Future’s so bright, I want to leave

I couldn’t decide what to title this post. At the time I was reeeally struggling to be positive, but I knew I had to find a silver lining. It came to me when I was walking to my room in the hostel, singing “Future’s so bright I gotta wear shades…” trying to feel less foolish for wearing sunglasses at dusk.
I tried singing “I wear my sunglasses at night…” but it went to an indistinguishable hum after that line. I couldn’t even get the tempo so I gave up; the previous is more upbeat anyway. There’s also a rap song that says something about ‘stunnin’ shades’ but that’s years back in my memory. I’ll be wearing my sunglasses for awhile, so please let me know of any other songs that will make me feel cool wearing them indoors/at night.

Then I got a text message from my friend Jen: Hey porn star, how ya feelin’?

I spent 7 hours at the hospital that day only to hear “Let’s see what happens. Come back next week.”
I feel like a monster. I feel like people can’t concentrate. I feel like I make other uncomfortable. I feel like crying. And I did, a lot.

I replied “When does the next British Airways flight leave?” then deleted it and fell into bed, sobbing. Really, it was pretty dramatic. I picked up my tiny mirror from the nightstand, inhaled, and peered deep into my hunch-eye.

I let the mirror fall to the floor, let out a couple more sobs from the gut, realized I was putting more effort into it than necessary, and left my room. Then I ran back in to get my sunglasses.

After my friends poked at it a bit offering to perform surgery (actually begging to), I had to join in and laugh. It really does look ridiculous, but not totally gruesome; more curious, but I was assured not like a birth defect. Not that having a birth defect is terrible… don’t want to offend anyone. They want to name it, but I asked them to hold off until it’s gone.

This has really been an emotional trip – I can’t get myself straightened out. It’s up and down hourly, not just weekly or daily. Some of it could be medication, but how do I know? How do I know it’s not just time to leave Accra?

My heart isn’t here, but I think I’ve started to find out why I am here which is why I need to stay a little longer. There are lessons to learn on self-confidence, adventure vs. danger, and not letting mishaps bully bright shining days. As far as doing business here, I’ve decided it’s probably not for me. Instead of beating myself up over it and feeling like a bad person for not being up to the challenges, I’ve decided to be thankful that there are others who find their calling here. It’s ok that my passion is elsewhere – perhaps filling a gap left by another’s indifference.

Plenty of opportunity exists here – I wasn’t BSing my rationale for coming – I think I was headed in a different direction before setting out. Like I mentioned in my first post – there needed to be a reason other than an interest in African dance. My parents didn’t actually need the explanation – they know there’s not much rhyme to my reason. I needed justification for my head, so I could follow my heart, which always tries to escape my restraint.

So, the troll under the bridge of my eyebrow fits into this experience perfectly. I can’t cower behind sunglasses anymore. Anyone who thinks I look gross is probably more uncomfortable than me, so boo-ya. It also gives me power in negotiating; I’ve tried tears, but everyone can cry.

Which brings me back to the cyst:
I’m going back to the doctor on Tuesday and hopefully it will be soft enough to cut open and suck out.

For anyone concerned with treatment thus far, here is the report:
Last Friday I saw the pharmacist who put me on this regimen:
Cloxacillin – 2 pills 4x daily
Zulide – 1 pill 2x daily
Folic Acid – 1 pill/day
Results: The swelling went down, but the cyst hardened.

Monday I went to the University clinic. The doctor prescribed Diclofen 1 pill 3x daily & Augmentin 1 pill 2x daily. Having blood drawn is standard procedure here – like having vitals checked. While inserting the needle the man in the lab asked for my phone number and made kissy faces while putting on the band-aid, offering to personally deliver the results that evening. Rather than go on another tangent about this, stay tuned for my discussion on men wanting a white wife. You saw the picture – it is not because I look good.

Tuesday morning my eye was bloodshot which made me think the infection was spreading. I had to go to my morning class because the professor hates me. This is a tangent I must follow:
After this class most people probably think I’m crying, but it’s actually steam from deep within spewing from my eye sockets. If I was a cartoon it would come from my ears; a bull and it would come from my nose. The professor has a problem with me for being American and white. I understand his problem with America – he studied under leaders with socialist ideals and many of his opinions have merit, but this particular morning, at my most vulnerable, he decided to make it personal.
He refused to understand me when I answered a question and, although the entire class was able to repeat what I said, with a spiteful stare he said, “Speak louder so everyone can hear, even though they don’t care what you have to say.”
After another jab about universities in America being only for the whites, and the blacks that go there are considered white too, I was done trying to understand him.

So, I went to the private hospital and returned seven hours later with more blood results (low blood sugar – probably from waiting all day without food), more medication, and a return ticket next week.
I thought my tears of frustration might win some anti-depressants, but no, just a multi-vitamin.
For my foot rash – Candiderm cream (which is working!)
For my eye – Maxitrol

Later that night I was blessed to find a pill for the yeast infection (damn, jinx), and probiotics to mediate the disagreement between the antibiotics and my body.
This story sounds really dramatic but I can assure you the only inflation is in the abscess.

In an e-mail to a friend I said TIA- shirt happens and you deal with it, or die. I can assure you I’m not dying and dealing with it quite well. When I’m not in high spirits I watch Entourage or pop in my Chinese DVD of Matt Damon vs. Leonardo DiCaprio movies. Don’t judge me – yeah I’m sitting in Africa watching Blood Diamond when I should be making my own brilliant discoveries, but I need a timeout.

When I came back from the hospital I walked past a girl crying about her haircut from that afternoon. Note to self: don’t get a haircut.

You cant reach me because...

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Remember - I am 6 hours ahead of Wichita. Do the math for elsewhere.

God, crush every demon with every evil plan for these travelers…

A man stopped to pray over our tro-tro. Respectful of his prayer, I couldn’t help but think Jinx.

The few times I managed to balance myself against the lurches of the tro and fall asleep I was jolted forward into the nape of the man ahead. The first near crash was with a runaway cart of coconut shells. The horn was barely audible over the grinding brakes, but held constant as if to scream at the young boys, panting in the ditch, who had lost control of their cart.
The other abrupt stops were to avoid collision with the halted vehicles lined up behind the less successful ‘near misses’.

Despite the jarring trip back to Accra, I was not happy to be back at the hostel. Adelaide is a well-meaning woman at the front desk, but I just didn’t want to deal with her questions about the condition of my face. The swelling was reduced to above my cheekbone, but difficult to hide even under sunglasses.
I’m not embarrassed by the appearance so much as not having a cool story to tell. Couldn’t I have been hit in the face with the butt of a rifle for refusing to pay a police officer? Couldn’t it at least be a result of clumsiness? No, my face exploded just exploded while I was sleeping.

“Hi Adelaide,” I said rushing past, trying to seem involved in what was on the television so she couldn’t see my face.
“Kaaaci,” she cooed, “How was Cote D’Ivo… ohh what happened?”
“Just a bite, I have medicine.” I said, “I’m going to bed so it will go away.”
“Oh sorry,” the Ghanaian response when something is really terrible, “Be sure to take your medicine.”

Yeah, got it. I set my alarm to take all of the 11 pills/day at the exact hour they should be taken. It actually got worse over night, but not as bad as two days ago. Like in Larabanga, there comes a time when all you can do is be thankful for the terrible things that haven’t happened:
I don’t have a yeast infection from the medicine (yet).
The power is on, and so is my $50 fan.
I don’t feel bad for hiding in my room all day.
I get to take my malaria medicine today, and have really trippy dreams tonight.

Il y a un petite ruisseau avec des petites poissons.

There’s a tiny stream with little fish. The only French I can say without stumbling through it. I practiced it on the way to Cote D’Ivoire.

We missed our bus out of the city so opted for a tro-tro. Six hours on a sweaty, crowded van-like vehicle - just get me out of Accra.

I reached a new milestone on that trip. I peed on the side of the road. “Ok,” my mom said, “What’s the big deal?”
“It’s a little different along the side of a busy road, awkwardly squatting alongside men. Women pee publicly too, but they’ve been trained to do it standing up and only have to lift their skirt a bit.” I explained.

We could only go to Takoradi that evening because the border closes at 6:30. It’s not safe to travel in Cote D’Ivoire after dark.
My eye started to swell a little on the tro-tro ride, but I figured the wind had just irritated it a bit. The next morning my eye was swollen shut. TIA. At home I would be extremely alarmed. One might think I should be more alarmed being in Africa, but there’s not much that can be done. I looked for a healer while we waited for the bus. Maybe he could take a look at the rash on my chest too – my medical professionals said it looked a little like a bite from an acid bug. Hmm.

The bus arrived late which would’ve forced us to find a hotel in Abidjan after dark. There’s a difference between danger and adventure. Change of plans – we headed to the nearest beach town.

My happy place

Axim Beach Hotel – the best place to stay in Ghana. I hope Google searches pick this up, because this place deserves recognition.

This little haven was started by a traveler named Jonas. He grew up privileged and was educated in the UK, until he said screw it. He decided to travel, knowing that the straight and narrow of university couldn’t answer his questions or teach him what the road has. He has maybe had a few hits of the peace pipe, but is successful by the measures of the general public and also the discerning few who choose not to study life, but live and experiment with it.

He has economy huts for the backpackers like himself. These glorious little huts are perhaps a bit crowded in space, but not lacking in the details. Just like the more glamorous chalets, the beds are made up with tropical flowers and the shower made of stones rolled smooth on the ocean floor, decorated with shells collected on the beach it overlooks.

I couldn’t have been more satisfied, especially at US$15 a night.

Our hut overlooked a rocky shore where the sun set. Behind us was a gentler cove and beach of smooth sand. Being idle seaside is much better for my racing mind. In Accra my mind cannot rest out of frustration that my body cannot move; in Axim my mind races with ideas for the hostel I dream of operating – with tree houses and outdoor showers made of stone rolled smooth on the ocean floor.

The best part of the place was its emptiness. Its remoteness saves the peace for only those with stories to tell of how they got there.

The second day I couldn’t take it any longer – not the idleness, but the frustration knowing it wouldn’t be remembered. I can take pictures and a bit of sand, but I can’t bottle the flickering palm leaves. A recording of the crash of waves doesn’t hold my gaze.

I also couldn’t bear my swollen eye. By this time it was a swollen face. My eyeball was in a crater between the hard, red mass below my left eyebrow and the skin stretched tight from swelling around the rest of my eye socket. The swelling reached below my cheek bone and I could feel the pressure deep in my jaw.

That was how I met Jonas. He was in the reception area when I asked for a taxi into town. He was headed that way and offered a ride. When I took off my sunglasses he added that he has a good friend who’s a pharmacist.

“I know there’s a crab in here somewhere,” he said looking around the seats.
“What?” the right side of my face showed a startled expression, the left fixed firmly by the swelling.
He laughed, “Sorry – a dead one, I can smell it.”

We passed a sign for a healer on the way to the hospital. He saw me reading it and said it was up to me, but he suggests seeing a doctor.

At the hospital his friend came out to greet us and escorted us into his office. I felt bad passing everyone in the waiting area, but when I took off my sunglasses their reaction changed to understanding.

After confirming it was probably a cyst he gave me an anti-biotic, anti-inflammatory and another medicine to help the rash on my chest – which I had forgotten about next to my exploding face. He refused any payment. “You’re my sister,” he said.

Jonas had errands to run and offered to get me a taxi back to the hotel, but I couldn’t sit idle any longer. I went with him to collect bamboo at the river delta. On the way he asked me what I need in life.
“Adventure,” I decided.
“Are you sure? Girls need to be loved,” he teased, “big wedding, lots of clothes…”
“Eh?! When the simple decisions are the hardest made in a day, how will someone survive the hard stuff?” was my reply.
“I don’t understand.”
“Well,” I said, “I’m learning that the more clothes I have, the more I worry about what to wear. I spend too much time deciding what to wear and not enough figuring out what to do wearing them.”

His teasing didn’t stop – he arranged for me to take a trip up the river to cut bamboo for a few days. Great – when do I leave? I thought a little about the warning not to swim in any fresh water because of river blindness, but couldn’t back down.

“You should’ve been born a boy,” he said, explaining my body was too soft for that kind of work.
I told him about going fishing.
“Ok, but only for one day,” he said unimpressed.
I didn’t tell him it was actually only once – not even a full day.
He had me beat – I watched the young boy securing the load of bamboo in the truck and noticed his muscles rippling along his lean ribcage. I can’t even build muscles where they are supposed to be…

This was when I learned that he is the owner of the hotel. I did what anyone would do – networked. I asked about his marketing strategy – all other operations seemed to be under control, probably the best run business I had seen in Ghana, it was just a little empty.
Exchanging contact information he agreed to keep me in mind until I could arrange to return with Jack.

He sat with us after dinner on the beach, under the stars. I talked with all of them about my frustration with school. Why do I need to pay hundreds to take a science course designed to be an easy ‘A’ just to get my Spanish degree? As far as completing my Business degree, I don’t even want to go into the corporate world at the moment, and if I need the degree at some point I can finish it in a few months when it’s needed. Theory can’t be practiced in a lecture hall.

Reading Walden puts these thoughts in my head:
“The mass of men live lives of quiet desperation.”

“What a man thinks of himself, that it is which determines, or rather indicates, his fate.”

“… [I]t appears as if men had deliberately chosen the common mode of living because they preferred it to another. Yet they honestly think there is no choice left. No way of thinking or doing, however ancient, can be trusted without proof. What every body echoes or in silence passes by as true today may turn out to be falsehood tomorrow, mere smoke of opinion, which some had trusted for a cloud that would sprinkle fertilizing rain on their fields. What old people say you cannot do you try to find that you can. Old deeds for old people, and new deeds for new.”

“Here is life, an experiment to a great extent untried by me; but it does not avail me that they have tried it.”

“This spending of the best part of one’s life earning money in order to enjoy a questionable liberty during the least valuable part of it, reminds me of an Englishman who went to India to make a fortune first, in order that he might return to England to live the life of a poet.”

I could fill pages and hours with these words, but I know most of it would be skipped in reading. Thoreau was an idealist, and I still have not totally made the decision to be the same. I am inspired by his words, though knowing it is unlikely I should follow them in the fullest extent.

I will quote this final text:
“The greater part of what my neighbors call good I believe in my soul to be bad, and if I repent of any thing, it is very likely to be my good behavior. What demon possessed me that I behaved so well?”

Summed up in the necklace given to me by my mom “Well-behaved women rarely make history.”

While I probably won’t follow a life of complete freedom from the restraints of society as outlined by Thoreau, at least I can continue with a bit of rebellion.

Laugh with me as I try to make my history, knowing it is youthful indulgence, but please do not deter me.

Back to dinner under the stars and honest conversation –
They convinced me to finish at least my business degree which can be done before August. Although Jonas was able to divert his path a little earlier, he assures me there will be time enough for me also; the circumstances of his life were different.

Back to Accra.

T.I.A. - This is Africa

This is Africa we sometimes say. Every day is not an exciting adventure, especially in Accra. I despise Accra. I’ve always wanted to live in a big city because of its movement. Accra does move, but nothing really seems to get done. The infrastructure of the city is poor at best which makes movement difficult.

Most days after the morning frustrations I’m ready to retreat to my room to be idle, which is unlike me in this amount. All I want is to have a cold beer and escape the heat, vendors, and calls of “Obruni!” Yes, I am white. Congratulations for spotting Waldo.

Today, sitting on the balcony overlooking construction that seems to exist only to provide jobs, my skunky beer – Star, proud product of Ghana – is warm; another power outage. I forget to report the frequent periods without power and water because TIA – it happens and you move on.

I have a very strange and disgusting rash along the outside of my right foot. I consulted the best medical professionals, my friends, and they said TIA “Deal with it when you get home. Just don’t touch me with it.”

The fan in my room doesn’t work anyway so I wasn’t any hotter than normal. It moves but, like the construction outside, doesn’t do much.

I had to get up and do something before my journaling prompted me to take action. My current entries question the value of a degree, preferring to make a bold statement by saying screw it – I have three classes left, I’ve proven myself in someone else’s goal and I’m ready to let my mind have the freedom to decide the question of success on its own and by its own means. No Mom, I haven’t touched the peace pipe; just frustrations of idealism and naivety that plague every young mind.

I went to the mall and bought a fan and a pillow. It’s time to get comfortable – I’ve realized I’m gonna be here awhile. Perhaps I wasn’t in the best state of mind for this shopping trip. The small fan was US$50 – TIA, screw it. I’m quite satisfied despite the expense. My little haven is great, when the power is on, but doesn’t help my idleness.

“The devil finds employment for the idle.” Henry David Thoreau

That was Tuesday night. A few other girls were satisfied with the week’s frustrations too, so we decided to set out for Cote D’Ivoire the next day after classes. We had a guidebook and so a plan. They speak un peu French and I speak Spanish, perfect.

Is it true a hippo can eat a man in three bites?

My question was met with howls of laughter by the guide and boys rowing the canoes. Obviously they never watched The Man Show…

The night before canoeing with hippos we slept in a tree house. This totally changed my goals in life. Penthouse apartment – pshaw; I need the sway of tree branches as my bedtime lullaby.

The bucket bath was another defining moment. Normally I would’ve been disappointed, but after days of not showering I was ready to splash around. The water was the warmest I’ve had in Ghana, rainwater heated by the sun. Dusk turned to dark before I had filled my bucket but I bathed in the starlight.

Natalie & Berkeley laughed about the possibility of a snake being at their feet and they wouldn’t even know. Jessica came around the corner at that moment shining a flashlight, startling the mouse that was at their feet. It scurried out of the shower, followed by the screaming girls.

The only light in the area was a single solar-powered bulb in the middle of the campsite. Even though the stars & moon illuminate less, the bright, artificial light of a city is less revealing. The stars & moon don’t hide as much. The sharp contrast of light & darkness from artificial light creates a cover for evil intentions.

The only startle here (apart from the mouse) is the occasional bird bursting into flight through the branches above us.

The next morning we went in search of hippos. Yes, hippos are very dangerous, but we were assured it had been a long time since they had attacked a canoe. Since the park was established and hunting prohibited the hippos feel less threatened by humans.

We rowed up to a floating mass of hippos – the guide counted 4 – and waited. And waited. The only action was an occasional underwater sneeze, interrupting my daydreams of building a tree house. The guide rattled chains to wake them up.

Not realizing Natalie’s uneasiness, I blurted my curiosity of their destructive power.
Like the reference to land pirates, my question about hippo attacks was probably poorly timed.

The guide laughed at my question (see title) but explained that hippo only flips the canoe and drowns any perceived threat, rarely tearing into a man and not interested in eating him.

Another long-awaited sneeze from the crowd of hippos and we headed back to camp.

Road to Wechiau

There comes a point when complaining doesn’t make one feel any better. Waiting for our chariot in the town of Larabanga I had to start thinking of things to be thankful for. Among the list generated: not having a UTI, no robbery, fried eggs with rice & noodles.

Our truck pulled up, and I was stoked. It was beat up, rusty, headlights like googly eyes, windshield shattered, and sitting high above its center of gravity atop bald Firestone tires. I threw my bag in the bed of the truck and settled in on the splintered bench under the home-welded roll bars covered with a tarp. The novelty of rough adventure wore off after the first hour.

As we headed down the rough dirt road I had vivid illusions of the pickup rolling into the ditch.
“62 perish in two accidents”
(The first headline I read upon returning to Accra)

I wondered again whether my neck pillow could serve as a neck brace and spent the entire ride imagining every worst-case scenario, planning what to do in each case.
See Mom, I did bring an extra light bulb –in my head.
(Reference to The Last Lecture)

Observing those walking along the destination-less road relieved my anxiety:
There was a man with severely bowed right leg, a violent limp from being a foot shorter on that side. I cringed watching each lumbering step imagining the ultimate snap. He had been walking for miles (and many more km), but he continued ahead undaunted by the horizon.

Young girls carried huge basins atop their heads, filled to the brim with water from a pump in a distant village. The metal bowls were twice as wide as their bodies, but they carried them as effortlessly as they carried on their gossiping, without spilling a drop; the sway of the water countered by the sway of their hips.

How can a nation thrive when survival is a full day’s work for most of its people?

My reference to land pirates was not taken well by the group, despite saving it until the man on the motorbike with a large gun was out of sight in a cloud of dust.

Perched standing over the pickup cabin I felt like a beauty queen waving to the villages at a standstill. I can assure you they saw no beauty - hair wind-whipped and matted with sweat, dirt & bugs, bandana over my face like a bandit for protection against the dirt.

Battered but spirited we arrived in Wechiau. Driving into the village we were welcomed by jumping children and genuine smiles. We weren’t followed or harassed with tourist services. The kids taught us their version of hopscotch ‘fela’ and wouldn’t have thought to ask us for handouts.
Here everyone was in it together – a communal community. Interestingly, the division of wealth was much more obvious in Larabanga, the town asking for the most donations for community development.

We stocked up on bread & water to have for dinner and breakfast since that was all that was available. I bought a can of tomato paste as a surprise; that won me some cool points.

Off to the hippo sanctuary.

First leg to Northern Ghana

Last weekend we took a group trip to Kumasi, the cultural center of Ghana and also the best place to buy ornaments of Africa.
As a collector of crap it was difficult to resist the curio, but I made it out with only a small drum and only one plastic sack of Kente cloth and small gifts. Oh, and two paintings.
At a Kente-weaving village we chose a strip to have stamped with our chosen symbols. I chose Sankofa & Aya – symbols for rebellion (loosely translated – also meaning without fear) and redemption, being able to recover from mistakes. Fitting?

I saw a woman grilling bats on the sidewalk and was startlingly tempted to bite into one. They were less than 50 cents, but my co-pay for a hospital visit is USD $25. That’s an expensive snack.
I took heed of Jack’s counsel – I am not made of iron.

I decided it would be a good week to miss class and headed north with a group of six others. I wasn’t exactly sure of the itinerary; I was just along for the ride.

“Yeah Mom it’s perfectly safe. I know I don’t know where we’re going, but they have everything planned out – reservations and everything. It sounds really fun doesn’t it? Monkeys, elephants, a hippo sanctuary…” I tried to get her excited.

“Aren’t hippos dangerous?” she asked.

“Maybe, but these are dead,” I responded without thinking. I hadn’t bothered to read the description of the sanctuary, I just looked at the picture of the hippopotamus skull and that was the first consolation I could think to offer. Plus it’s hot here; sometimes my mind shuts down to conserve energy.

We were happy to set out on our own – it’s hard to have adventure on a planned tour with 40 other students. Driving into northern Ghana is a drastic change from the developed cities. Much of the main road is not paved and the towns turn into clusters of mud huts.

When I told my mom we had a plan and reservations I meant a guidebook with suggestions.

We stayed the night in Tamale and caught an early bus to Larabanga. 4:00 AM at the bus station is not a comfortable place. It was still dark and we were quickly surrounded by curious males. I was particularly bothered by the young man scooting ever closer to my backpack. I was tempted to grab my pepper spray, but remembered that sometimes crime can be averted by creating common ground – a foundation of friendship.
“Hello. Why are you up so early?” I asked.
We slapped hands and did introductions. For the next hour he taught me some Arabic and asked me to take him to America.

The bus was hot, sweaty, and ripe. As it bounced painfully over the small potholes and swerved dangerously around the big ones I wondered if my neck pillow would keep my neck from snapping if we tipped. I knew this would be a good trip.

The guidebook warned that Larabanga is known for thieves. It suggests tightly holding your bag and walking directly to your destination – no lingering. We unloaded and were bombarded by overly helpful men. We found the guidebook-recommended guest house and while the group inquired about accommodations I stayed outside to talk with the supposed pickpockets – my so-far-so-good crime stopping technique.
They were nice and genuinely helpful. Ahmed & Abe explained that the town depends on tourism from nearby Mole National Park. They said they were listed in the Bradt guidebook which recommended their homestay accommodations. We only had the Lonely Planet guide, so I took their word. They told me a little about the town – 4,000 people, 100% Muslim. I think this was meant to make me feel safe but unfortunately it’s been ingrained to be fearful of this because of news of radical Muslim conflict with Westerners.
“Kefharik – hello,” I said, fingering my bracelet of Christian religious, thankful for the Arabic Jalil taught me earlier that morning.

We took a taxi into the Park where we stayed a night. The motel had a pool that overlooked a watering hole for the wild animals. I watched elephants go for a swim to cool off while I did the same. Guests comfortably read their books while warthogs feasted on the grass around their lounge chairs.

The boys from town came to the motel later that afternoon. My friend Berkeley spent the afternoon talking with one of them. I felt terrible for being skeptical. He is a student at the same University as us and was visiting his family in town. He said that many kids are kept from going to school because Christian missionaries develop them and their Muslim parents prohibit them from attending. They like to meet tourists because it is their only opportunity to practice English.

The next morning we took a walking safari and saw mostly antelope, a few alligators, some monkeys and a herd of six elephants! They didn’t do much – fanned themselves with their ears and splashed themselves with mud to stay cool. Hard to believe they are the second fastest animal, but I kept my distance anyway.

We stayed in Larabanga that evening because we needed to catch the bus to Wa the next morning. We were confused about who to trust in Larabanga. The Salia brothers who run the guest house warned us about the boys, but the boys had not given us reason to worry and warned us about the Salia brothers.

It sucks being in that position – not knowing who to trust and incessantly shuffling my valuables. Try deciding which of your things you would prefer to have stolen. I’ve learned that it’s so much easier to live free of material things. The inconveniences of material things meant to provide convenience (like digital cameras & cell phones) just aren’t worth the worry.

We spent the evening touring the town, pursued by the men in the town. Their friendly aggressiveness put me on edge, but I didn’t want to be an asshole American. Until one of the guys tried to reach into my bag… Then I opened my eyes and saw that these guys were dressed nicer than everyone else in the town – designer duds and sunglasses in a town of Muslim robes. They had the nicest cell phones I had seen in all of Ghana, and kept asking for donations since they were members of the tourism board- whatever our hearts urged us to give to help develop the school, upkeep for the oldest mosque in West Africa, and to expand the library. All we would’ve contributed to was their wardrobe. These were professionals.

We questioned them about each other and found the holes in their stories. None of them attended the University of Ghana, and the one who said he volunteers as a teacher in a local school undoubtedly plagiarized the story from someone else he tried to scheme.

We retreated to the safety of the Salia brothers’ guest house. All of our belongings were still safely locked away. As we settled in on the roof to sleep I talked with Hassad, one of the brothers, and thanked him from my heart for having a haven for passing travelers. He smiled knowing our dilemma, “No problem,” he smiled.

The few lights in the town cast eerie shadows in the alleyways surrounding the squatty mud hut we slept on top of. We were easily within reach of any of the boys still in pursuit of our iPods.

I was in Nowhere, Africa hoping I wouldn’t need to pee during the night (it’s hard to aim for a hole in the ground when it’s dark) and not distressed by my dirt-caked body. I wouldn’t have chosen to be anywhere else – the distant drumming and singing from the funeral rituals helped me sleep under the moon, dusted by the sands of the Sahara.

Earlier that evening we discussed how incredible it was to be in such a terrible place. We will want to share our stories but it will be hard for friends at home to appreciate them as we do. My mom called that night. I left out the thieves and told her about sleeping under the stars and the festivities in the distance. She asked if we had been passing the peace pipe. I wish… I could’ve relaxed at least.
Maybe I was awesomely struck by my surroundings because of the distress of dodging pick pockets all afternoon. The comment didn’t bother me – I felt like I was in a Twilight Zone all day and I can’t expect others to be as enthusiastic about my adventures.
“The roof is totally secure,” I said while watching a figure disappear into a shadows.
At least she wasn’t worried about me.

I didn’t sleep much that night, but not out of fright - I had my pepper spray ready by my head. I woke up wheezing and shivering in the unexpected cold. I took my bandana off my head and tried to wrap it around my feet for warmth; that was the longest night ever.
Longer than the longest nights I’ve had here, sleepless from Mefloquine nightmares (my malaria meds).

The call to prayer before dawn gave me something to focus on besides the dropping temperature. My body temperature rose with the sun and I napped soundly for an hour, until it was too hot to sleep.

We were ready to get the h-e-double hockey sticks out of Larabanga. You can imagine our disappointment that the only bus headed out was full. Again, the boys surrounded us offering solutions. They would take us, at an inflated price and rob us again on the road. “No thanks,” I responded bitchily. No problem being an asshole American today.

The Salia brothers came to our rescue again and arranged for a friend in a nearby town to provide transport. The price ended up being ten times what it would’ve been had we waited for another vehicle to pass through, but we didn’t want to leave anything to chance. Besides, it was less than USD$20 per person.

I started my list of ’25 random things’ for Facebook while waiting for the truck. I couldn’t think of anything else to do in a town without running water or alcohol.

Cape Coast

Sorry for the pause in blogging but it is a good thing. I was traveling all last week, gathering material. It also shows I haven’t been reclusive.

I’ll start with the trip to Cape Coast two weeks ago.
We visited the slave castles. I didn’t give it much thought before going, but it turned out to be a difficult tour. There was definitely a divide between the black and white students in our group.
It wasn’t immediate, but as we moved through the chambers the suffering that is embedded in the walls and floor seeped into our minds.

Each small chamber held nearly 200 bodies. They were kept below ground in the pitch black, the only light and ventilation coming from a small hole in the ground above them. These holes were used to drop food and watch the captives’ suffering. One such hole lay at the doorstep of the chapel; churchgoers literally had to step over it to enter the place of worship, this sacred place. The weekly routine of praise & repentance took place directly above hundreds of suffering souls.
What happened below as families above sang hymns, gave thanks and prayed for acceptance into God’s kingdom?
Did the Governor’s wife divert her eyes to avoid seeing naked natives or to ignore the misery?
Was this Christianity’s introduction to the continent?

The sewage rose to a level maybe half a foot across the entire floor, where the dead also laid to rest.

I was close to tears, feeling suffocated in the punishment dungeon, but swallowed the lump because I didn’t know what everyone else would think. It’s difficult to explain, but it seemed like the white kids felt unfairly blamed; perhaps this was to disguise a twinge of guilt and embarrassment for the deeds of our ancestors. While I want to say I had nothing to do with it and therefore shouldn’t feel bad as a white person, I sympathized with the black students shedding tears, feeling a connection to the plight of their ancestors.

“The tour guide was too theatrical in his descriptions. It was terrible enough and the exaggeration wasn’t needed to visualize the conditions,” was a comment left in the guest book. I don’t think this was an appropriate statement – perhaps I didn’t have the same guide, but I wonder if the individual just felt ashamed for this crime against humanity.

I had a strange response too – I wanted it to be mentioned that Africans also contributed to the slave trade; that captives of war and disgraced clansmen were sold to the white men by fellow Africans. Weeks later I realize that black/white was not mentioned once during the tour. It was never said that white soldiers raped the black women or white men specifically raided villages to enslave black men. It was my own conscience trying to push away the guilt. I know I can’t be blamed for history, but what about the obvious segregation in our group? It’s not intentional and it’s a result of culture, not color, but why do black Americans & white Americans generally seem to have different cultures? It can’t be denied that it is a result of slavery and permissible segregation.

After the tour I felt uncomfortable around my black friends. I wanted to talk, to ask if they felt uncomfortable also and defend myself against any blame. I sat with Delia for awhile, watching the waves crash against the walls of the fort below, wondering what the enslaved thought as they listened to each wave’s crash. Normally a talkative person, Delia was obviously distressed. Finally she said, “How could they just walk over them on their way into church?”
I felt disgusted, by history, religion, and the racism that exists today.

OOOOPS!

Don't worry - no accidents or regrets, just an update to my contact information.

I've heard reports that some letters/packages may have been sent, and I should hopefully still get them, but for any future mailings please check the 'How to call and send nice things' post again for my updated mailing address.

I'll write it again:

Kaci Tucker
ISEP-University of Ghana
PMB L4
Legon, Accra
Ghana, West Africa

(I don't seem desperate for some tangible pieces of home, do I?)

As far as calling, I don't think anyone has had much luck getting through.

Gone Fishin'

I love people watching at the beach. In Ghana I’ve seen some odd couples, but none so oddly matched as at the beach. It’s normally the guy I want to rescue – the tourist who doesn’t know how the hell he got himself into the predicament. The predicament being a woman you might suspect is a hooker. Even when appropriately dressed she is identifiable by her demeanor, prancing around, expecting a certain type of Western gentlemanlike behavior she saw on Pretty Woman. The particular pair that captured my sunglass-hidden stare was a hairy, book-smart, older man, courting a younger Ghanaian. An evening gone very wrong. (or right… the next day was the hard part)

As they stepped into the sand she demanded he bend down and roll up her jeans. Then she jumped into his arms, hoping he would run to the shore and playfully splash around, threatening to drop her and instead lean down for a passionate kiss. I know because I often have the same wish.

I quickly bored of watching her frolic and him panic. My attention turned to three older Muslim women cavorting in the shallow tide. It’s more fun to watch people having fun rather than terrified. At least for me; I don’t like scary movies.

They were weighed down by the water pulling on their long skirts and constantly wrestling with their head wraps in the wind, but their joy beckoned me. As I strode to the shoreline they called out “Sistah, sistah – you teach us to swim!” Then they started pulling me deeper than I wanted to go, splashed me when I didn’t want to go any deeper, and frankly started to alarm me. I’ve hung out with some sketchy people before; never thought it would be the Muslim women I’d be most scared of.

I saw a fisherman pulling in his nets down the beach so I took the opportunity to escape. (I seriously ran)
His nets were empty, but he had a smile on his face. All of a sudden I had an incredible idea – I’ve always wanted to go out on one of those boats! (Since I saw it on Anthony Bourdain’s travel show in December)
His English wasn’t great, but I negotiated a ride. When he agreed I started to get a little nervous. The boat is a big wooden canoe – a little ragged, but the holes weren’t too big. I jumped (fell) in without another doubtful thought and looked towards the unending horizon. The bow hopped over the first wave and landed with a hard thud. If you’ve taken a ride with Captain Nelson (my dad) you know the feeling.
The second wave sent us violently sideways, prompting Michael to ask if I knew how to swim.

As we passed the break line he handed me a paddle and I excitedly joined the strenuous labor of my cruise. The men started a chant to guide their movements “YEBA-yeba, YEBA-yeba” they repeated like a deep drum. Seeing how thrilled I was, Michael invited me to join them in the morning for real fishing. Venturing out to the deep sea in a rickety wooden row boat with five seemingly harmless men who speak limited English - “Absolutely!” I squealed.
I e-mailed my mom that night:
You might think this is a bit sketch, but I have the most amazing opportunity in the morning…
As I thought more about the mechanics of the situation I decided to invite along a guy friend. Sometimes I feel shafted being a female traveler – I have to worry even when I’m not making obviously bad decisions (like accepting rides home from the bar with strangers).

We set out this morning at 5:00am. Michael met us on the beach with a huge smile. He was happy we were so captivated by his profession.
As the other fisherman approached the boat Michael began tearing strips of white cheesecloth and the men wrapped them around their foreheads. Handing us each a strip, he tried to explain the meaning – in broken English I understood it to be a symbol of a free spirit, humbled by God.
We laid our hands on the boat and began to pray for safety and success in the day’s work. The individual murmurs merged into a powerful prayer, an energizing chant and almost into hysteria. The young boy next to me caught me peeking around and smiled at our shared curiosity – his of me, and mine of the fisherman.

Using two cement cylinders and four wooden planks, we hoisted the front of the sturdy boat and heaved it towards the water. I was pretty useless, but still concerned about pulling my weight.
We jumped in and quickly grabbed paddles to fight the oncoming waves. Up and over the waves, “YEBA-yeba, YEBA-yeba,” they started. As we made our way to the depths other boats stopped their rowing, eyes fixed on the two obrunis rowing frantically.

The guys let out the nets and they checked again to see if I remembered how to swim. Still I thought it was precautionary.
I thought about how calm the water was – at that depth the waves don’t roll as much. I wondered how long we would relax and wait for fish to find their way into the nets before heading back to shore.
“Ok, now we swim,” they said.
Huh?
“All of us?” I asked.
A look of duh was the only response, and I jumped in. I don’t remember the temperature of the water, or if it occurred to me that we were swimming over the nets intended to catch all sorts of sea creatures. I just focused on swimming quickly, eyes on the far off shore.
Nearer to shore the power of the waves frightened me. Trying to pull myself along using the nets I was bowled over by enormous waves. Then I thought about the powerful undertow I’d been warned about. My strategy was to ride the top of the waves until forced ashore like a beached whale. Even as the men laughed and showed me it was shallow enough to walk, I stuck with my plan.

Along the stretch of beach other groups of fisherman were struggling to pull in their morning catch. We started the same arduous dance – a tug-of-war with the sea. Down the shore everyone was synced in rhythm, using the incoming waves to keep the beat. With each pull it seemed the fishermen were ripping the waves away from the sea and onto shore.

I was tired after five minutes. Forty minutes later I was falling apart. My hands rubbed raw, rope burn along my side, back, legs, abs, and biceps aching, and a smile on my face. I knew my effort wasn’t incredibly helpful, but I wouldn’t let myself back out to snap pictures of their toil.


Ohh yes, I cursed. Each piece of skin torn away before the blister could form brought another inaudible f-bomb. Michael’s smile made me feel ashamed.
“Big fish,” he grinned, always thankful for the opportunity.
I tossed aside my bad attitude and joined in the chanting and singing.

When the nets finally washed ashore I was dispirited by the catch. Hundreds of tiny fish, a handful market-worthy, two stingray (one surprisingly large), crabs, a lobster, a ginormous shelled creature and jellyfish (carelessly ripped apart for the fish tangled inside, tossed aside and stepped on).

Everyone who helped pull in the nets took their fair share of the catch. I was amazed by their absence of greed. That was hard work, no matter how little one could offer, but everyone took a proportion equal to their contribution rather than self-perceived effort. There was no bickering, haggling, or stealing and absolutely no mad rush for the best of the bunch.

Still smiling, Michael approached me, “This time we catch really big fish!”
His eyes shined.
He motioned that we had only completed trip one and for me to get back in the boat. I apologized and said I really just couldn’t. Showing him my ragged hands, he laughed and nodded – he understood.

I wore my cheesecloth headband all day as a sign of pride. Something I admire about Ghanaians in general is their positivism and belief in hope. It is apparent in speech and action that hope and faith are the way of life; truly anything is possible if the hope exists. Unfortunately in some cases, like fishing, even if the will is there hope won’t always bring in the big fish.
In the case of a Rastafarian I had a beer with, hope does not always make up for lack of will. Their happiness is in hope though, which can’t be taken away.

Paul Theroux, in his book Dark Star Safari (thank you, Danielle), mentions how hope and faith in life after death makes the unbearable acceptable.
“With that promise [Heaven] you were conditioned to brush off the years of drought, the poor harvests, the abandoned schoolhouse […]: They were mere blips in the vale of tears on the way to heaven.’

I actually need to buckle down and start school this week, so I my stories might wane a bit. I visited Cape Coast last weekend (where we stayed in a crocodile hotel!) and am going to Kumasi this weekend so maybe I can squeeze something entertaining out of that.