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.
Tuesday, May 27, 2008
I Need a New Backpack
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.
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
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.
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.
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.
Tuesday, February 26, 2008
Morocco Chapter 4: Fes
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.
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.
Thursday, February 21, 2008
Ghanamania
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.
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.
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