That was the doctor’s advice. Eat more traditional dishes and maybe I won’t get sick. Well, I only have myself to blame because I didn’t take heed and I have another cellulitis attack.
The day I noticed the infection I was planning a trip to Togo, Benin & Niger – alone. I’ve been upset at missing so many travel opportunities with friends, so I stubbornly decided to head out alone. The main concern is that these are French speaking countries, and the extent of my French – ‘there’s a little stream with little fish’ and ‘I’m American’ – probably won’t get me very far.
So I was upset when sickness foiled my plans once again, but I received two bits of motherly advice that provided necessary clarity. What is it with Moms? How do they know exactly what to say? How do they know my internal battles? Why did I ever think I knew myself better than the woman who birthed me?
First I received a package from my mom with a little note “Don’t beat yourself up if the outcome isn’t what you expected.”
After choking up on the phone with Mamaw (grandma) she sent me an e-mail “Tears are a way of cleaning out your eyes to see things differently.”
That trip would’ve been foolish – what’s the point of traveling if it bears little more than frustration?
I woke up the next morning with a clearer vision and a smile. Immediately I knew what to do with my free weekend and within the hour I was headed to the beach. Kokrobite is a favorite weekend spot for Ghanaians and volunteers. It’s not as peaceful as Axim but boasts a different beauty. It doesn’t drive out the surrounding culture. I spent the weekend with other stray travelers, Rastafarians and pick-pocket-in-training children. For breakfast each day I had banana pancakes (more like crepes) with lime zest and watched the fisherman push out the boats and pull in the nets (I'll watch this time).
At night I watched the horizon disappear as sea and sky blended darkness. Occasionally what seemed like a lone star would reveal the edgeof the earth. Its disappearing act – dipping below sight behind a wave, slipping down the curve of the earth, or silenced by the breeze – revealed it as the candlelight of a fishing boat. Each time it disappeared I had a rush of anxiety, wondering if it had been taken by the means of its life, and I was the only witness of the end.
It was a nice way to recognize Easter.
Saturday, April 18, 2009
Have I addressed yet why I’m here?
I suppose the line from my introductory post is the best you’ll get – I like to travel and I have to start somewhere to go everywhere. I especially like the serendipity of traveling in uncertainty. Curiosity fuels me (but it also killed the cat).
Maybe that should be my epitaph: Curiosity killed the cat.
I like to tell stories.
“Knowledge and Experience do not necessarily speak the same language. But isn’t the knowledge that comes from experience more valuable than the knowledge that doesn’t?” The Tao of Pooh
Maybe that should be my epitaph: Curiosity killed the cat.
I like to tell stories.
“Knowledge and Experience do not necessarily speak the same language. But isn’t the knowledge that comes from experience more valuable than the knowledge that doesn’t?” The Tao of Pooh
Backtracking - Kumasi
I went to Kumasi a few weeks ago for the world cup qualifying match – Ghana/Benin. I’m getting sloppy, but here are the highlights:
During the bus ride there – a few altercations in Twi, most of which we didn’t understand, but were somehow the cause of and also defended for. I’d like to explain what it feels like to sit cramped at the back of an old bus, literally on top of the motor, without air conditioning or open windows. I thought my flip flops were melting, but couldn’t check because my feet were buried under luggage. It’s hard to relate to because most people try to avoid that level of discomfort.
Kumasi market – sounds of chopping bones (not like the expected ‘snap’ – more like chopping through an apple) smells of cow hooves & fish in the sun, selling yams for the entertainment of market women, chaos.
The game was fun – Ghana won.
After the game – to say I was nearly trampled would be an exaggeration. To say it was a possibility, an understatement. I had clear visions of being face down in gravel.
I kept one hand on Natalie’s backpack and the other tightly cradling my bag. Ignoring the hands in all of my pockets and attempts to overwhelm and rob me I kept my elbows tight at my sides. When out of the danger zone I realized Natalie’s bag was slashed just under where my hand provided false security.
Still shaking from the anger of being robbed and possibly trampled, Natalie was ready to throw ‘bows (elbows). She challenged anyone to mess with her in a rage.
Then we heard a gunshot. Thankfully as a group of three it was easy to stay together in the scramble. Backs pressed against a wall, straining to see what was happening, everyone froze for a few long seconds, time kept by heartbeats pumping fresh adrenaline. I decided it was just a car backfiring and started to cross the street, laughing at my moment of cowardice. Then a man ran into the street swinging a machete.
What’s the deal with machetes here? They’re used for cutting grass, not bodies. The blades are rusty and dull, not the shiny Arabian swords conceived by imagination and adrenaline.
I took a step back and paused. Another gun shot and I turned, pushing my friends down a dark side street. Whatever happened was not directed at us, but our skin glows in the dark making us easy targets. Thinking I was overreacting I stopped to gather my thoughts, but passing crowds screamed at us to run. We dodged into an alleyway and crouched behind a pile of tin scrap from the shacks surrounding us. More commotion sent crowds in motion again, and I visualized a madman chasing them and seeing us poorly hidden. Whatever was down the dark alleyway was better than my premonition, which my friends must have been shared. In sync like N*Sync, we took off in a sprint. I lost my flip-flop, but didn’t feel the jagged rocks slicing my foot. Young boys and fluffy women directed us between the shacks, inviting us to sit out of sight in their makeshift cul-de-sac. Those that spoke English translated our account to the group. Most stared at us in disbelief, embarrassed that the foreigners they warmly welcome were now shaking and scared. The fluffiest of women held Natalie and me in her bosom. The best comfort. A man named Samuel directed police officers to our hideout and they gave us a ride to the hotel, lights flashing and all.
I still think I overreacted with the tears and weak knees. Whatever happened, it wasn’t directed at us, we were just caught in the chaos. I snuck away from the concerned group and dramatic revelations to grab water up the street. Walking back I came face-to-face with the man who just 30 minutes before held a machete above his head, face frozen in my mind with wild eyes and mouth stretched in a raging soundless oval.
My breathing stopped; I hoped it would make me invisible. He passed without a glance.
After that I decided trekking West Africa over land alone doesn’t sound like much fun.
(Adventure with no one to share it with is wasted.)
During the bus ride there – a few altercations in Twi, most of which we didn’t understand, but were somehow the cause of and also defended for. I’d like to explain what it feels like to sit cramped at the back of an old bus, literally on top of the motor, without air conditioning or open windows. I thought my flip flops were melting, but couldn’t check because my feet were buried under luggage. It’s hard to relate to because most people try to avoid that level of discomfort.
Kumasi market – sounds of chopping bones (not like the expected ‘snap’ – more like chopping through an apple) smells of cow hooves & fish in the sun, selling yams for the entertainment of market women, chaos.
The game was fun – Ghana won.
After the game – to say I was nearly trampled would be an exaggeration. To say it was a possibility, an understatement. I had clear visions of being face down in gravel.
I kept one hand on Natalie’s backpack and the other tightly cradling my bag. Ignoring the hands in all of my pockets and attempts to overwhelm and rob me I kept my elbows tight at my sides. When out of the danger zone I realized Natalie’s bag was slashed just under where my hand provided false security.
Still shaking from the anger of being robbed and possibly trampled, Natalie was ready to throw ‘bows (elbows). She challenged anyone to mess with her in a rage.
Then we heard a gunshot. Thankfully as a group of three it was easy to stay together in the scramble. Backs pressed against a wall, straining to see what was happening, everyone froze for a few long seconds, time kept by heartbeats pumping fresh adrenaline. I decided it was just a car backfiring and started to cross the street, laughing at my moment of cowardice. Then a man ran into the street swinging a machete.
What’s the deal with machetes here? They’re used for cutting grass, not bodies. The blades are rusty and dull, not the shiny Arabian swords conceived by imagination and adrenaline.
I took a step back and paused. Another gun shot and I turned, pushing my friends down a dark side street. Whatever happened was not directed at us, but our skin glows in the dark making us easy targets. Thinking I was overreacting I stopped to gather my thoughts, but passing crowds screamed at us to run. We dodged into an alleyway and crouched behind a pile of tin scrap from the shacks surrounding us. More commotion sent crowds in motion again, and I visualized a madman chasing them and seeing us poorly hidden. Whatever was down the dark alleyway was better than my premonition, which my friends must have been shared. In sync like N*Sync, we took off in a sprint. I lost my flip-flop, but didn’t feel the jagged rocks slicing my foot. Young boys and fluffy women directed us between the shacks, inviting us to sit out of sight in their makeshift cul-de-sac. Those that spoke English translated our account to the group. Most stared at us in disbelief, embarrassed that the foreigners they warmly welcome were now shaking and scared. The fluffiest of women held Natalie and me in her bosom. The best comfort. A man named Samuel directed police officers to our hideout and they gave us a ride to the hotel, lights flashing and all.
I still think I overreacted with the tears and weak knees. Whatever happened, it wasn’t directed at us, we were just caught in the chaos. I snuck away from the concerned group and dramatic revelations to grab water up the street. Walking back I came face-to-face with the man who just 30 minutes before held a machete above his head, face frozen in my mind with wild eyes and mouth stretched in a raging soundless oval.
My breathing stopped; I hoped it would make me invisible. He passed without a glance.
After that I decided trekking West Africa over land alone doesn’t sound like much fun.
(Adventure with no one to share it with is wasted.)
Thursday, April 16, 2009
I don't mind digging in the mud, but prefer playing in it
Hello friends,
Sorry for the lapse in blogging. I sat down this morning to let it all out, and just as I was afraid of, it was a mess. It will take a day or so to sort out the weeks of 'what's been happening' - mostly in my head.
Here are some of the highlights:
I spent Easter on the beach. Kokrobite. A nice little retreat.
The reason for that trip was for a little clarity - peace of mind.
The reason for that is I have cellulitis again.
The rainy season started this week. (good thing I got a nice burn at the beach)
I'm trying to recruit people to play in the mud with me, but everyone is traveling.
(More on why I'm not to come in the next post)
Classes are officially over. Time to start studying.
I have a cold. Yes, a cold in Africa. Only me, right?
I've been eating about 5 oranges a day.
I think that's it for now. I'm still breathing & adjusting, but happy to be here.
Cheers,
Kaci
Sorry for the lapse in blogging. I sat down this morning to let it all out, and just as I was afraid of, it was a mess. It will take a day or so to sort out the weeks of 'what's been happening' - mostly in my head.
Here are some of the highlights:
I spent Easter on the beach. Kokrobite. A nice little retreat.
The reason for that trip was for a little clarity - peace of mind.
The reason for that is I have cellulitis again.
The rainy season started this week. (good thing I got a nice burn at the beach)
I'm trying to recruit people to play in the mud with me, but everyone is traveling.
(More on why I'm not to come in the next post)
Classes are officially over. Time to start studying.
I have a cold. Yes, a cold in Africa. Only me, right?
I've been eating about 5 oranges a day.
I think that's it for now. I'm still breathing & adjusting, but happy to be here.
Cheers,
Kaci
Sunday, March 22, 2009
Africa ain’t seen nothin’ yet (March 22)
And I haven’t seen enough of Africa.
I got out of the hospital March 19 and was anxious to leave. I made a decision to have fun the rest of the trip. This is fun. This is fun. This is fun.
So, here’s where I am now with “fear in one eye, denial in the other” (not my words, but someone’s).
I’ve seriously considered going home if I could find a way to take my final exams early or at home under supervision. Then I saw the picture Amanda made for me – a photo of me in a short red dress, heels & sunglasses, suitcase in hand next to a map of Africa captioned “Africa ain’t seen nothin’ yet!”
Maybe Ghana hates me, but there’s a lot more land to cover. I’m most excited about the journey to Barcelona and don’t know that I’ll have the chance to do this again. Despite having the time after entering ‘adulthood’ (which is rumored to come after college), I won’t have access financial aid to cover vacation. Even if I cry a little every day for the next 55 days I’ll have stories that outlast short-term depression.
But really, I’m fine.
The tentative travel plan is to head north through Burkina Faso up to Timbuktu in Mali, west through to Senegal, then north through Mauritania to Morocco and across the Strait of Gibraltar to Spain. Jenn will be my travel partner until June 4; thankfully she speaks French because teaching myself isn’t happening as planned. Although we don’t know the exact routes we’ll take (we’ll have to wing that bus station by bus station) the biggest problem I foresee is finding transportation between Mauritania and Morocco. The border is open, but no public transportation is available. (Mom, stop reading.) It’s safe to drive on the main road, but the guidebook mentions surrounding areas are riddled with landmines. I’m looking into flights.
Hopefully I’ll get back to storytelling soon. I’ve been trying to stay out of trouble by reading other people’s stories instead of making my own.
I got out of the hospital March 19 and was anxious to leave. I made a decision to have fun the rest of the trip. This is fun. This is fun. This is fun.
So, here’s where I am now with “fear in one eye, denial in the other” (not my words, but someone’s).
I’ve seriously considered going home if I could find a way to take my final exams early or at home under supervision. Then I saw the picture Amanda made for me – a photo of me in a short red dress, heels & sunglasses, suitcase in hand next to a map of Africa captioned “Africa ain’t seen nothin’ yet!”
Maybe Ghana hates me, but there’s a lot more land to cover. I’m most excited about the journey to Barcelona and don’t know that I’ll have the chance to do this again. Despite having the time after entering ‘adulthood’ (which is rumored to come after college), I won’t have access financial aid to cover vacation. Even if I cry a little every day for the next 55 days I’ll have stories that outlast short-term depression.
But really, I’m fine.
The tentative travel plan is to head north through Burkina Faso up to Timbuktu in Mali, west through to Senegal, then north through Mauritania to Morocco and across the Strait of Gibraltar to Spain. Jenn will be my travel partner until June 4; thankfully she speaks French because teaching myself isn’t happening as planned. Although we don’t know the exact routes we’ll take (we’ll have to wing that bus station by bus station) the biggest problem I foresee is finding transportation between Mauritania and Morocco. The border is open, but no public transportation is available. (Mom, stop reading.) It’s safe to drive on the main road, but the guidebook mentions surrounding areas are riddled with landmines. I’m looking into flights.
Hopefully I’ll get back to storytelling soon. I’ve been trying to stay out of trouble by reading other people’s stories instead of making my own.
Next, the psychiatric ward (March 18)
Sometimes I catch my reflection in the dark TV screen and see the whole of the contents of the room held in the curved glass: a window cloaked by curtains as if hiding from the bright sunlight in shame, a bedside table stacked with books (though none of them for studying) and my computer for my idle thoughts, and me, pitiful in the hospital bed, but not from pain or exhaustion – only out of sloth. I’ve never known the aches of sitting in bed so long.
The weeks pass but bring me no closer to finding the reason for my travels. I just wanted a personal challenge. I got it, and I’m failing. Even without the mysterious medical problems, I’ve been like so many other travelers not true to the art – finding comfort in books and other foreigners instead of the land and people I thought to have come to discover. I admitted that the hospital stay has relieved me from facing frustrations that I want to run home from.
Still I don’t want to return home. Jack says I should use this as a lesson on pride. I’m not too proud to go home – I could easily claim I was punched in the eye and shot in the leg. I was told (warned?) this would be the best-worst experience of my life. Does the ‘best’ part come in when I make it home alive?
(My humor is a little dark, but this is said jokingly.)
I spend a lot of my free time thinking about my future. When I’ve thought enough about the first thing I’m doing when I get to the States (which is drinking a margarita) I re-hash the five-year plan.
Oh, the timeless question ‘What do I want to do with my life?’ Every day more lost in the years I face. Perhaps I’m luckier than those with their fate already determined? To have a career waiting for me and my future decided might make me more tense – fearful at not having the opportunity to find myself, which first requires being lost. I need to become famous on YouTube and get a sponsor. Maybe a pharmaceutical company would be interested…
I remember a woman I worked with when I was 18. She smiled smugly at my desire to travel and other lofty wishes for an exciting life. She said that she, too, used to think that she had some unique calling & energy to go out and save the world. A little crushed then, I now realize I never wanted to save the world. My ambitions are totally self-interested. Although my expectations at the current minute are not for a future of riches and power like I often dreamed (even when arriving here), they are just as selfish. I think I am too lazy now to chase wealth.
The weeks pass but bring me no closer to finding the reason for my travels. I just wanted a personal challenge. I got it, and I’m failing. Even without the mysterious medical problems, I’ve been like so many other travelers not true to the art – finding comfort in books and other foreigners instead of the land and people I thought to have come to discover. I admitted that the hospital stay has relieved me from facing frustrations that I want to run home from.
Still I don’t want to return home. Jack says I should use this as a lesson on pride. I’m not too proud to go home – I could easily claim I was punched in the eye and shot in the leg. I was told (warned?) this would be the best-worst experience of my life. Does the ‘best’ part come in when I make it home alive?
(My humor is a little dark, but this is said jokingly.)
I spend a lot of my free time thinking about my future. When I’ve thought enough about the first thing I’m doing when I get to the States (which is drinking a margarita) I re-hash the five-year plan.
Oh, the timeless question ‘What do I want to do with my life?’ Every day more lost in the years I face. Perhaps I’m luckier than those with their fate already determined? To have a career waiting for me and my future decided might make me more tense – fearful at not having the opportunity to find myself, which first requires being lost. I need to become famous on YouTube and get a sponsor. Maybe a pharmaceutical company would be interested…
I remember a woman I worked with when I was 18. She smiled smugly at my desire to travel and other lofty wishes for an exciting life. She said that she, too, used to think that she had some unique calling & energy to go out and save the world. A little crushed then, I now realize I never wanted to save the world. My ambitions are totally self-interested. Although my expectations at the current minute are not for a future of riches and power like I often dreamed (even when arriving here), they are just as selfish. I think I am too lazy now to chase wealth.
Hiding out (March 17)
Day six in the hospital and I am less stir crazy than would be expected.
Word is I have cellulitus (spelling?), but have no clue what that means since I can’t Google it. Various sources say it is an infection of the tissue that can be very dangerous if left untreated. I had a small operation Saturday (March 14) to remove some of the infected tissue and help drain the infection. Nothing major – like I said, about the size of a bullet wound. I can’t see the bottom of the hole, but I can stick a Qtip head in it easily. The anesthesia was great; definitely worth parading through the hospital in an embarrassing cap & backless gown.
The doctor said patients normally stay in the hospital for a week or so to ensure the site is kept clean. Fine with me – I’m not taking any more chances. By chances I mean stepping outside of the hospital.
I think I’m just afraid to go back to facing everyday frustrations. The last week I’ve been a little lonely; the boredom is ok because I’m used to it, but it’s been a nice retreat from anxiety.
I snuck out of the hospital walls to buy credit for my phone today. It felt good being a little rebellious, ducking by the nurses station and waiting for the doctor to turn his back so I could slip out the door, but once in open air I stalled. The confines of the hospital had become my protection. What kind of infection would I pick up just from crossing the street? I shuddered but kept ahead.
The taxi drivers hissed at me and acted annoyed when I didn’t respond, as if it is my duty to post a sign that I don’t need their services so they don’t waste their time offering.
I have a freaking IV in my arm – does it look like I’m going far?
Grrrr taxi drivers.
I asked the doctor to let me stay under his protection a little longer.
Word is I have cellulitus (spelling?), but have no clue what that means since I can’t Google it. Various sources say it is an infection of the tissue that can be very dangerous if left untreated. I had a small operation Saturday (March 14) to remove some of the infected tissue and help drain the infection. Nothing major – like I said, about the size of a bullet wound. I can’t see the bottom of the hole, but I can stick a Qtip head in it easily. The anesthesia was great; definitely worth parading through the hospital in an embarrassing cap & backless gown.
The doctor said patients normally stay in the hospital for a week or so to ensure the site is kept clean. Fine with me – I’m not taking any more chances. By chances I mean stepping outside of the hospital.
I think I’m just afraid to go back to facing everyday frustrations. The last week I’ve been a little lonely; the boredom is ok because I’m used to it, but it’s been a nice retreat from anxiety.
I snuck out of the hospital walls to buy credit for my phone today. It felt good being a little rebellious, ducking by the nurses station and waiting for the doctor to turn his back so I could slip out the door, but once in open air I stalled. The confines of the hospital had become my protection. What kind of infection would I pick up just from crossing the street? I shuddered but kept ahead.
The taxi drivers hissed at me and acted annoyed when I didn’t respond, as if it is my duty to post a sign that I don’t need their services so they don’t waste their time offering.
I have a freaking IV in my arm – does it look like I’m going far?
Grrrr taxi drivers.
I asked the doctor to let me stay under his protection a little longer.
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