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.
Tuesday, May 27, 2008
Sunday, May 18, 2008
The Way We Were
Dear
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
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
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
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
(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
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:
I visited CI with my friends Becky and Luci—we left on Monday, at 4:30am and got into
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
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 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 (
Thursday, we ventured to Grande Bossam the former colonial capital, about 40 minutes east of
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
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
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
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.
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.
Thursday, April 10, 2008
Adventures and aftermath
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.
"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.
Monday, March 10, 2008
Morocco Chapter 5: Chefchaouen
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.
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.
Thursday, March 6, 2008
Who ARE you?
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.
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.
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