So it's actually really shameful how long its been since I've posted. In the midst of everything in Africa I totally left y'all hanging, not to mention things since then (although, admittedly, almost everything that's happened to me that's worth talking about happened in Africa). So I'm sorry. To close off the post that I hinted at, but never wrote, let me say:
I did go to Sodom and Gomorrah the next day with Michelle. It was crazy, but it was actually not as bad as I had imagined - although, the day I went it didn't rain. Apparently on days when it rains the whole damn place floods. And there's fires all the time that burn down half the shantytown because there's no running water so nothing to put out the fire. Everyone there was super nice to us, just like everyone else in Ghana, but a few years ago I guess Bono visited Sodom and Gomorrah, but no one knew it was Bono and then they found out after he left and realized they could have been a little more hospitable; they had just treated him like anybody else. So it is quite possible that they thought I was a movie star or something, but my suspicion is that they would have been nice to me anyways. I interviewed some people to write an article for my paper (through a translator - hardly anybody there speaks English), but as some of us know, that article never got written. I didn't have enough material for my story, I wanted to interview somebody from Slumdwellers International, the group that provided our guides and stuff... but the next week when I was going to do that I came down with (cue scary music) MALARIA.
Yep, I had malaria. In spite of the probably cancer-causing amounts of toxic DEET I applied to myself, I still got it... oh well. Bound to happen. Anyways, it wasn't nearly as bad as you might imagine because I knew that's what it was... my friend Sheena had already had it and I knew the symptoms. So I went to the hospital the morning after I got a fever and aches and all that jazz, waited around for 6 hours on a bench feeling like I was going to puke, all in order to get my blood tested, and finally somebody was like, "You have malaria."
Upon which announcement we went to a drug store and I bought malaria medicine over the counter. Which was, you know, a little frustrating. Malaria medication is only $10 though, which goes to show how poor people are if they can't afford that. I agree that we need to find a cure for malaria, but this might be a while coming... and in the mean time we should just be able to treat it in everyone when it comes along. Yeah, old people and children are more susceptible, and there's the odd young person that dies from it just because they waited too long to get treated. But honestly, since I got it treated right away, it really wasn't that intense of a thing. I stayed mostly in bed for a few days and by day 3 of treatment, I was able to go out... which was great, because it was our last night in Ghana with the whole crew, and I wouldn't have missed that even for my health.
After, of course, Michelle and Josh and Emily F*%$#@!& Doerr (so named by us because of her incredible ability to be awesome and badass in any possible scenario) headed off on a grand adventure through countries we probably shouldn't have gone to. Everywhere we went was amazing, totally different from Ghana... and I loved all of it. Well, not the part where I got food poisoning in Mali, or the part where we thought we were going to be accosted by Ivoirienne soldiers, or the part where we saw cheetah skins and monkey heads being sold in the voudou market in Togo, but just about everything else. And boy was I glad that I took all those years of le French! Vrai important for all of us. There are too many stories to tell here, I could write a book, but the important thing is that we had an awesome time, didn't get robbed, celebrated Ivoirienne independance day in a bar called Mexico with some drug dealers (?), swam at the most beautiful pool in Africa (Novotel hotel in Abidjian) with some creepy oil barons who bought us $100 champagne, made friends with a wonderful Ivoirien man named "Smiley" (kind of), went to the rehearsal dinnerish thing of a Malian wedding, laid on the floor and stared at the ceiling fan a lot, saw the cutest baby in the world, made chili out of some meat that had been sitting in a 100 degree market all day covered in flies, almost missed a plane because we couldn't find the earrings I wanted, got blessed by a fetish (voudou) priest and got his business card, and celebrated Michelle's 25th birthday with a hefty amount of pizza and wine. Not to mention yelling our way through a situation where I had to bribe a soldier in French, yelling at Toureg salesmen that would not leave us alone, yelling our way into an airport, yelling at some travel agents that we weren't going to pay them, yelling at a taxi driver that took all the money when we accidentally paid him twice, and a lot of other yelling, mostly at each other but always with love. One thing I learned in Africa is that being forward is not only expected but absolutely necessary for your survival. None of the yelling was taken personally, I promise... that's just how people do things there. In a lot of ways I think its healthier... wayyyy less passive aggressiveness.
And now I will talk about something not related to Africa for once, because God knows I could do that for the rest of my life.
I am about to embark on another wonderful adventure with some travel buddies that are two of the greatest people I know. Argentina and Uruguay, here I come! I really have no idea what to expect... so I guess we'll see. I'm totally a spoiled brat, I know, two new continents in 8 months... but I couldn't resist. If it helps, I'll owe money on this trip for years! Whoops... but I think it will be worth it. How often do I have the chance to travel around South America, where I have wanted to go all my life, with my best friend? Not many chances. And it doesn't hurt that she speaks Spanish, since I don't - ha! Anyways, I think I will have lots more good stories to tell when I return from that, so chin up, folks.
Saturday, December 6, 2008
Tuesday, July 22, 2008
paradise way
So, as usual, many remarkable things have happened since I have last posted. Among them:
-attending Stars of the Future, the Ghanaian version of American Idol, where it was gospel night and fans booed every time a judge criticized anyone
-going to a crazy nightclub named Makumba wherein some level of debauchery definitely occurred... although I, of course, was not involved at all... :)
-saying goodbye to our illustrious leader, Leslie, and taking her to Wazoo
-playing hooky from work to clean the house, watch out for my friends and spend a lazy afternoon at a pool way too nice to be believed
But what I am choosing to tell you about is, I think, the most interesting... going to church.
My friend Josh, who works at Peace FM, a popular radio station which broadcasts almost exclusively in Twi (pronounced "chwee") language, has endeared himself to his coworkers and scored an invite to church on Sunday with his coworker Akua (pronounced, I think, "ah-kwi-yah"). That is actually not so hard to do here, as this country is pretty much obsessed with Jesus, and as Josh is Jewish, he is a pretty obvious target for conversion or what have you.
Anyways, I was eager to check out church here myself, seeing as I am pretty much obsessed with the exploration of religion in general, so I offered to join him.
After dragging ourselves unceremoniously out of bed to catch a series of tro-tros to a faraway part of Accra on Sunday morning, we found ourselves facing the usual problem: a situation that makes absolutely no sense.
We were set to meet Akua at the Blue Kiosk tro-tro stop, which mysteriously did not involve any kind of actual blue kiosk. There was a purple kiosk, which was labeled "Blue Kiosk," but it seemed that the name denoted the general area more than just a specific random nonexistent blue stand.
Then we waited for her to meet us (no one here is ever ever on time) for at least 20 minutes, probably a lot longer, and had almost given up when she pulled up in a taxi and we hopped in.
The church was called "Paradise Way" something something, and occupied a rather fantastic building, considering... we met Akua's sister, also named Akua... rather confusing but Ghanaian tribes tend to name their kids according to the day of the week they were born on and apparently both sisters were born on the same day of the week... bizarre. Anyways, Josh and I were most definitely the only white people for miles and probably also the only non-Christians for miles (Side-note: though Unity is technically Christian-affiliated, I definitely don't see myself fitting in that way... I suppose I am very loosely a Christian, but I wouldn't say that I was any more Christian than I am Hindu, Buddhist, Taoist, Muslim or what have you).
Anyways, the service already seems to be going. Lots of gospel-style choir singing in English and Twi, and lots of ladies in their finest Ghanaian dress. Lots of different pastors yelling excitedly about Bible verses and the importance of prayer. After some preachers yelled in English for a while, another would translate into Twi, although I think some stuff was lost in translation... the English-speaking guy would go on for 10 minutes and the Twi guy would only talk for one.
Josh and I, sandwiched in a row between the two Akuas, shot each other faces with different levels of surprise/shock expressed at what was occurring around us... at one point, a woman started wailing somewhere behind us and though I don't think Paradise Way was pentecostal the preacher did start shouting about the glory of Jesus flowing through her. Holy moly.
When hymns were being sung in Twi, the first Akua leaned over and whispered to Josh a summary of the meaning of the song. Then, Josh would lean over and repeat what she said to me, which always seemed overly simplified but we really didn't have any way to know otherwise. Most of them were descriptions like: "This is a song about how praying is important and God loves it when you pray" or "This is a song about how Jesus shows us the way" but one translation was alarming in a way the others weren't...
I stared at Josh incredulously as he slowly repeated what Akua had just matter-of-factly told him: "This is a song about how we used to have many gods here, with the traditional religions, but that these gods were false and we are so glad that the white man came and brought us the one true god."
Josh and I squeezed hands and pretended to accept this information unquestioningly, though I was actually feeling more guilty than I had since we visited the slave castles at Cape Coast. Not many people here seem to harbor resentment for white people, which really just accentuates the white guilt I feel sometimes.
Sometimes everyone got so into the hymns that everyone was dancing as well as singing along. There were balconies made to hold more people, but there wasn't really anyone up there but the ushers, and at one point I looked up to see two of them breaking it down to the rhythm of the choir. Fantastic!
At some point, they called all new attendees up to the front of the church to pray with them. Josh muttered something about how his grandmother was going to kill him, which just made me laugh. They didn't try to baptize us or anything, nothing too weird really... they did have us fill out forms about ourselves, which included a line for prayer requests... Josh's, of course, was "Ducks Victory."
After church was over, finally, three hours later (one hour of Jesus just ain't enough for these people), we piled outside where the Akuas invited us back to their house. An ice cream guy was right outside the church and amidst a crowd of eager children, Josh and I rather sheepishly bought FanChocos - frozen chocolate milk popsicles they sell for 40 pesewas (about 40 cents).
Akua from Peace FM was a sweetheart. We chatted on the way back to her house. I hadn't been invited to a Ghanaian's house before and it was a pretty exciting occasion.
She led us inside and introduced us to her mother. The house was pretty nice (relatively), and I was embarrassed to note how clean it was compared to our house here. There were two televisions in the living room and Akua turned one on to a channel with anime before going out to buy us some cookies and Cokes. She announced that her mother was making us kenke, a Ghanaian meal neither of us had tried yet.
We were there for hours and I honestly couldn't really tell you what we did. Akua came in and out of the room, we looked through some family photo albums, and waited as wafts of aroma floated in from the kitchen... and somehow stayed entertained otherwise. The kenke finally arrived - kenke itself is a maize (corn) concoction somewhat like a dry playdough. You don't eat it alone, though, you sort of mash it up (only using your right hand, of course) and use it to scoop up the accompanying sauce, which in this case was made of onion, chicken, goat, and some other things I would be hard-pressed to name. It was spicy and really really good, though Josh and I mostly skirted the goat. I tried it once early in the meal out of politeness and swore discreetly to Josh I'd never eat the stuff again. Later, however, feeling bad for leaving food on the plate ("we don't waste food!") and about how our hostess would feel about it, I tried again, with similar results, and finally gave up.
After we'd finished, Akua's mother thanked us for coming (we hadn't talked to her yet at all) and told us she was a prophetess. (Nothing surprises me anymore...) She told Josh that in his future he would be blessed with a lot of money and that he would use it to travel the world and also to help people, because he has a good heart. Then, haha, she looked at me and simply said my future is blessed.
More or less that was the end of the excursion that occupied the majority of Sunday. Talk about a cultural experience. I wish I had enough Sundays here to go to other churches around here and check them out, but I think I got at least one decent taste.
Tomorrow I'm heading to Sodom and Gomorrah, a really intense slum. I should have some stuff to say about that. It'll be my first independent article for the Observer, but don't worry anyone, I'm going with Michelle and a great guide.
TTFN
-attending Stars of the Future, the Ghanaian version of American Idol, where it was gospel night and fans booed every time a judge criticized anyone
-going to a crazy nightclub named Makumba wherein some level of debauchery definitely occurred... although I, of course, was not involved at all... :)
-saying goodbye to our illustrious leader, Leslie, and taking her to Wazoo
-playing hooky from work to clean the house, watch out for my friends and spend a lazy afternoon at a pool way too nice to be believed
But what I am choosing to tell you about is, I think, the most interesting... going to church.
My friend Josh, who works at Peace FM, a popular radio station which broadcasts almost exclusively in Twi (pronounced "chwee") language, has endeared himself to his coworkers and scored an invite to church on Sunday with his coworker Akua (pronounced, I think, "ah-kwi-yah"). That is actually not so hard to do here, as this country is pretty much obsessed with Jesus, and as Josh is Jewish, he is a pretty obvious target for conversion or what have you.
Anyways, I was eager to check out church here myself, seeing as I am pretty much obsessed with the exploration of religion in general, so I offered to join him.
After dragging ourselves unceremoniously out of bed to catch a series of tro-tros to a faraway part of Accra on Sunday morning, we found ourselves facing the usual problem: a situation that makes absolutely no sense.
We were set to meet Akua at the Blue Kiosk tro-tro stop, which mysteriously did not involve any kind of actual blue kiosk. There was a purple kiosk, which was labeled "Blue Kiosk," but it seemed that the name denoted the general area more than just a specific random nonexistent blue stand.
Then we waited for her to meet us (no one here is ever ever on time) for at least 20 minutes, probably a lot longer, and had almost given up when she pulled up in a taxi and we hopped in.
The church was called "Paradise Way" something something, and occupied a rather fantastic building, considering... we met Akua's sister, also named Akua... rather confusing but Ghanaian tribes tend to name their kids according to the day of the week they were born on and apparently both sisters were born on the same day of the week... bizarre. Anyways, Josh and I were most definitely the only white people for miles and probably also the only non-Christians for miles (Side-note: though Unity is technically Christian-affiliated, I definitely don't see myself fitting in that way... I suppose I am very loosely a Christian, but I wouldn't say that I was any more Christian than I am Hindu, Buddhist, Taoist, Muslim or what have you).
Anyways, the service already seems to be going. Lots of gospel-style choir singing in English and Twi, and lots of ladies in their finest Ghanaian dress. Lots of different pastors yelling excitedly about Bible verses and the importance of prayer. After some preachers yelled in English for a while, another would translate into Twi, although I think some stuff was lost in translation... the English-speaking guy would go on for 10 minutes and the Twi guy would only talk for one.
Josh and I, sandwiched in a row between the two Akuas, shot each other faces with different levels of surprise/shock expressed at what was occurring around us... at one point, a woman started wailing somewhere behind us and though I don't think Paradise Way was pentecostal the preacher did start shouting about the glory of Jesus flowing through her. Holy moly.
When hymns were being sung in Twi, the first Akua leaned over and whispered to Josh a summary of the meaning of the song. Then, Josh would lean over and repeat what she said to me, which always seemed overly simplified but we really didn't have any way to know otherwise. Most of them were descriptions like: "This is a song about how praying is important and God loves it when you pray" or "This is a song about how Jesus shows us the way" but one translation was alarming in a way the others weren't...
I stared at Josh incredulously as he slowly repeated what Akua had just matter-of-factly told him: "This is a song about how we used to have many gods here, with the traditional religions, but that these gods were false and we are so glad that the white man came and brought us the one true god."
Josh and I squeezed hands and pretended to accept this information unquestioningly, though I was actually feeling more guilty than I had since we visited the slave castles at Cape Coast. Not many people here seem to harbor resentment for white people, which really just accentuates the white guilt I feel sometimes.
Sometimes everyone got so into the hymns that everyone was dancing as well as singing along. There were balconies made to hold more people, but there wasn't really anyone up there but the ushers, and at one point I looked up to see two of them breaking it down to the rhythm of the choir. Fantastic!
At some point, they called all new attendees up to the front of the church to pray with them. Josh muttered something about how his grandmother was going to kill him, which just made me laugh. They didn't try to baptize us or anything, nothing too weird really... they did have us fill out forms about ourselves, which included a line for prayer requests... Josh's, of course, was "Ducks Victory."
After church was over, finally, three hours later (one hour of Jesus just ain't enough for these people), we piled outside where the Akuas invited us back to their house. An ice cream guy was right outside the church and amidst a crowd of eager children, Josh and I rather sheepishly bought FanChocos - frozen chocolate milk popsicles they sell for 40 pesewas (about 40 cents).
Akua from Peace FM was a sweetheart. We chatted on the way back to her house. I hadn't been invited to a Ghanaian's house before and it was a pretty exciting occasion.
She led us inside and introduced us to her mother. The house was pretty nice (relatively), and I was embarrassed to note how clean it was compared to our house here. There were two televisions in the living room and Akua turned one on to a channel with anime before going out to buy us some cookies and Cokes. She announced that her mother was making us kenke, a Ghanaian meal neither of us had tried yet.
We were there for hours and I honestly couldn't really tell you what we did. Akua came in and out of the room, we looked through some family photo albums, and waited as wafts of aroma floated in from the kitchen... and somehow stayed entertained otherwise. The kenke finally arrived - kenke itself is a maize (corn) concoction somewhat like a dry playdough. You don't eat it alone, though, you sort of mash it up (only using your right hand, of course) and use it to scoop up the accompanying sauce, which in this case was made of onion, chicken, goat, and some other things I would be hard-pressed to name. It was spicy and really really good, though Josh and I mostly skirted the goat. I tried it once early in the meal out of politeness and swore discreetly to Josh I'd never eat the stuff again. Later, however, feeling bad for leaving food on the plate ("we don't waste food!") and about how our hostess would feel about it, I tried again, with similar results, and finally gave up.
After we'd finished, Akua's mother thanked us for coming (we hadn't talked to her yet at all) and told us she was a prophetess. (Nothing surprises me anymore...) She told Josh that in his future he would be blessed with a lot of money and that he would use it to travel the world and also to help people, because he has a good heart. Then, haha, she looked at me and simply said my future is blessed.
More or less that was the end of the excursion that occupied the majority of Sunday. Talk about a cultural experience. I wish I had enough Sundays here to go to other churches around here and check them out, but I think I got at least one decent taste.
Tomorrow I'm heading to Sodom and Gomorrah, a really intense slum. I should have some stuff to say about that. It'll be my first independent article for the Observer, but don't worry anyone, I'm going with Michelle and a great guide.
TTFN
the internet is for blogs
Hello mes amis.
The internet, in some sort of miraculous fashion, is functioning at work today and I am taking advantage of it because there is nothing to do here and it is raining way way too hard for me to brave the outdoors and go to the nearby internet cafe (which may have the fastest and most reliable and cheapest internet I have yet to find here). Anyways, I wanted to include a couple references in case my blog doesn't keep you satisfied... Blogspot kind of confuses me and I don't have time to figure it out right now so I'm not putting up a blogroll, instead I'm just going to list a few friends' blogs you can read:
Josh, who is traveling with Michelle and I throughout West Africa after our official trip is over, and also is living in Ghana until February (?) of next year:
www.sweatpantsfreelance.blogspot.com
Katie, one of my two roommates at our house and the first person I have met in my life who shares my exact birthday of May 30, 1987:
www.katie-ghana.blogspot.com
Molly, who is almost, kind of my coworker because she works at the Crusading Guide, which shares an office with the Observer:
www.mollybedford.blogspot.com
Ryan, who does the best impression of a plantain seller I have ever seen:
www.ryanknutson.blogspot.com
I have more to say but just in case the internet fails I am going to post in sections so as not to lose too much...
The internet, in some sort of miraculous fashion, is functioning at work today and I am taking advantage of it because there is nothing to do here and it is raining way way too hard for me to brave the outdoors and go to the nearby internet cafe (which may have the fastest and most reliable and cheapest internet I have yet to find here). Anyways, I wanted to include a couple references in case my blog doesn't keep you satisfied... Blogspot kind of confuses me and I don't have time to figure it out right now so I'm not putting up a blogroll, instead I'm just going to list a few friends' blogs you can read:
Josh, who is traveling with Michelle and I throughout West Africa after our official trip is over, and also is living in Ghana until February (?) of next year:
www.sweatpantsfreelance.blogspot.com
Katie, one of my two roommates at our house and the first person I have met in my life who shares my exact birthday of May 30, 1987:
www.katie-ghana.blogspot.com
Molly, who is almost, kind of my coworker because she works at the Crusading Guide, which shares an office with the Observer:
www.mollybedford.blogspot.com
Ryan, who does the best impression of a plantain seller I have ever seen:
www.ryanknutson.blogspot.com
I have more to say but just in case the internet fails I am going to post in sections so as not to lose too much...
Friday, July 18, 2008
the obruni experience: getting there is half the fun
Next Monday's column (July 21). Stuff in brackets will not appear in the actual column but I have added for you, my dear reader, who will probably appreciate it more than my Ghanaian audience:
Others have said it many times before, but I will say it again: life isn’t about the destination, it’s about the journey. Every day I spend in Ghana, I’m reminded of the truth in that old saying. My most memorable experiences here have all involved the unexpected and the unplanned.
Last weekend was no exception. The group of Americans I came to Ghana with took a trip to Mole National Park. We had heard, of course, that the trip is long, dusty and possibly dangerous. We knew that we would spend more time traveling than actually experiencing Mole. But we also knew that going on a safari was a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity that we couldn’t pass up.
So on Saturday morning, after spending the night in Kumasi, we piled into our chartered bus again for the long trip to Mole. We had arranged to switch buses and drivers 60 km outside of the park, because the owner of our first chartered bus didn’t want it traveling down such bad roads.
After many long but comfortable hours on our nice Chinese bus, we arrived at the juncture where we were supposed to switch vehicles. Confused, we looked around. There were definitely no other buses in sight. Instead, a van pulled up and out stepped an excited-looking man wearing flashy sunglasses that would have been more fitting on a professional cyclist.
The man identified himself as Mr. Fatal, who was indeed the same ominously-named person who was supposed to take us to Mole. He started loading our things eagerly into the van, while a crowd of local children begged for change.
Mathematically, the group of 14 obronis, our Ghanaian guide from Accra, Mr. Fatal and the driver should not have been able to fit into the van with all of our luggage. But by some form of obviously ancient Ghanaian magic, we did it. I was jammed into the very backseat with three of my friends.
The van had windows, but they didn’t open. The air conditioning in the van functioned so poorly that in the very back we could not feel it at all. Within minutes, the four of us in the last row were drenched in sweat. Outside the car, red dust swirled as though we were trekking across the surface of Mars.
Then the van idled to a halt. The driver and Mr. Fatal debated something loudly in Twi before opening the doors to let us out. Stepping out into the searing equatorial sunlight felt like stepping into a freezer. I realized that the back seat of the van must have been 10 degrees warmer (that's Celsius, meaning approx 20 degrees warmer Fahrenheit) than it was outside.
Outside the car were several small children. These did not beg, however, they just stared at us, silent and expressionless, as we emerged thankfully from our oven on wheels. We must have looked ridiculous; pasty white intruders sopping with perspiration, led by a bizarrely enthusiastic Ghanaian wearing shades that challenged the very sun with its own reflection.
After trying fruitlessly and awkwardly to engage the children in conversation for quite some time, an older boy of about twelve gestured for us to follow him. Mr. Fatal and the driver ignored us and scuttled around on the ground under the van, trying to figure out what had caused the breakdown.
Accompanied by the small crowd of still-silent children, we stopped under the shady relief of a mango tree. Benches and chairs were produced as if conjured from the cool, sun-dappled air around us and we settled down to wait for our van to be fixed.
(Except for me, who by now had to pee very very badly. Through Sonny, our Ghanaian guide from Accra's interpretation, we told a village man that I needed a bathroom. Michelle and Sonny went with me.
I was led to a rather nice cement building and into a tiny room. I had been expecting something like this, except this was even more perplexing than I thought. A cement room with not even a hole in the ground - instead, a sort-of drain leading from the wall to the outside. But the way the ground was sloped, it would never drain.
I called Michelle over. Perplexed, we decided there had been a miscommunication. I hadn't wanted to change, I'd wanted to pee... but no, we asked Sonny, and this was it...
I really regretted asking for a toilet now. The field outside looked so much more appealing. I've already mastered "the hover" - I do not trust seat covers here - but peeing in a room with no drainage went against all of my instincts.
Semi-victoriously I emerged from the bathroom and then covered for Michelle while she did the sensible thing and used the field - never again asking for a toilet when there is a perfectly fine field, I'll tell you that. Then we tramped back to the mango tree where our friends had made some small progress with the locals.)
Two hours later, we had finally established some sort of rapport with our adorable but shy little hosts. Some of us were clustered close to the dirt, where we played a particularly competitive game of “Hangman,” an American spelling game we all remembered from primary school. Another group watched as some of the local girls drew pictures in the dirt with sticks and giggled amongst themselves.
After reaching the conclusion that the van had somehow lost most of its oil, Mr. Fatal and a mechanically-inclined member of our group (Nick) repaired the leak as best as they could before acquiring new oil for the engine from a nearby village. Back in business, we bid our small friends goodbye and sorted ourselves back into our seats.
The road was not as bumpy as expected. Cheered by our recent mango-tree break, my backseat comrades and I faced our tribulations with great heart. We began singing choruses of any and every song we could remember. (Jay-Z, Bob Dylan, The Beatles and Disney all featured prominently) As we sang, the car got hotter. The air got dustier. We sweated more and poured the remnants of our water bottles onto each other as we had seen elephants at watering holes do on the Discovery Channel in the same sweltering African heat.
Soon I realized that the back of the van was broken. The Martian dust was clearly getting in through the cracks in the back doors, and the backseat-dwellers formed the first line of defense. The others in my row looked increasingly orange as the minutes passed, and I realized that I too must be covered in a layer of sticky, sweaty red dust. Laughing at our ridiculous appearances, we swiped still more dust from the seat behind us and painted stripes on our faces like badges of honor.
When we finally arrived at the Mole Motel, the four of us in the backseat were nearly delirious. In the last few minutes I spent in the car I felt as though I would pass out from the heat. Then the driver threw the back doors of the van open and I felt the gloriously fresh air on my skin. I turned around and smiled at the driver, who stopped and stared at my new red complexion, before making a guilty expression and going to mutter something to Mr. Fatal. Apparently, the dust in the back was so bad not because the van’s doors were broken but because they were open, a possibility my friends and I had not considered when wondering at the magnificent (recreation of the American) dustbowl swirling in the backseat.
The view from the patio of the motel was spectacular. Instead of the endless dusty red of the road to Mole was the endless expanse of pristine green forests and ponds. The breathtaking beauty of my surroundings was enhanced by the promise of a dip in the pool and the ice-cold Club beer in my hand. The sun shone through the clouds as though heaven itself had opened up before me.
I understand now that Mole was so beautiful to me then not only because of its inherent splendor, but because of the experiences that led me to that moment.
We did see elephants the next day, as well as warthogs, baboons and antelope. Ask me what I remember of Mole in ten years, though, and I already know what I will imagine: an overheated van barreling down a rusty road, a mango tree shading our hospitable young companions, tears of laughter and beads of sweat running down the faces of my friends and one fabulous, jaw-dropping view of paradise that I will never, ever forget.
Others have said it many times before, but I will say it again: life isn’t about the destination, it’s about the journey. Every day I spend in Ghana, I’m reminded of the truth in that old saying. My most memorable experiences here have all involved the unexpected and the unplanned.
Last weekend was no exception. The group of Americans I came to Ghana with took a trip to Mole National Park. We had heard, of course, that the trip is long, dusty and possibly dangerous. We knew that we would spend more time traveling than actually experiencing Mole. But we also knew that going on a safari was a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity that we couldn’t pass up.
So on Saturday morning, after spending the night in Kumasi, we piled into our chartered bus again for the long trip to Mole. We had arranged to switch buses and drivers 60 km outside of the park, because the owner of our first chartered bus didn’t want it traveling down such bad roads.
After many long but comfortable hours on our nice Chinese bus, we arrived at the juncture where we were supposed to switch vehicles. Confused, we looked around. There were definitely no other buses in sight. Instead, a van pulled up and out stepped an excited-looking man wearing flashy sunglasses that would have been more fitting on a professional cyclist.
The man identified himself as Mr. Fatal, who was indeed the same ominously-named person who was supposed to take us to Mole. He started loading our things eagerly into the van, while a crowd of local children begged for change.
Mathematically, the group of 14 obronis, our Ghanaian guide from Accra, Mr. Fatal and the driver should not have been able to fit into the van with all of our luggage. But by some form of obviously ancient Ghanaian magic, we did it. I was jammed into the very backseat with three of my friends.
The van had windows, but they didn’t open. The air conditioning in the van functioned so poorly that in the very back we could not feel it at all. Within minutes, the four of us in the last row were drenched in sweat. Outside the car, red dust swirled as though we were trekking across the surface of Mars.
Then the van idled to a halt. The driver and Mr. Fatal debated something loudly in Twi before opening the doors to let us out. Stepping out into the searing equatorial sunlight felt like stepping into a freezer. I realized that the back seat of the van must have been 10 degrees warmer (that's Celsius, meaning approx 20 degrees warmer Fahrenheit) than it was outside.
Outside the car were several small children. These did not beg, however, they just stared at us, silent and expressionless, as we emerged thankfully from our oven on wheels. We must have looked ridiculous; pasty white intruders sopping with perspiration, led by a bizarrely enthusiastic Ghanaian wearing shades that challenged the very sun with its own reflection.
After trying fruitlessly and awkwardly to engage the children in conversation for quite some time, an older boy of about twelve gestured for us to follow him. Mr. Fatal and the driver ignored us and scuttled around on the ground under the van, trying to figure out what had caused the breakdown.
Accompanied by the small crowd of still-silent children, we stopped under the shady relief of a mango tree. Benches and chairs were produced as if conjured from the cool, sun-dappled air around us and we settled down to wait for our van to be fixed.
(Except for me, who by now had to pee very very badly. Through Sonny, our Ghanaian guide from Accra's interpretation, we told a village man that I needed a bathroom. Michelle and Sonny went with me.
I was led to a rather nice cement building and into a tiny room. I had been expecting something like this, except this was even more perplexing than I thought. A cement room with not even a hole in the ground - instead, a sort-of drain leading from the wall to the outside. But the way the ground was sloped, it would never drain.
I called Michelle over. Perplexed, we decided there had been a miscommunication. I hadn't wanted to change, I'd wanted to pee... but no, we asked Sonny, and this was it...
I really regretted asking for a toilet now. The field outside looked so much more appealing. I've already mastered "the hover" - I do not trust seat covers here - but peeing in a room with no drainage went against all of my instincts.
Semi-victoriously I emerged from the bathroom and then covered for Michelle while she did the sensible thing and used the field - never again asking for a toilet when there is a perfectly fine field, I'll tell you that. Then we tramped back to the mango tree where our friends had made some small progress with the locals.)
Two hours later, we had finally established some sort of rapport with our adorable but shy little hosts. Some of us were clustered close to the dirt, where we played a particularly competitive game of “Hangman,” an American spelling game we all remembered from primary school. Another group watched as some of the local girls drew pictures in the dirt with sticks and giggled amongst themselves.
After reaching the conclusion that the van had somehow lost most of its oil, Mr. Fatal and a mechanically-inclined member of our group (Nick) repaired the leak as best as they could before acquiring new oil for the engine from a nearby village. Back in business, we bid our small friends goodbye and sorted ourselves back into our seats.
The road was not as bumpy as expected. Cheered by our recent mango-tree break, my backseat comrades and I faced our tribulations with great heart. We began singing choruses of any and every song we could remember. (Jay-Z, Bob Dylan, The Beatles and Disney all featured prominently) As we sang, the car got hotter. The air got dustier. We sweated more and poured the remnants of our water bottles onto each other as we had seen elephants at watering holes do on the Discovery Channel in the same sweltering African heat.
Soon I realized that the back of the van was broken. The Martian dust was clearly getting in through the cracks in the back doors, and the backseat-dwellers formed the first line of defense. The others in my row looked increasingly orange as the minutes passed, and I realized that I too must be covered in a layer of sticky, sweaty red dust. Laughing at our ridiculous appearances, we swiped still more dust from the seat behind us and painted stripes on our faces like badges of honor.
When we finally arrived at the Mole Motel, the four of us in the backseat were nearly delirious. In the last few minutes I spent in the car I felt as though I would pass out from the heat. Then the driver threw the back doors of the van open and I felt the gloriously fresh air on my skin. I turned around and smiled at the driver, who stopped and stared at my new red complexion, before making a guilty expression and going to mutter something to Mr. Fatal. Apparently, the dust in the back was so bad not because the van’s doors were broken but because they were open, a possibility my friends and I had not considered when wondering at the magnificent (recreation of the American) dustbowl swirling in the backseat.
The view from the patio of the motel was spectacular. Instead of the endless dusty red of the road to Mole was the endless expanse of pristine green forests and ponds. The breathtaking beauty of my surroundings was enhanced by the promise of a dip in the pool and the ice-cold Club beer in my hand. The sun shone through the clouds as though heaven itself had opened up before me.
I understand now that Mole was so beautiful to me then not only because of its inherent splendor, but because of the experiences that led me to that moment.
We did see elephants the next day, as well as warthogs, baboons and antelope. Ask me what I remember of Mole in ten years, though, and I already know what I will imagine: an overheated van barreling down a rusty road, a mango tree shading our hospitable young companions, tears of laughter and beads of sweat running down the faces of my friends and one fabulous, jaw-dropping view of paradise that I will never, ever forget.
the obruni experience: the ups and downs of ghanaian transportation
At home in the
I have a feeling that when I return to the
It is astonishing to me that there are not more crashes here. A Ghanaian explained to me that since everyone here drives crazily, it’s more important to pay attention to the road – so everyone does. Perplexing to me, because I’m used to traffic police enforcing the many laws of the road, but I suppose it’s each to their own.
Riding tro-tros and taking taxis in
As a thrifty college student, I was happy to discover how cheap it is to get around in
However, some taxis here are in poor shape. The most alarming problem with this is the lack of seatbelts. Research has shown over and over that traffic accidents result in more deaths when the people involved were not wearing safety belts. I would imagine that traffic fatalities would drop in
What bothers me most about the taxi situation in
Tro-tros, which are unlike any mode of transportation in the
But once I figured out how to get where I wanted to go on them, I was delighted. For one thing, they’re incredibly cheap. I find it hard to believe that such cheap rates are even possible, given the rising cost of petrol.
Like taxis, tro-tros lack seatbelts, but this doesn’t worry me as much. In tro-tros, I reason, everyone is packed too tightly most of the time for a seatbelt to even make a difference in a crash. At least that’s what I like to think – my logic could be completely off base.
As I mentioned, tro-tros are much more reliable than taxis at reaching their destinations, which is my favorite feature of “the Tro,” as my American friends sometimes call it.
Also, the Tro comes along incredibly quickly. In the
Though getting around in
Monday, July 7, 2008
photos
I'm too lazy to post pictures in multiple places, but I have been making Facebook albums. You can check them out at these links:
http://www.facebook.com/album.php?aid=2169464&l=f7182&id=11511714
http://www.facebook.com/album.php?aid=2169843&l=bdf1a&id=11511714
I'll continue to add pictures as I go. I'll try to keep including the links in this thing.
Ciao!
http://www.facebook.com/album.php?aid=2169464&l=f7182&id=11511714
http://www.facebook.com/album.php?aid=2169843&l=bdf1a&id=11511714
I'll continue to add pictures as I go. I'll try to keep including the links in this thing.
Ciao!
Saturday, July 5, 2008
the obruni experience: an outsider's view of american politics in ghana
So I've got a column in my paper. It should be coming out on Mondays. It's called "The Obroni Experience" (the editor only gave me five minutes to come up with the name; I thought I did pretty well at it... anyways, this is my first column that should be in next Monday's paper:
On my first day in Ghana, I had heard a local band engage the crowd in an enthusiastic chant: “When I say Barack, you say Obama... Barack!”
“Obama!”
“Barack!”
“Obama!”
By my third day in Ghana, several hawkers had tried to sell me “Obama” bracelets. On my fifth day I spent in this lovely country, I heard the Obama song playing on the radio.
I never expected to see a foreign candidate get so much attention in a country thousands of miles away.
As far as I have seen, it seems that the Obama fever here eclipses even the energy behind this year’s Ghanaian presidential elections.
Where are the Akufo-Addo bracelets? I wonder. Where are the Prof. Mills songs?
These are questions that perhaps only Ghanaians are able to answer... but still, I have my theories.
At first, I assumed the charismatic leader received so much attention here because he is the first black candidate to really have a chance in an American presidential election.
However, I have heard that when Bill Clinton visited Ghana a few years ago, he caused a lot of excitement, too.
This leads me to believe that the attention paid to Obama here is not because of his skin colour alone, but because of the attention Obama pays to Africa, a continent that is so often unjustly ignored by Western politicians.
Of course, Obama’s race and the attention he pays to Africa may be inextricable explanations for his popularity. It is undoubtedly because of his African heritage that Obama gives this continent so much attention.
Whatever the reasons may be for his popularity here, I am proud to come from the same country as Barack Obama. The world needs more leaders that understand and care about countries other than their own.
An American friend of mine staying with me in Ghana said that he thinks Obama’s popularity here is just more proof that the 2008 presidential hopeful lives up to his campaign slogan, “Change We Can Believe In.”
I only hope that the man that has inspired both Americans and Ghanaians can fulfil all of our expectations.
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