawberry yogurt= amazing) Anyway, we finally get to Bolgatanga, take a taxi to Paga (for 6 cedis, FYI) and then go see the crocs.

In order to get the crocodiles out of the water we were forced to buy a LIVE chicken which was repeatedly thrown into the water where it floated like a bath toy while more and more pairs of black eyes popped to the surface and slid toward the shore. In total, 5 crocodiles came out of the pool to meet us--and by meet us I mean hold completely, creepily still while we held onto their tails and posed for pictures. Then, all of a sudden as Elena was holding the tail of this huge crocodile, one of the men who works at the pool threw the poor chicken into it's mouth, and the chicken is no longer. Poor Elena, she is definitely a vegan.

After that, we took some ridiculous pictures at the Burkina Faso border which we did not cross, and then hopped a taxi back to Bolga, and then a tro (the most uncomfortable tro in the entire world which was horribly overcrowded) back to Tamale. Upon arrival in Tamale every hotel but this super gross and pretty creepy hotel--which we obviously took--was booked. I mean, my door wouldn't open from the INSIDE! Then, we found dinner, went to bed where we proceeded to simultaneously sweat through our clothes and get eaten my mosquitoes, until 4:45 am, when we got up to catch a bus back to Accra.

Our bus to Accra was highly uneventful except for the ridiculous Nigerian movies played, for which we were grateful. We finally left the bus, caught a taxi, just in time to miss a HUGE rainstorm! Yay! Unfortunately, our cab's windshield wiper broke, then the sun roof leaked all over me in the front seat, and then, stuck in bumper-to-bumper traffic, the battery died.

Like the adventurers that we are, Elena, Megan and I hopped out of the taxi in the pouring rain and proceeded to push it (in the rain!) until it eventually started. Much laughing ensued at the sight of 3 Oboruni women pushing a cab in the rain and dark in the middle of Accra. Ha ha indeed.

We arrived home, took bucket baths, as the water was out in Volta Hall, and went to sleep. Oh yes, and in all this ridiculousness, I lost a second toenail. Not sure I mentioned before, but I lost one a few weeks back, which has eventually regrown, but now I am down to nine once more. Alas.

I love you.

This is for the one I love

2007-11-03T07:21:00.000-07:00

Dear Trader Joe's,

I miss you. I miss your marinated tofu. I miss your eco-friendly re-useable bags. Things are different here. I go through black plastic bags like they're water. I tried buying a reusable bag...but the zipper broke. I still use it though. I use it when I don't have time to do my own laundry, or its raining outside and I can't hang my clothes. I put my dirty laundry in this plastic re-useable bag and take it to Akuafo Hall and pay 9 Ghana Cedis to get my laundry washed and dried. It really is nice not to have starchy underwear. I'm sure you understand.

Sometimes when I am eating Jollof Rice for the third day in a row I find myself thinking of Morning Star Farms fake chicken patties. Sometimes I crave whole wheat bread so much I convince myself that the white bread that has been dyed brown actually has nutritional value. I dream about brocolli flourets sometimes. Not every night. No, its not that bad, I just...miss them. I miss you. Your know what's funny? I used to love plantains so much! I would only eat them like twice a year, sometimes I would get them with a salad when I had long breaks between classes at school. I used to think about fried plantains. Now I just think about how many plantains I have eaten in the last week. Its a lot. What wouldn't I do for canned corn? For almond butter? For soy milk?

Trader Joes? Do you still sell soytzels? They were so good with organic peanut butter! The wonderful burnt taste...it took awhile to get used to it...but once I did I was hooked for life. It was like that scene in Mr. Hollands Opus when Mr. Holland is explaining to his wife how he felt when he first heard John Coltrain. It was just like that!

I watched When Harry Met Sally last week. It was so funny. I don't know if I ever really appreciated how much I love that film until it was the first film I'd seen in awhile. Billy Crystal is not even remotely sexy, but I would fall in love with him in that film, just like Sally does. I've been reading Harry Potter over and over. Maybe I can't admit that its over? I think I appreciate that I know what's going to happen, but it doesn't take away from the excitement at all! It is still so wonderful. I found a copy of Harry Potter and The Half-Blood Prince last week and now I've been reading that one too. Its so amazing, J.K. Rowling is a genius. I hope you don't think I'm crazy.

When I travel for my winter break, I might have to eat meat. I really want to climb Mt. Cameroon, but to do it I will have to put my diet directly in the hands of my guides. And, it seems pretty obvious that jerkey and dried fish is easier to carry around a mountain than eggs. That's okay though...my cholesterol must be really high right now.

I'm being brave...my body really hates it here. I think it might hate me more when I get back to you...but you'll win it back over quickly with your fiber cakes, your organic strawberries, your wonderful coffee, your cheese. Oh, your cheese! How I miss calcium! In little more than seven months I will be full of wonderful memories and a once in a lifetime experience that I appreciate more than I could ever, ever express. I will also be full of starch. But, you'll help me fix that. I know you will.

I love you.

22 Years...and then some

2007-10-14T07:18:00.000-07:00

Hihihihihi,

I haven't written in awhile, and there is so much to say!! Unfortunately, as is generally the case, the fun and different generally takes a back seat to the ridiculousness that is my life. The 22nd anniversary of my birth was no exception.

So, after traveling 2 weekends in a row (one trip to Kokro Bite Beach--lots of fun, beautiful beach, HORRIBLE sunburn, great pancakes and pasta--and the other to Tafi Atome Monkey Sanctuary--crazy rainstorm, potential Tro Tro accident, walking 5km in mud and god-knows-what-else, FEEDING MONA MONKEYS BANANAS, great game of Kings Cup in our room) I was looking forward to staying home the weekend of my birthday, especially as I had 2 papers due the next week, and trying to print your stuff out can get pretty intense, so some of my friends and I decided to have a great burrito night b-day celebration. We invited our whole group of Californians, and some of our new Ghanaian friends. Unfortunately, for the party, the electricity went out about an hour before the cooking was supposed to commence, a huge thunder storm appeared out of nowhere, and, to top it all off, in our efforts to make green chile for the party, Elena and I burned our hands (on the peppers) so badly they were on fire for literally 6 hours. The power finally came back on around 8, and my friends had gotten me a BEAUTIFUL cake (with my name on it and everything!) and the burrito eating commenced! I was still trying to cope with my intense chile burns (we tried everything to make it stop: milk, tomatoes, hydrocortizone cream, ice, cocoa butter, gin, etc, etc and nothing worked) so I didn't really eat that much, but the party was fun in the end. So much for a perfect African fiesta.

Anyway, moving on. Since then I attended a CRAZY toga party for another birthday, the theme was that everyone had to wear African cloth, and there was NO STITCHING ALLOWED. It was really amazing what some people came up with. I cheated a little, and wore leggings under my bright green fabric tied into a tube top and skirt-thing, but no one seemed to care. What was really amazing was that no one wore the same fabric at all! A bunch of Ghanaians were there too, and it was just a fun college party, complete with a game of flip cup (I didn't participate, I was too busy dancing) and it was great to have a laid back night with everyone.

I have also been playing Rugby in the past 6 weeks. We are in the process of creating a women's rugby team at the University of Ghana, however, only Oboruni girls have shown up to play. We had our first game last weekend, against a team of secondary school girls, and we were KILLED! These girls (who all looked like they were about 9) were SO fast,we just couldn't keep up with them, and, they played SO dirty! I was punched in the face twice, a girl tackled me and then elbowed me in the face, and another girl picked me up and dropped me on the ground!! It was insane. A bunch of our friends showed up to laugh at us and cheer us on, and it really was a lot of fun. We are supposed to have one more game before the end of the semester, so hopefully we'll be ready!

In addition to all this, I am SO behind in school! I have only just begun my field work for my research project, which is due in a month, and all of a sudden I have tons of papers and projects to do for my classes, which is ridiculous because we seriously haven't been doing anything in any of my classes for the entire semester! Oh well...its my fault to delaying so long on my project, a fact that my adviser is pretty ready to point out at any available opportunity. Eeesh.

Tonight all the international students are having this huge Halloween party, it should be a lot of fun. I am dressing up as one of the boys in my program, he is super tall, has long hair, a mustache, and wears bright colored pants, so my costume will not be remotely sexy, of which I am grateful, as the party is shaping up to be about 80% male. Okay, I am off to do research, I promise I will not delay so long on the blogging again.

I love you.

Just a Quickie

2007-09-27T02:00:00.000-07:00

Wo ho te sen?

I have literally 20 minutes and 17 seconds left to write a quick blog, so forgive the hastiness. Things have been good here on the equator, except it is so hot now, all the time I have no motivation to do anything but read books in my dorm room. I have finished Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows (twice), Long Walk to Freedom (Nelson Mandela's Autobiography--amazing) and Drop City by T.C. Boyle. (I don't recommend) and have now started The Poisonwood Bible by Barbara Kingsolver, which is supposed to be amazing, and so far, is.

I know. I am so lame. I am in freaking Africa and I am reading American novels. In my defense I did also read Things Fall Apart by Chinua Achebe, about the beginnings of colonization in present-day Nigeria. (also amazing) and, it is SO HOT. We are talking 100 degrees (at least) with 100% humidity. It gets unbearably hot by 8:30, and doesn't quit until at least 7pm, and even then, its too hot to sleep, and we can't leave doors and windows open because of the mosquitoes. Needless to say, I smell great all the time.

This weekend I am escaping campus to go to Kokobrite (cocoa-breetay) Beach with Elena, Megan, and our friend Heather. It should be a lot of fun, and will give me a chance to even out the incredible wife-beater tan I have acquired.

Today has started out okay (its currently 9am) I went running with Megan, (something that needs to happen all the time seeing as my Ghanaian diet is starting to consist of white bread and rice) then got breakfast with Elena, which was good except the fly that committed suicide in my coffee--killing my soul a little with it--and am now going to drop some fabric off at my new favorite Seamstress's' place to get two pairs of shorts and a new dress. (I need something to wear in all this heat, jeez) Later I have a presentation for my independent study project...we'll see how it goes.

I'll write about my weekend soon. I love you.

Take Two

2007-09-17T06:24:00.000-07:00

Wo ho te sen? (this is Twi for "how are you?" it literally means "how is your body?" the response is: Me ho ye. Or, "my body is fine" I can honestly say that this is one of very few phrases I can mutter with correct accent and one I can reply to with confidence. Anyway...my body is fine, and I hope yours is too.)

I have SO many stories! Most are general ridiculousness that would probably only happen to me. For instance: that time it was literally like 100 degrees (Fahrenheit, only like...35 degrees Celsius?) and I was in the hottest classroom in the world (where 3 of my 5 classes are...) and like 17 Ghanaian students all squeeze into MY row, even though there was really only room for about 8 of them, and I was wearing a 100% linen shirt, so I was IMMEDIATELY the really gross white girl with a total sweat band around my shirt and down my back. Gross. And also hilarious in about 10-12 months.

There are also the things like the fact that I might have a toe fungus (they take about a year to go away...too bad its flip flop season ALL THE TIME here,) How my Africa Under Colonial Rule professor hasn't shown up in 2 weeks, however has gone far enough to A.) give enormous reading assignments, and B.) Call the TA in the class after we have been waiting for him for nearly an hour, and tell us that he is on his way and is stuck in traffic, and no one is allowed to leave. This class is 2 hours long, so after an hour and 45 minutes, I decided I needed to leave. I mean seriously. There is also the time when I went into Accra to pick up the package my parents sent me (4 boxes of tampons!!!) and this ridiculous thugged-out Ghanaian guy who apparently thought that a white girl from Sweet Home Oregon would be impressed with his thuginess, (even though neither she nor he probably know anything about WHY "thugs" wear really baggy pants and "bling-bling") and decided to play this third grade game of tag with her (meaning he got up from the counter he was leaning against and tapped her on the shoulder as fast as he could, and then went back to leaning against his counter, maybe hoping she wouldn't see?) But she saw and was completely unimpressed with both the thuginess AND the game of tag she once played with boys on the playground at Oak Heights Elementary School. Sadly, this girl, ME, did not come to Ghana to act like she is 11. Crazy. I know.

Besides the ridiculous, which, let's face it follows me everywhere, things have been pretty tame around here. School has really started, and besides the pretty large amount of reading I have to do for both my Colonial Rule class and my Black Diaspora class, things are very mellow. I did decide to drop my African Literature class as it was both 3 hours long and also the most boring class I have ever taken in my life. I have replaced it with Gender Issues in Religion and Society. Which might turn out to be the most interesting class EVER. Why? You might ask. Well, this class is made up of about 50 people. About 15 are oboruni (white--spelled correctly this time) women, and the other 35 or so are Ghanaian men and women. (Apparently oboruni men know better?) Anyway, the oboruni women and Ghanaian men represent too very opposite sides of the gender spectrum. For example: at one point during the discussion, the scenario was raised that if a Ghanaian family had one boy and one girl, but only enough money to educate one, who would they logically choose? (Obviously they would choose the boy, as men are seen as the providers and women marry and leave the family, so it is the boy who will provide for the larger family unit, etc, etc.) These ideas were voiced in various ways, and then one man raised his hand to say "Well, it would be a waste of time to educate the female." WHAT!!! I could barely believe my ears! To be fair, in the context, and after the other before-mentioned ideas were expressed, this is a somewhat valid statement, however, WHO JUST SAYS THAT???? The answer: Apparently a lot of people. As was soon proven. when "power" was described as a man being able to provide for his family, financially stable women were described as being "disrespectful" to their husbands, and when someone (a guy) made the statement that every woman he knew with children had thoroughly enjoyed being pregnant. I think I am about to learn A LOT about gender culture in Ghana. I am so excited!

Today has been pretty decent thus-far. I took my friend (and by took, I mean accompanied her in a taxi--which she paid for) to the hospital to get her ankle looked at (she tore a ligament during a football game last week) then we went to lunch, talked a lot about ourselves--I learned Becky's mom died when she was 13, and about her religion, Baha'i. I told her about all my plans for the future (which are a forever fluid group of ideas that change intensity and priority almost daily) and later today I am going shopping for food and dishes to accompany my new HOT PLATE! This thing is going to change EVERYTHING! (I hope it will at least help me eat vegetables without getting sick--that would be a pretty big accomplishment.) In other news, I decided not to go forward with Cross Country, but I might be playing women's RUGBY soon. I'll keep you posted. I love you.

Clean Laundry and Football

2007-09-07T02:25:00.000-07:00

Hello again,

So...I have calmed down considerably since the last blog/rant. My schedule has finally been figured out! I am now taking Twi, Economic History of West Africa 1700-1860, The Black Diaspora, Colonial Rule and African Response, and Masterpieces of African Literature. Along with my independent research project (which has changed for the fourth time) examining the creation of women's NGOs in Ghana in the period of 1982-1992(ish...) when Ghana was under a pretty dictatorial government. Who was saying what women's roles were under this military regime? Etc.

In other good news, I gave in to temptation and paid to have 2 loads of laundry washed and dried in machines for me. I think that it was 6 cedis well spent. Especially considering that one of my purses has started to mold...Also, my towel is now both soft and clean, when, up until now it has either been soft and damp (and subsequently kind of smelly) or clean and sand-papery. I can tell you that after a 3.5 minute ice cold shower, neither of these options are that appealing. Oh well.

I have been in Ghana for 6 weeks! I am starting to realize how quickly the year will go by. Now that I have reading assignments, research to do, and football games to attend, I know that this first semester will be gone very quickly. Its both good and bad. In some ways I am so ready to go home. I want to dry my clothes, and take warm showers, and know that the toilets will flush, and not get stared at everywhere I go. But also, there are so many amazing things here. The break down of infrastructure makes everyone work so much harder. This is not a bad thing. People relate to one another in ways that would never happen in America. There is a level of comfortable that I can't describe other than say that people are so open here. About everything. The number of times I have had conversations about bowel movements is huge. Because you have to! Everyone is so willing to help out, and go further, and try harder, because that is just what you do. I hope I will remember those things when I leave.

I bought an orange yesterday using Twi! What an accomplishment! The woman just laughed at me the whole time, but she understood me, and it was amazing! (it was a very good orange too) Also, I watched the live broadcast of the U-17 world cup. The match between Ghana and Spain played on Wednesday morning, in Akuafo Hall, one of the dorms here. It was SO FUN! It was mainly Ghanaian men there, and then me and about 7 other white students, but everyone was screaming and singing and yelling at every call! Ghana lost 2 to 1 in the second overtime, which was heartbreaking but I am now VERY excited to attend some of the Africa Cup games, which will be held in January in Ghana. And, Ghana is the best football team in Africa, so its gonna be CRAZY! I can't wait.

Speaking of crazy. The weekend in Cape Coast was really fun. Elena's birthday was Friday, and so we all drank a lot (I held back as to take care of the birthday girl--who desperately needed it) and then went dancing on the beach. Because I am the best roommate ever, I shoved about a liter of water down Elena's throat, along with a loaf of bread, and she did not vomit and did not have a hangover the next morning. (Thank you, Andrea) The lack of hangover was a good thing because we ended up spending all day Saturday dancing in the streets of Cape Coast in the middle of this huge parade celebrating Cape Coast's New Year. It was wet and cold and so much fun. Other than the fact that some drunk Ghanaian teen poured Guinness in my hair...

On Sunday, we went to Kukum National Park to do the canopy walk. We walked through the top of a rain forest. I have some pretty incredible pictures. I will definitely show you. In 9 months when I come back. Wow...I love you.

Bureaucracy is a four letter word

2007-08-30T11:47:00.000-07:00

Hello,

I must preface this rant disguised as a blog with the statement that I really am having an amazing time here. I am leaving for a weekend long festival in Cape Coast, and will then be on my way to Kukum National Park to do the canopy walk. I succeeded in buying wheat bread and oatmeal today, and I really enjoyed my first Twi class today. Not all is lost. However, despite the good, today was one of the longest days of my life. It is only 7pm.

Soooo, one of the reasons it happened to be ridiculously long is that I woke up at 4:20 (in the morning) today. By choice. In an effort to get fit, hang out with new friends, and make more, I have decided to join the Volta Hall (my all girl dorm) cross country team. This week is training for all the Volta ladies teams, including table tennis. The training involves a 20 minute run and then some crunches, sit ups, and stretching. AT FOUR IN THE MORNING. After the workout, I was sweaty and awake, so after my shower I decided to do my laundry. At 6am. Ridiculous? Maybe. Because we will be in Cape Coast all weekend, I will miss my usual Sunday morning ritual of washing all the weeks clothes under the thinly veiled judgement of all the girls going to church. (They all get up at around 5 on Saturday morning to do their washing. No thanks.) So, I washed all my clothes, and then me and Elena went to breakfast, where I only had to wait about 5 minutes (instead of the usual 20) to get my oatmeal and coffee. I have realized that oatmeal is my only chance for fiber here, and I am willing to wait for my colon's health.

Moving on. After breakfast I went to my first Twi lesson. The class is special for the people in my group, and is held in our own special study center located at the top of campus. Today my orientation journal and my ridiculously brown-nosing essay on "What I Learned from Orientation" were due. Our orientation, which really was immensely helpful, has also succeeded in reducing the 60 of us college age men and women into children, not to mention has continually saddled us with innumerable spur of the moment meetings with a million random people, not to mention tons of ridiculous (Orientation journal?) homework. So, I go to my Twi class. This class is scheduled to be in two groupings. The first is Monday and Wednesday mornings at 9:30 and the second is Tuesdays at 11:30 and Thursdays at 9:30. I have a class during Mondays lessons, so the second option works better because I have my African Literature class from 8:30 to 11:30 on Tuesdays (no kidding. 3 hour lit class at 8:30. Gross) and no classes on Thursdays. So, I get to class and find out that not only am I REQUIRED to turn in my class schedule TODAY, before leaving for Cape Coast, but Twi has been moved to 9:30 on Tuesdays.

This is frustrating for several reasons. First, and more obvious, I have another class during the Tuesday lesson. And since I also have a class (African History to 1500) on Mondays, it is now apparent that I will be unable to take Twi. The more complicated, is that some of my professors have yet to show up for class. I am serious. Not to mention, the add/drop date is not until Sept. 7th, AND the exam schedule is still not posted. Let me clarify. I am required to turn in a paper that says, in finality, what classes I will be taking, and with who, when I have not even had some of my classes yet, and I don't know when any of my final exams are, so I am unaware as to whether the classes I have signed up for yet will be feasible when it comes to exam time. And then, to make everything just a little more complicated, they have changed the time of the class that I was working my entire schedule around. I hated everyone.

This is where the bureaucracy really kills me. I am suffering under the demands of this goddamn study center, who changes its mind all the time, and doesn't bother to tell me until the day before I have to drop something, or change something, and it is all because the study center that I am being screwed over by here in Ghana is being screwed over my all the different schools in the States that are making it turn in copies of our registration BEFORE THE ADD/DROP DATE OF THE SCHOOL. Is this ridiculous to anyone else????!!!!??? God.

Moving on, again. To make my frustration even more dense, I was also informed that I would have to do a presentation, complete with literary review, of my independent study project, next week. You may be wondering: "what is this special study project?" I will tell you. I am required to write a 30 page paper about a topic that I will individually research and execute, under the supervision of a campus Professor, who I must find. This project does nothing for any requirement at my school. I repeat: this 30 page paper, that I am required to spend AT LEAST 10 hours a week researching, DOES NOT FULFILL ANY REQUIREMENT AT SAN FRANCISCO STATE UNIVERSITY. Ahhhhhhhhhh! To make matters worse (yes, it gets worse) I had a project set up, and had found an advisor all on my own, but my ridiculous (and terrifying) orientation advisor woman who is in charge of all of us, told me I could not do my project, and gave me an entirely new one. Granted, her project is better that mine was. Unfortunately, I have to do EXTENSIVE background research, not to mention, find a new professor to advise me in a week. Oh yeah. I will be gone all weekend.

And, to top everything off, it starting pouring (we are talking torrential downpour here) in the middle of me crashing a new African History class that I am forced to take instead of African History to 1500, (as I must take Twi. Schedule completely fucked? yes.) so all my laundry, that I needed for the weekend will never dry in time. How are you expected to hang dry clothes during the rainy season??? How??!

In good news, I can hear again, I am finally done with my antibiotics, so I can actually eat without wanting to kill myself, and tomorrow is Elena's birthday, so its gonna be a 3 day party in Cape Coast. After today I really need it. I love you.

Maybe, baby.

2007-08-23T04:30:00.000-07:00

Hi, hi, hi, hi, hi.

Soooooo, since the Mountain Biking adventure much more, much less fun stuff has transpired. Basically, my left ear still doesn't work. However, that may not be the biggest of my health worries. On Monday I woke up feeling ridiculously lethargic and kind of dizzy. I soldiered through my morning, but by around 10am, my dizziness was getting worse and I had developed a fever. I made the command decision that maybe I should return to the hospital and find out what was going on. On the walk there, I started getting achy in my joints. You may not know it (as most of you reading this DO NOT live in Sub-Saharan Africa) but these are all symptoms of Malaria. I was a little freaked out, and feeling worse by the minute, so Elena escorted me to the hospital where it was complete and total chaos. I am talking lines and lines of people waiting for I-don't-know-what. I joined the line for registration thinking it would take at least 20 minutes to get through it. I was very, very wrong.

I have not yet explained the complete inability of Ghanaians to form a line. As an American, I thrive on order and form, and JUST DO NOT UNDERSTAND HOW IT COULD POSSIBLY BE OKAY TO JUST JUMP TO THE FRONT OF A LINE WHENEVER YOU WANT TO. But here it is. It is okay for random people who do not want to wait to simply get in front of a service window and be helped. Immediately. It was ridiculous. I waited and was pushed to the back over and over and over for over an hour. I was near tears several times as I felt like I was about to faint, Elena had left me to go to a class, and I could neither understand the different conversations around me, nor could I hear any of the conversations in English because of my ear. If it hadn't been happening to me it would have been a situation worthy of a sitcom.

But...it was happening to me, and I wanted to shoot someone. Finally the 10 or so people who had shoved in front of me took pity on me and let me register, where I was given my patient card and sent to wait in a more orderly line to actually see a doctor. I waited here for 45 minutes, and finally got in to see the doctor. After I told her I had been in a few days before, she stopped listening to me explaining to her that I might be DYING of malaria in front of her, and told me I had to see my original doctor. Ahhhhhhhh! I completely lost it. Sobbing, I let the nurse take to to yet ANOTHER line, where she (thankfully) told the doctor that I needed to be the next patient inside.

Finally inside, I am pretty sure that my obviously emotional state made people take me a little less seriously when I started explaining my very real symptoms. However, the doctor did take my temperature, and was did look in my ear again, and at least concluded that I did have both a fever and an ear infection. He then explained to me that because I had been in Ghana almost a month, and was a foreigner, I had to be put on anti-malarial drugs. I then had to have my blood taken, and was told to come back on Tuesday to find out the results. After hearing how frustrated I was with the hospital system, the doctor, Dr. Bulcari, gave me his cell phone number to call if I needed help with anything saying: "I don't want you to be frustrated anymore." I hope he doesn't think I am a spoiled American...

Tuesday I returned to the hospital, where no one could find my patient card, and I was forced to sift through stacks of previous day's cards looking for it. (Seriously) Upon its continued failure to turn up, and my growing frustration (for lack of any other word to use) with the continued ridiculousness, I was finally given a new card. Then, I was told by the douche bag lab guy that I had to see my doctor before I could get my test results. So...I waited in line to see Dr. Bulcari for almost 2 hours, and when finally getting inside I was told to wait longer while my doctor went to yell at the lab guy for not giving me my lab results. Christ. My test was negative. However, only 10% of people with Malaria actually test positive for it...so...

On the bright side I have been feeling much better since taking the huge amounts of medication I was prescribed. Unfortunately, they also make me VERY drowsy and nauseous...so that sucks. However, since none of my classes have actually been attended by those teaching (yes, none of my professors have shown up to class yet...) including my 7:30 am Political Science class...I have had ample time to recover.

In some miscellaneous news, I took my first bucket shower today. The water stopped running around 7pm last night, and has yet to come back on. I doubt I did it right, apparently there is a type of method for bucket showering...I just sort of threw water around...oh well. I hope your health is less sporadic than mine has been lately. I love you.

My left ear

2007-08-18T07:04:00.000-07:00

Hello again,

So in the few days since my last blog, a lot has happened. Among the more boring, I successfully registered for way more classes than I actually am allowed to take, because I have NO IDEA when the hell these classes are offered. I do need to add here, that if I can't take the classes I need...I might never graduate. EVER. hmmmmm

In the more interesting, and much more ridiculous, I woke up on Wednesday feeling like my left ear was full of water, and finding it very difficult to hear out of it. Eventually, the clogged feeling subsided, and I felt fine. That same evening, Elena and I met 8 of our new neighbors. They are all "freshers" and have just completed secondary school. I don't remember all their names...but some were: Debbie, Sylvia, Rose, Emanuela, and a set of twins who said we could call them "P" and "K."I have recently put up some pictures in my room, and among the various things I had, my "George Bush's dumb-ass head on a string" air freshener was taped to the wall. This inspired much discussion, and our neighbors were incredibly curious about why, if we hated our president, had we voted for him. We tried to explain that we hadn't, and they countered with the fact that the majority of our nation had. We attempted to explain that a small portion of people in the US actually vote at all, but it became pretty garbled in socio-economic stuff. At the very least, they think we are: A.) interesting. B.) heathens. C.) going to hell. The answer is C. And it was confirmed when we were invited to a youth group function scheduled for Saturday morning. We had to decline, we had an international student orientation to go to.

Thursday morning I woke up without the ability to hear out of my left ear at all. I had a jogging date planned with my neighbor Sylvia, but decided to cancel, as I felt my ear trouble somewhat serious. Elena, who has had a lot of ear trouble in her life suggested olive oil to break up the fatty lipids (mucus) in my ear. We tried it, twice, with no success other than me being completely embarrassed to be seen by the unusually large amount of visitors who came to our room to see me with cotton balls in my ears. I then tried a decongestant...with no success. In desperation (after the refusal of the Pharmacy guy to sell my ear drops) I tried Hydrogen Peroxide. No luck.

I was pretty frustrated with my ear ridiculousness...but did not let it stop me from going Mountain biking on Friday. Me, Elena, Megan, and Becky went to Aburi, a small town about 40 minutes from Legon and rented bikes to take a tour of these amazing botanical gardens. We decided to take the easiest tour (since none of us have mountain biking experience) but also decided not to take a guide. After a few wrong turns which incredibly nice townspeople helped us out of, we were on the right trail. We were zooming through this incredibly beautiful area, huge palm trees everywhere, a pond to our right, a stream just ahead, and then I crashed in a corn field. No joke. The trails were very narrow, and pretty rocky in some places and if you swerved in one direction you were bound to swerve in the other. My crash was not the last (for me or anyone else) of the day. I succeeded in crashing in random fields at least 3 more times. But the prize for crashing goes to Elena. This girl started the day face-planting in dirt, and ended it by launching herself into a palm tree where she received some pretty deep lacerations on her right arm and all over her breasts where a branch punctured through her shirt and did its damage.

Along the way we took a wrong turn and ended up going about an hour the wrong direction--through a corn field--until we finally turned around, found our mistake, and got back on the correct trail. During this, we were trying so hard to navigate what we were trying to believe was a bike trail, resulting, not only in a multitude of crashes and falling off bikes, but also in me treading through an ants nest and looking down to find at least 20 biting my leg and wriggling into my sock. Momentary freak-out ensued. In the end, this 1.5-2 hour trail took us 4.5 hour to complete. Not to mention none us had eaten for about 8 hours at this point, and we had probably burned through about 1500 calories. In short we were exhausted. On the way home, we stopped at a Shell station (the first I've seen here) and each spent at least 5 cedis on complete, wonderful, crap (Mars bars, chocolate croissants, ice cream, Pringles, candy coated peanuts, and a lot of water too.)

When we returned to campus we went to the hospital, to get Elena's wounds cleaned--she still had quite a bit of tree stuck in her various cuts--and to get my ears looked at, as my left was useless, and my right starting to throb. After a 3 hour wait, Elena was cleaned and given pain killers, and I was told the unnatural amount of "fluid" in my left ear was the result of allergies, and the throbbing in my right the result of over-excited Q-tipping. Ooops. I now have antibiotics and allergy medicine, so if I still can't hear in 3 days, I guess I should be worried.

It probably seems like the biking adventure was not fun. Quite the contrary. In the midst of the falling, the ants, and the impalements, we were laughing the whole time. Even though I am SUPER bad at it, Mountain Biking is SO fun. I am definitely going back soon, and its something I think I could really enjoy in the states. This was my first, true, African adventure. I plan on having many more. I love you.

Seriously Ridiculous

2007-08-13T09:19:00.000-07:00

Hello hello.

So since the Slave Castle drain, its been pretty slow-going around here. The big news is that I have an incredibly bad sunburn. Shocking I know. Since this is maybe the 600th really bad sunburn I have received in my nearly 22 years, I guess it isn't that exciting. I guess the story behind the sunburn is better.

While the majority of the California students were out adventuring Ghana, Elena and I decided to explore Accra, the capital and nearest city to the small Legon, where the University is located. I know I have briefly explained tro-tros, however, I don't think I explained the ridiculousness involved. Tro-tros are the main form of public transit here, and they run like busses, with designated stops, and go to different areas of Accra/Ghana. These large mini-vans are operated by a driver and his "mate" who leans out the window of said vehicle calling out the destination. Unfortunatley, Ghanian English is like another language, so I have some trouble understanding what the hell is being said most of the time. For instance, a tro-tro going into downtown Accra to the main markets simply yells out "Accra" but in Ghanain English it is pronounced "Ack-craw" which is easy enough, but shouted over and over it sounds like "craw, craw, craw." The other major destination is Nhekruma Circle, which is like a turnaround, or station for many tro-tros. It is simply known as "Circle" and so the tro-tro mate yells out what sounds like "sek, sek, sek" which literally took me a week to figure out. After someone took mercy on me and explained it. So....this said, Elena and I decided that figuring out the tro-tro ridiculousness needed to be done before Canopy Walks or seeing Monkeys.

We jumped on a car going to "Circle" and found ourselves about an hour later the new friends of two Ghanaian men. The guy following me around offered to take me to Singapore. About 6 times. We escaped by jumping on a new tro-tro to Accra, which let us off at a very pungently smelling market, which we thought was near a vegetarian restaurant we wanted to try. We started walking through the market, bought bags of water (pure water is sold in plastic bags here for about 4 cents) and assumed we were going in the right direction. We were not. After 20 minutes of walking around in the burning sun we found ourselves at the ocean, and Ussher Town, (home of more historical forts) which under different circumstances we would have found interesting as anything. Unfortunately, we were hot, hungry, and starting to realize we had not applied sunscreen. We decided to take a cab, but in total ridiculousness, every cab that drove by was full. If you had any idea the amount of harrassment we endure EVERY DAY from cab drivers trying to take us places, the irony would be much more apparent. Eventually after walking into some random construction site, we flagged down a cab, which took us to the sight of the restaurant. Or so the cabbie thought. We then wandered around in the baking sun until some poor man took pity on us and practically escorted us to the restaurant. Luckily for us, it was delicious. What was NOT delicious was the dawning realization that the sun had successfully removed much or out epidermuses. Ouch. We decided to head home, which of course included more aimless wandering in the direction of some other "circle" and then a 30 minute tro-tro ride back to campus.

Upon return we surveyed the blistering...which is contained to my shoulders, Elena's shoulders and back suffered more than I did. However, in a lucky twist of fate, we hade puschased Cocoa Butter just that afternoon, which may have been the best spent $2.50 spent thus far.

Today was the beginning of registration for classes. If I had only unlimited money to buy unlimited minutes at unlimited internet cafes so I could relay the ridiculousness. Jeeeeeeez. I can sum it up mostly by saying I was expected to (and did, FYI) sign up for all my classes today, which are in 4 different departments without the slightest idea when the hell these classes might actually be offered during the week. I am talking about how I don't know the day, the time, the frequency during the week, anything. Good thing class starts in a week. Because that's apparently enough time to figure it all out. Seriously, everyone in the whole world who gets to register for online is insanely spoiled. In-SANE-ly. I will never be ungrateful ever again. This week. I love you.

Tough Day

2007-08-10T10:32:00.000-07:00

This is a somewhat graphic blog retelling some of the horrors I learned of when visiting the preserved Slave Castles yesterday...if you are faint of heart don't read. <3

So today is Friday, the first of 3 free days we have been given from orientation ridiculousness. The original plan was for me, Elena, Megan and Becky to go to Kukum National Park, but we were informed that our whole group would be going there at the end of August and we have already paid for it...so we decided not to go.

Yesterday, was by far the toughest day we have faced in Ghana. The whole group of us (58!) went to Cape Coast to visit the Slave Castles there. It was one of the most emotionally draining experiences of my life. We first visited Cape Coast Castle. Our tour guide took us around, starting in what used to be the Male Slave Dungeons. It was so insane. Literally hundreds of men at a time were shoved into these small limestone rooms, only3 little openings to give any light at all. They were only allowed to leave and see sunlight for a few hours a day. Then we visited the female dungeons. This was terrible. These poor women were forced to stay in this underground hell where no wind or light reaches, unable to bathe, bleeding on themselves during their periods, no privacy whatsoever. The only opportunity they had to see the outside was when they were dragged out with only a loincloth around their waists, for the governor of the castle to decide which one he wanted to rape. That woman was allowed to bathe before she was violently assaulted.

The second castle was the Elmina Slave Castle. It is 525 years old and marks the first spot Europeans (Portugese) landed on African soil. Yeeesh. Anyway, the most gripping part of this tour was when we all crammed into the cell reserved for slaves who resisted capture, or rebelled against the Europeans in the dungeons. This cell was usually filled 30 at a time (it was big enough for 30 people with standing room only) the persons inside were not given any food or water, and there were no windows whatsoever to allow sun or air. These people were kept in there altogether until they all died. I almost vomited hearing this story.

After all of this we had a pretty somber bus ride home. I hate so much that these acts of hatred have created a world in which Africa is at the bottom of the world economically, many African Americans are living in poverty, and racism still exists in so many different forms. I hate that I am part of a system that guarantees I will benefit, because I am white, but guarantees that others who are not, won't. The stories about the women's exploitation were by far the worst. I don't understand that kind of greed and hate and violence. The whole time we were in both castles all I wanted to do was leave...but I knew that it was important that I stay and understand that this is a real part of the world's history, and a part of mine as well.

In some sort of bizarre coping method, I found myself missing stupid things that I won't get a chance to do for a long time. Like watching The Office. I miss burritos and pancakes and strawberries. I miss wearing jeans and feeling comfortable. I all of a sudden wanted to watch The American President so much. I haven't seen that movie in about 3 years. I think I miss things being easy...because things are pretty hard here sometimes. I know why I am here though. I want to be better than those who can hurt others the way African Slaves were. I want to educate people about ways they hurt each other without realizing. I am here to learn, and while it hurts a little I know I am getting stronger.

I hope this sad blog finds you well. I love you.

Kumasi and such

2007-08-07T11:33:00.000-07:00

Hello again! After a somewhat long hiatus I am back to relay my adventures in Kumasi. Kumasi is located in the central part of Ghana and is known as the cultural center of the country. After a 6 hour incredibly uncomfortable bus ride we arrived at KNUST University, where 4 of the students in my group will be attending school at the end of the month. (They are participating in the orientation in Legon, though) The campus is beautiful and the dorms are amazing. Compared to the small and somewhat crowded rooms in Volta Hall where I live and take communal showers and share 3 toilets with many people on my floor, in Kumasi, the dorms have bigger beds and desks, and have private bathrooms with split toilet and shower. However, in defense of the place I will call home for the next 10 months, I must say I prefer the communal showers where water pours from the tap like a hose to the private and better pressurized water in Kumasi. The simple reason is this: no matter how fancy the shower or private the water, there is no hot water in Ghana. Period. And because of this, a shower that covers more area at a time--such as the pressurized shower headed ones I used in Kumasi-- provides for more breath caught in your throat, wanting to scream, trying to dance the goosebumps away, clenching your teeth as you try and shave your legs-ness than does one with a simple and constant stream falling a close distance from you if needed.

Moving on. After our arrival we set out to find food. However, it is not some cheap trick to find a restaurant in Ghana prepared to feed 65 people with no sort of notice. This resulted in much adventure around Kumasi looking for any type of food, from fancy hotel food, to roadside grub. Eventually out of apathy and a feeling of lingering full-ness from lunch, I decided that dinner would be unnecessary. We eventually ended up all back a this really cute outdoor restaurant that sold beer and had plenty of room for dancing. We stayed, almost all 65 of us dancing and drinking until midnight. It was great.

The next day, Sunday, we visited many of the craft villages in the area. We watched people making Kente cloth (beautiful, and VERY expensive) we saw this traditional printing done on Kente with an ink made of tree bark, and we visited many shops full of jewelry, carvings, and paintings. I bought a few things for myself as well as a few gifts.

Later, we met the Treasurer of the Asante Kingdom. Its tough to explain, but basically, when what we now call Ghana was carved out artificially by the British, it forced together many different ethnic groups under one nation state. Many people hold their first allegiance to the King of their ethnic tribe. The Asante tribe is the biggest and most powerful in Ghana. So, basically, the Asante King is the most powerful man in Ghana, more so than the president, John Kufour. Anyway, we met his treasurer, which is like Condoleeza Rice coming to talk randomly to a bunch of kids who don't really understand what she does. Super crazy.

Today, Elena and I went to the market to buy a bunch of stuff we needed, and ended up buying a bunch of stuff we wanted, like necklaces. However, I did finally succeed in buying a phone. The phone I brought with me couldn't be used because it needed a SIM (sp?) card, and was not set up to use one. So I had to buy one and it is now officially charging. I haven't gotten a chance to talk to my family or anyone I love yet, so I am super excited.

Tomorrow we are moving into our new room, Elena and I will still be roommates, which I am excited about. Then, we have a conference on the slave trade. On Thursday we will be going to Cape Coast to visit the old Slave Castles. Ghana has some of the best preserved slave forts in Africa. Which is super interesting from a historical perspective, but kinda scary from a human perspective. After that, Elena, me, and our friends Becky and Megan are going to stay overnight in Cape Coast and then spend 2 days at Kukum National Park, famous for its one-of-a-kind canopy walk through the rainforest. I can't wait. Hopefully I'll be talking to you soon! I love you.

One Week

2007-08-02T12:19:00.000-07:00

Today is the official 1 week anniversary of my time in Ghana. As I mentioned before, it seems like so much longer. My roommate and I figured out that we have been living 16 hour days since we've been here, which does not include any after hour gossiping or messing around or going out. This means our orientation is SCHEDULED to have back to back activity, 16 hours a day. Needless to say, I am exhausted. This is a syndrome made worse by the fact that I attended a reggae festival on the beach last night with almost my entire group of travelers. (60 college students!) There was something absolutely un-pass-upable about dancing with a beer in hand on a beach in Africa. Seriously. It was so much fun. I came prepared with my dancing skirt, 5 cedis ($5) hidden in my bra (petty crime like robbery is an issue here, especially among female albrunis (white people) like myself), and a smile. That was all I needed.

The 50 or so of us boarded 2 tro-tros, which are basically glorified mini-vans, which fit around 20 or so people and run all over the country. They are extrememly dangerous on highways and going long distances quickly, but within cities, like Legon or Accra, the cities I occupy, they are unable to travel at dangerous speeds. We paid 15 pesawas (15 cents) each and were on our way. The festival was very laid back, we bought cheap beer and danced on the beach, and were periodically harrassed by Ghanaian men claiming love and affection. My favorite potential suitor was the one who actually rapped a song at me for about 5 minutes talking about how I was a gift from god for him. I was amused, then supremely uncomfortable, then I ran away to another group I knew.

Today Elena (my roommate), and our friends Bridget, Elliott, and Angelie (sp?) took a tro-tro to Medina, an outdoor market where I purchased BEAUTIFUL fabric to make 2 skirts and a shirt, and hopefully a head scarf to cover my very frizzy hair. The humidity in the air here is maybe my worst enemy. Alas. I also bought pens and a bag to do my shopping in. Plastic bags are a virtual epidimic here. They choke all the sewers, and are literally all over Accra. I have decided to make my best effort to not contribute to the pollution. Elena also bought a pineapple and a huge knife to cut it with. The fruit here is amazing.

Tomorrow I have HELLA (Nor cal? haahhaha) research to do. I have decided to do my independent study on the factors contributing to the high percentage of women with HIV/AIDS here in Ghana. So I must go and sleep. This weekend I will be in Kumasi with my group hopefully having an amazing time. I'll report the craziness soon. I love you.

Finally

2007-07-31T08:49:00.000-07:00

I have finally gotten the chance to actually use the internet since I've been here. It's officially been 5 days in Ghana. It feels like weeks and weeks. Not in a bad way at all. It's just been so insanely busy since we stepped off the plane. We have been to Accra, the capital city, which is the absolute busiest thing I have ever experienced in my life. It makes downtown San Francisco the week before Christmas look tame. I have not really been a successful haggler yet. I tried to haggle with some woman for toilet paper. She was adament I pay 20,000 cedis, about 2USD for 5 rolls of toilet paper. I felt a little jipped. However, I did buy a 24oz Blue Arrow beer at La Pleasure beach for like 1.50 USD....so it comes and goes I guess.

I am here with 8 girls from my school, and then about 50 other college kids, mostly from UC schools. Its so crazy to do anything with the whole group. At the moment I am living with this girl Elena, from my school. However, I don't think I we will be living together once school starts, I think they are going to split us up to live with Ghanaian students, which will be good, but it will be sad to not be roommates. We've had a lot of fun gossipping about the silly So Cal girls in our group and washing our clothes by hand in our dorm. Turned out there is an actual laundry room. Oops.

I have started to learn Twi (pronounced Chwee...sort of) but it pretty much just results in giggles from the locals. However, I have succeeded in being able to at least greet people without having to ask them how to reply, which is a pretty big accomplishment in my opinion.

The beginning of the adventure was a challenge to say the least. My flight left just after noon on 7/25, and we didn't arrive in Accra until after 9pm on 7/26 Ghanaian time. So basically we were travelling for about 30 hours. Yessssss. It is pretty hot here. However, its the rainy season so it is cooler right now, which makes me nervous for the dry season. In accordance with my life, I have not had the easiest time here. I came prepared with $200 in travelers checks, but NO ONE takes them and I have been very hard pressed to find a bank that will exchange them into cedis for me. AND to make matters worse, my debit card mysteriously doesn't work in the ATMs...so I was completely broke. However, Elena saved my life and let me borrow some money to get the things I needed, and we have been fed almost every meal my our program directors, and I should mention that Ghanaian food is excellent. Sometimes too hot and sometimes too bland, but overall I've loved everything I've tried, but it is a little bit of a problem asking for no meat constantly. There are about 10 other vegetarians in our group, so the cooks are less frustrated. I hope.

To add to my frustration is the fact that I have not been able to get ahold of my parents at all. My lack of funds have kept me from getting a phone, and every pay phone I have tried with a phone card wont dial out to an area code that starts with 5. Its been pretty irritating. However, all is looking up. I myspaced Elizabeth to tell Mom and Dad I am alive and having fun, and finally got the chance to get my travelers checks exchanged into cedis, so I will have a phone soon.

There is so much to say and I can't even remember what it is! I am currently staring at the countdown on my computer at an internet cafe on campus which is counting down rapidly. Tonight we have dinner and then Dance and Drumming. We have a "performance" on Wednesday night. Some students in the group are dancing, others are drumming, others are playing flutes and some, like me, are singing. The culture is amazing and even though everything takes longer (a lot longer) than in the US the people are so willing to help you out, its not too bad. Okay time is out, I love you!

2 Days

2007-07-23T11:32:00.000-07:00

I leave for Ghana on Wednesday. Tomorrow mom, dad, Allison, Elizabeth and I will drive all day to San Francisco where I'm sure I won't sleep at all in a hotel in South San Francisco waiting for a 20 hour flight that will take me to a completely different world. HOLY SHIT.

Anyway, I made this blog so I can keep people updated on my life for the next year. I am hopeful that I will keep this up. It would be good to have a record of my life in Africa to look at later. However I also hope that I am so busy doing so many amazing things that I won't remember to record them. I am terrified and so excited and the fact that it is all so real is the scariest part of all.

I have so much to do today. I am not surprised, just mildly irritated with myself for leaving a million things to do until the last minute. But just like packing up my bedroom in San Francisco, everything will get done. Because it must. I probably won't update again for a little while. Who knows when I'll have internet again! (Oh my GOD) but I will be positive and say it will be soon.