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.
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