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.
Sunday, March 22, 2009
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.
Some good news (March 12)
My mom called Monday night to check up on me and the eye. I tried my best to come up with positive things to tell her while I watched a five foot snake (from my balcony) slither in & out of the shadows in the tall grass below. She asked me to have positive things to say next time we would speak.
My next phone call to her was Wednesday night, and I tried my best: My hospital room is quite nice. Single occupancy, AC, TV and private bathroom.
Happy two month anniversary in Ghana!
Happy birthday to Jack, also! I’d rather be celebrating his quarter century dressed for the ‘school girls for school boys’ theme. Instead I’m dressed in a hospital gown complemented with an IV corsage.
I seem to always have something to complain about, even at home. That’s something I’ve really wanted to work on here, since temptation to be bitter exists at every step. Sweat, crowded classrooms, and teachers I don’t understand, changing classrooms with no notice… It can all be very frustrating. I started on a tirade Wednesday before class, using another US student as my (un)willing ear. He just shrugged saying, “Yeah but that’s just how it is,” as we squeezed into a corner on the floor for a two hour lecture.
His response was simple but effective – that’s just how it is. Grow up, stop demanding things be my way (which I do at home also), and stop whining.
First huge self-discovery here: I am not chill & relaxed. I’m uptight and demanding. When I told Jack of my sudden realization he laughed and said I could’ve saved a lot of money and tears if I had listened to him. But, I have to know myself before I can let anyone else identify me.
So, I’m in search of finding brighter lights everywhere I go.
The lights in the hospital are pretty bright, and blackouts last only a moment until the generator kicks in. My friends stop by to visit and enjoy the AC. Not sure how much longer I’ll be here (2 nights & counting) since I’m not supposed to walk. Not even on crutches. Ghana isn’t exactly handicap accessible either.
What happened? Once again, I have no flopping clue. My leg started hurting Sunday – intensely sharp pains in my calf muscle. The only evidence was a big, hard, red, hot circle on my lower leg. A bug bite? Spider bite? I lay in bed that night with tears rolling down my cheeks, hot with frustration. When does something hurt badly enough to wake someone to take me to the hospital? If it wasn’t a leg issue I would’ve just walked.
(A full week and minor surgery later I’m afraid to ask when something is bad enough to call it quits and retreat home…)
Talking to Jack calmed my nerves a bit, but I ignored his plea to go to the hospital. It felt good enough to walk on the next few days, so I soldiered on. These things cure themselves on their own typically – like my cyst, right?
Wednesday night my leg exploded in pain. I was at a student dinner and finally had to leave – after going through the buffet line. I couldn’t swallow the tears anymore and walking five feet to the buffet table was agony. Jenn helped me to a taxi and I gladly overpaid.
The receptionists at the hospital recognized me so I didn’t have to wait long. They thought it was my eye again, but the sobs and severe limp revealed a new ailment. I refused a wheelchair, but they refused my pride. I just kept thinking “it can’t be that serious. It’s a freaking bite or sting. Give me the magic pill and some crutches and tell me to limp my ass back next week. I’ll be here for my eye appointment anyway.” I felt like a cry baby.
By this time my calf, ankle and foot were swollen in a hard, red, hot mass. The doctor took a look and went into action. He ordered IV antibiotics, painkillers and asked if I wanted a single or shared room. (Hmm…)
Jenn did her best to keep my mind off the pain, “What do you call a girl with one leg?”
“Elieen!” haha
Apparently this deserved immediate medical attention. At least no one could accuse me of faking. Earlier that afternoon I was called out for not helping carry benches to class. I told him my leg hurt severely from what (I thought) was a bug bite. He wanted to call me a ‘(insert word for cat)’ and I couldn’t do anything to convince him otherwise.
The nurses tried to comfort me, saying “Stop crying. Why are you crying?” I wasn’t being exaggerated, I wasn’t wailing. This time when she asked why I was crying my sobs came to a sudden halt – I inhaled deeply and sucked back the snot so my words would be clear. My head looked up in slow motion; I didn’t know what would come out.
“Because it hurts!”
And I sat back with three whimpers and another sob/choke.
I’m really surprised that’s all I said. (When that nurse dressed my wound a few days later, shoving tweezers and gauze into what looks like a bullet hole – explanation to follow – I didn’t make a sound to prove my pain tolerance; those sobs were completely justified.)
These inexplicable troubles make me feel lame. Along with saying Africa is the white man’s grave, it’s also said it’s not for the weak.
Jack’s frustration is that I act as if I’m invincible. As a human, obviously I’m destructible, but I want to be unshakable, unconquerable… I didn’t attempt any gallant feats for my recent injuries; I just woke up with them.
I’m frustrated because the challenges I face every day get me down and I’m not as durable as I thought.
I want to apologize to any who worry about me. My intention was to shock you with the conditions and challenges of life here, and that I can endure them, but I didn’t wish it to be like this. If any consolation – I am in a clean hospital with wonderful nurses and doctors. They are friendly, the food is good, and I have plenty to entertain myself. This is what I would be doing in my dorm room anyway, but here I have AC and a bed that tilts.
Use whatever power you believe helps someone miles away – prayer, chants, vibes, pourin’ some out for your homies… Even if it doesn’t help me it might help you feel better.
In my search for Self I’ve discovered selfishness. I hope not to say that any person’s search for himself is selfish, but I see a fine line in my current condition. I gallantly justified and protected my reasons for coming to Ghana when I really didn’t have a clue. My approach was to hope for the best, come back with good stories to tell, and have as much fun as possible in the hard times. That was how I measured my strength – how I would cope with uncertainty. Unfortunately, laying here in the hospital bed, I’ve found my strength is in those who care about me. When I’m the cause of a falter in their strength I don’t have what it takes to rescue everyone I’ve brought down with me.
I’m also learning that anyone who wants to pursue a life of travel should know basic medicine. I don’t have a clue. My logical suggestions - Should we dress the wound that just burst? Maybe drain it? Maybe do a culture of the infection? Maybe do something besides watch it get bigger? - are met with an unsure stare from some staff. It’s hard to be assertive when I don’t have a clue either.
I’m terrible in these situations because I can’t demand someone to do a job that I don’t know how to do. The result is more concern from my parents with no clear line of communication and I feel sick with guilt for causing the whole mess. I am so sorry. The whole trip seems like such a sick way to prove how independent and strong I want to be. There is a way to prove myself without disrupting the normal, peaceful pace of life of my friends and family. My Self, my pain, my worries are not my own because they are involuntarily shared by so many around me. The selfishness is not in seeking my Self; it is in risking my Self, the Self that others would not forgive themselves for letting go.
In the absence of my own tough spirit I hope everyone at home can accept that my friends here have stepped in to develop a physical foundation on your behalf. They are not replacing you or your efforts; they serve to build my strength so I can reverse the transgression of self searching turned selfishness.
We laugh at my breakdowns over ridiculous inefficiencies that I haven’t learned to tolerate. We laugh when my sweat turns into actual meltdowns. We laugh about the ill deeds I’ve committed that must’ve caused my current misfortune. And when I ask when the next flight home departs, they bring me guacamole, play with my hair, demand that the nurses take care of me, watch Sex in the City cuddled in my hospital bed, and cancel weekend travel plans because I’m not assertive enough in my medical care.
Thank you Mom, Dad & Whitney for keeping your cool. This is really not a big deal, but I feel horrible that is has escalated to seem so.
I owe you big time and will stay away from the Healer for the rest of your gifts.
My next phone call to her was Wednesday night, and I tried my best: My hospital room is quite nice. Single occupancy, AC, TV and private bathroom.
Happy two month anniversary in Ghana!
Happy birthday to Jack, also! I’d rather be celebrating his quarter century dressed for the ‘school girls for school boys’ theme. Instead I’m dressed in a hospital gown complemented with an IV corsage.
I seem to always have something to complain about, even at home. That’s something I’ve really wanted to work on here, since temptation to be bitter exists at every step. Sweat, crowded classrooms, and teachers I don’t understand, changing classrooms with no notice… It can all be very frustrating. I started on a tirade Wednesday before class, using another US student as my (un)willing ear. He just shrugged saying, “Yeah but that’s just how it is,” as we squeezed into a corner on the floor for a two hour lecture.
His response was simple but effective – that’s just how it is. Grow up, stop demanding things be my way (which I do at home also), and stop whining.
First huge self-discovery here: I am not chill & relaxed. I’m uptight and demanding. When I told Jack of my sudden realization he laughed and said I could’ve saved a lot of money and tears if I had listened to him. But, I have to know myself before I can let anyone else identify me.
So, I’m in search of finding brighter lights everywhere I go.
The lights in the hospital are pretty bright, and blackouts last only a moment until the generator kicks in. My friends stop by to visit and enjoy the AC. Not sure how much longer I’ll be here (2 nights & counting) since I’m not supposed to walk. Not even on crutches. Ghana isn’t exactly handicap accessible either.
What happened? Once again, I have no flopping clue. My leg started hurting Sunday – intensely sharp pains in my calf muscle. The only evidence was a big, hard, red, hot circle on my lower leg. A bug bite? Spider bite? I lay in bed that night with tears rolling down my cheeks, hot with frustration. When does something hurt badly enough to wake someone to take me to the hospital? If it wasn’t a leg issue I would’ve just walked.
(A full week and minor surgery later I’m afraid to ask when something is bad enough to call it quits and retreat home…)
Talking to Jack calmed my nerves a bit, but I ignored his plea to go to the hospital. It felt good enough to walk on the next few days, so I soldiered on. These things cure themselves on their own typically – like my cyst, right?
Wednesday night my leg exploded in pain. I was at a student dinner and finally had to leave – after going through the buffet line. I couldn’t swallow the tears anymore and walking five feet to the buffet table was agony. Jenn helped me to a taxi and I gladly overpaid.
The receptionists at the hospital recognized me so I didn’t have to wait long. They thought it was my eye again, but the sobs and severe limp revealed a new ailment. I refused a wheelchair, but they refused my pride. I just kept thinking “it can’t be that serious. It’s a freaking bite or sting. Give me the magic pill and some crutches and tell me to limp my ass back next week. I’ll be here for my eye appointment anyway.” I felt like a cry baby.
By this time my calf, ankle and foot were swollen in a hard, red, hot mass. The doctor took a look and went into action. He ordered IV antibiotics, painkillers and asked if I wanted a single or shared room. (Hmm…)
Jenn did her best to keep my mind off the pain, “What do you call a girl with one leg?”
“Elieen!” haha
Apparently this deserved immediate medical attention. At least no one could accuse me of faking. Earlier that afternoon I was called out for not helping carry benches to class. I told him my leg hurt severely from what (I thought) was a bug bite. He wanted to call me a ‘(insert word for cat)’ and I couldn’t do anything to convince him otherwise.
The nurses tried to comfort me, saying “Stop crying. Why are you crying?” I wasn’t being exaggerated, I wasn’t wailing. This time when she asked why I was crying my sobs came to a sudden halt – I inhaled deeply and sucked back the snot so my words would be clear. My head looked up in slow motion; I didn’t know what would come out.
“Because it hurts!”
And I sat back with three whimpers and another sob/choke.
I’m really surprised that’s all I said. (When that nurse dressed my wound a few days later, shoving tweezers and gauze into what looks like a bullet hole – explanation to follow – I didn’t make a sound to prove my pain tolerance; those sobs were completely justified.)
These inexplicable troubles make me feel lame. Along with saying Africa is the white man’s grave, it’s also said it’s not for the weak.
Jack’s frustration is that I act as if I’m invincible. As a human, obviously I’m destructible, but I want to be unshakable, unconquerable… I didn’t attempt any gallant feats for my recent injuries; I just woke up with them.
I’m frustrated because the challenges I face every day get me down and I’m not as durable as I thought.
I want to apologize to any who worry about me. My intention was to shock you with the conditions and challenges of life here, and that I can endure them, but I didn’t wish it to be like this. If any consolation – I am in a clean hospital with wonderful nurses and doctors. They are friendly, the food is good, and I have plenty to entertain myself. This is what I would be doing in my dorm room anyway, but here I have AC and a bed that tilts.
Use whatever power you believe helps someone miles away – prayer, chants, vibes, pourin’ some out for your homies… Even if it doesn’t help me it might help you feel better.
In my search for Self I’ve discovered selfishness. I hope not to say that any person’s search for himself is selfish, but I see a fine line in my current condition. I gallantly justified and protected my reasons for coming to Ghana when I really didn’t have a clue. My approach was to hope for the best, come back with good stories to tell, and have as much fun as possible in the hard times. That was how I measured my strength – how I would cope with uncertainty. Unfortunately, laying here in the hospital bed, I’ve found my strength is in those who care about me. When I’m the cause of a falter in their strength I don’t have what it takes to rescue everyone I’ve brought down with me.
I’m also learning that anyone who wants to pursue a life of travel should know basic medicine. I don’t have a clue. My logical suggestions - Should we dress the wound that just burst? Maybe drain it? Maybe do a culture of the infection? Maybe do something besides watch it get bigger? - are met with an unsure stare from some staff. It’s hard to be assertive when I don’t have a clue either.
I’m terrible in these situations because I can’t demand someone to do a job that I don’t know how to do. The result is more concern from my parents with no clear line of communication and I feel sick with guilt for causing the whole mess. I am so sorry. The whole trip seems like such a sick way to prove how independent and strong I want to be. There is a way to prove myself without disrupting the normal, peaceful pace of life of my friends and family. My Self, my pain, my worries are not my own because they are involuntarily shared by so many around me. The selfishness is not in seeking my Self; it is in risking my Self, the Self that others would not forgive themselves for letting go.
In the absence of my own tough spirit I hope everyone at home can accept that my friends here have stepped in to develop a physical foundation on your behalf. They are not replacing you or your efforts; they serve to build my strength so I can reverse the transgression of self searching turned selfishness.
We laugh at my breakdowns over ridiculous inefficiencies that I haven’t learned to tolerate. We laugh when my sweat turns into actual meltdowns. We laugh about the ill deeds I’ve committed that must’ve caused my current misfortune. And when I ask when the next flight home departs, they bring me guacamole, play with my hair, demand that the nurses take care of me, watch Sex in the City cuddled in my hospital bed, and cancel weekend travel plans because I’m not assertive enough in my medical care.
Thank you Mom, Dad & Whitney for keeping your cool. This is really not a big deal, but I feel horrible that is has escalated to seem so.
I owe you big time and will stay away from the Healer for the rest of your gifts.
Health Update (March 10)
My eye is looking better! The smallish red lump looks like a mosquito bite and is mostly disguised by my eyelashes. Fortunately the skin wasn’t stretched to the point of no return so I don’t have an extra flapping eyelid.
Here’s how it happened:
The weekend before my appointment with the doctor the lump started to bruise and develop a soft spot. Monday afternoon it burst in class. Someone was giving a presentation about something and I bolted from my seat, running out of the room with my hand over my bloody eye, saying “Ohh (insert crap)!”
Can you imagine what people were thinking? I laugh every time I visualize it. Everyone in the first few rows was checking out the monster before class (or they were just staring at me because I’m white). Either way, I’m sure it was talked about.
I went to the hospital to have it dressed that night so it wouldn’t get infected. I’m not taking any chances here. The nurse tried to pop it and tugged, saying that there was something that needed to come out, prompting my imagination to do what it does best. I convinced myself I had a mango worm.
(Mango worms: mango flies lay eggs in cloth, usually when left to dry outside, which hatch as worms and burrow into the skin. To get them out you cover the bump with Vaseline to suffocate them and when they come up for air, squeeze like pimple. Instead of a white head out comes a squirmy little worm)
The following afternoon was my appointment with the specialist. After waiting five hours I was disappointed – no scalpel & no worm. He just poked it a little, told me to keep applying scalding water and taped my eye shut. Totally anticlimactic.
Here’s how it happened:
The weekend before my appointment with the doctor the lump started to bruise and develop a soft spot. Monday afternoon it burst in class. Someone was giving a presentation about something and I bolted from my seat, running out of the room with my hand over my bloody eye, saying “Ohh (insert crap)!”
Can you imagine what people were thinking? I laugh every time I visualize it. Everyone in the first few rows was checking out the monster before class (or they were just staring at me because I’m white). Either way, I’m sure it was talked about.
I went to the hospital to have it dressed that night so it wouldn’t get infected. I’m not taking any chances here. The nurse tried to pop it and tugged, saying that there was something that needed to come out, prompting my imagination to do what it does best. I convinced myself I had a mango worm.
(Mango worms: mango flies lay eggs in cloth, usually when left to dry outside, which hatch as worms and burrow into the skin. To get them out you cover the bump with Vaseline to suffocate them and when they come up for air, squeeze like pimple. Instead of a white head out comes a squirmy little worm)
The following afternoon was my appointment with the specialist. After waiting five hours I was disappointed – no scalpel & no worm. He just poked it a little, told me to keep applying scalding water and taped my eye shut. Totally anticlimactic.
The Devil finds employment for the idle… (March 7)
“What should we do today?” I groaned Saturday morning around 9. Although every day is a free day, I hate staying in bed past 8. It must be a subconscious effort to convince myself I’m not lazy or depressed.
Jenn & I lay in bed in an air-conditioned room already feeling lethargic knowing the heat would soon have to be faced.
We had good intentions starting the day – we planned to go to the orphanage and attempted to actually go. Until the usual morning difficulties beat us down.
Negotiating a taxi is an art – and neither of us had the stroke that morning. Bargaining is a game of laughter & teasing the price down to something reasonable. After the first few attempts we knew we were doomed; neither of us felt like laughing at constantly being charged the steep Obruni price. Insulting the driver, calling him a bad man, doesn’t help either.
A traffic jam on the way home pushed us further off schedule – we thought maybe a wreck caused it, but realized it was just a gridlock of stubbornness and no traffic laws.
We grabbed our iPods for the 2-5 hour trip (depending on traffic, how long it would take the tro to be crammed with sweaty bodies, and how fast we wanted to walk). One last stop at the ATM for a few Cedis and we would’ve been ready, had the ATM been working. We could’ve walked two miles to another ATM, but it was already 11, giving us only a few hours to play with adorable African kiddies.
Well… (exhale). I wanted a GHC .50 cup of coffee, but the café didn’t have change for a GHC 5 bill.
I’ll never understand the lack of change in some countries. In the US coins are so unnecessary and abundant they can be dropped, trashed, or hoarded for years without use. A $20 or $50 bill can be used to pay for anything – no matter how small. In other countries sellers would rather lose a sale than come up with change. Banks here give me attitude for asking them to break the $20 their ATM doled out.
I’ve learned to avoid the shops that will take your money and tell you to come back later for change. They are not trying to cheat the customer; everyone abides by the honor system. If I returned later for my GHC0.60 it would be handed over without question.
(I have been cheated only once)
Jenn came to the rescue just before a meltdown, “Let’s make a mockery of everything that gets on our nerves.”
In less malicious terms, we wanted to impart our business knowledge on the entrepreneurs of Accra.
I watched her order a coffee and the woman refused to make change for the 5-spot. Jenn explained that the internet café upstairs owed her GHC 0.50, so she could just transfer the debt to the cafe. Honor code, right? Her look told us to leave.
After not having coffee we went to enlighten the taxi drivers. “Tsss tsss,” we hissed for their attention. This is not rude – it’s like yelling ‘hey you!’ I can’t use it to address anyone but taxi drivers though because to me it still sounds demeaning. Taxi drivers are part of the reason I dislike Accra.
We spent some time haggling with taxi drivers, trying to negotiate ridiculously low fares. The mockery here is of the exorbitant amounts they charge Obrunis. I’ve been told it’s not racism, just taking advantage of a business opportunity by taking advantage of foreigners. Somehow the rule about not taking advantage of customers didn’t make it into the textbooks here. I found that a few ‘Ohh my bruddah’s, some Twi bargaining phrases, and offering my hand in marriage helps a lot.
It was time to move on to more rewarding ventures. We gathered worldly possessions we could part with to try trading it for new crap at the market. Armed with bug spray, deodorant, Immodium, candy, Pepto Bismol, and a false identity as volunteers (students are assumed to be rich here), we dodged the angry taxi drivers and hopped on a tro-tro.
Markets are always a little overwhelming for me. It’s been hard to do much shopping because the constant ‘tsss-ing’, grabbing, and bargaining - and the piles of everything from smoked fish to super glue bombard my senses.
I tried to focus on each stand individually. Shoes – digging for a matching pair in my size through a mountain of smelly, worn, mate-less soles – too much effort.
I glanced at stands of bags, dresses, African curio – all things I’ve seen before and learned to resist. Then, like a mirage, I saw it; a brilliant stand of African herbal remedies.
The signs, mostly misspelled, identified the magic pill for any ailment you could imagine. Medicine is something to appreciate here. Someone suggested I go to a clinic that specializes in bumps. Any bump, they can take care of it. The billboard has pictures of the most hideous lumps I’ve ever seen. Tumors, growths, rashes – my cyst was not even worthy for this place.
Back to the stand.-
The remedies available were mostly to cure sexual disorders. I’m typing this directly from the drug fact sheet I received. Warning – this could be inappropriate for some readers:
Develop the Breasts – Increase in the size & firmness of breast which will attract good men to you.
Vigina Tightener – A drug which narrows and tightens the vaginal mucus membranes. This decreases the size or width of vigina.
Viginal Itching – Localised microbial infection on the vagina, which makes scrape and out of the vigina of the woman.
Sexual Weakness (Man Power): Weakness of man during sexual intercourse, the weakness can be lack or reduction in sexual appetite; if the penis weak soft in the vagina during the act, this is treatable (come and see us).
Early Ejaculation (Long Journey): is where the man releases very early, during sexual intercourse before his partner, and also leading to a big disappointment on the part of the woman. In short the female remains sad.
(hahahahahahahahahahahaha)
(remember – this is the medical diagnosis – not my own)
Super Aphrodisiac: He is whish increases the sexual appetite it also increases and reinforces erection during sexual intercourse, it is real exciting.
Penis Enlargement: Increase in the length, width and thickness of penis; it become large strong and long. 10 to 25 cm
(no comment – seriously. I don’t use the metric system)
White Vaginal Discharge: A white discharge from the virginal of the woman, it’s a vaginal infection. Come early to avoid disgrace. This is your womanhood.
(C’mon ladies – your womanhood is at stake.)
Women Frigidity: Unable to obtain orgasm during sexual intercourse is normal. It’s treatable. Today is the answer to your problem.
(These guys really know how to sell)
Develop the Buttocks: Big buttocks attracts men.
(sold!)
Cures for more serious disorders are also available – please contact me if you would like treatment for diabetes, liver disease, typhoid, bed wetting, blocked horns…?
I bought most of my gifts there. That’s what I told the medicine man, anyway. My womanhood was at stake – was I supposed to admit the vagina tightener and vaginal discharge stuff was for me?
Jenn & I both chipped in for the weight loss pills – we’re in this sinking ship together. He also suggested breast enhancers; no thanks, a-hole.
We were forced to pay with cash – he had no need for our Western medicine and didn’t see the irony in trying to trade candy for weight loss pills.
The rest of the afternoon we had no choice but to trade straight-up since we dropped all our coin at the popsicle stand.
The bug spray was a hit since malaria is kind of a big deal. One woman thought it cured stretch marks too (not sure where she came up with that) but we didn’t dissuade her, hoping that would be the selling point in exchange for her wooden salad tongs with carved animal handles.
A few bracelets and a backpack later my t-shirt was drenched with sweat. I had accomplished enough in this day and deserved a nap.
Jenn & I lay in bed in an air-conditioned room already feeling lethargic knowing the heat would soon have to be faced.
We had good intentions starting the day – we planned to go to the orphanage and attempted to actually go. Until the usual morning difficulties beat us down.
Negotiating a taxi is an art – and neither of us had the stroke that morning. Bargaining is a game of laughter & teasing the price down to something reasonable. After the first few attempts we knew we were doomed; neither of us felt like laughing at constantly being charged the steep Obruni price. Insulting the driver, calling him a bad man, doesn’t help either.
A traffic jam on the way home pushed us further off schedule – we thought maybe a wreck caused it, but realized it was just a gridlock of stubbornness and no traffic laws.
We grabbed our iPods for the 2-5 hour trip (depending on traffic, how long it would take the tro to be crammed with sweaty bodies, and how fast we wanted to walk). One last stop at the ATM for a few Cedis and we would’ve been ready, had the ATM been working. We could’ve walked two miles to another ATM, but it was already 11, giving us only a few hours to play with adorable African kiddies.
Well… (exhale). I wanted a GHC .50 cup of coffee, but the café didn’t have change for a GHC 5 bill.
I’ll never understand the lack of change in some countries. In the US coins are so unnecessary and abundant they can be dropped, trashed, or hoarded for years without use. A $20 or $50 bill can be used to pay for anything – no matter how small. In other countries sellers would rather lose a sale than come up with change. Banks here give me attitude for asking them to break the $20 their ATM doled out.
I’ve learned to avoid the shops that will take your money and tell you to come back later for change. They are not trying to cheat the customer; everyone abides by the honor system. If I returned later for my GHC0.60 it would be handed over without question.
(I have been cheated only once)
Jenn came to the rescue just before a meltdown, “Let’s make a mockery of everything that gets on our nerves.”
In less malicious terms, we wanted to impart our business knowledge on the entrepreneurs of Accra.
I watched her order a coffee and the woman refused to make change for the 5-spot. Jenn explained that the internet café upstairs owed her GHC 0.50, so she could just transfer the debt to the cafe. Honor code, right? Her look told us to leave.
After not having coffee we went to enlighten the taxi drivers. “Tsss tsss,” we hissed for their attention. This is not rude – it’s like yelling ‘hey you!’ I can’t use it to address anyone but taxi drivers though because to me it still sounds demeaning. Taxi drivers are part of the reason I dislike Accra.
We spent some time haggling with taxi drivers, trying to negotiate ridiculously low fares. The mockery here is of the exorbitant amounts they charge Obrunis. I’ve been told it’s not racism, just taking advantage of a business opportunity by taking advantage of foreigners. Somehow the rule about not taking advantage of customers didn’t make it into the textbooks here. I found that a few ‘Ohh my bruddah’s, some Twi bargaining phrases, and offering my hand in marriage helps a lot.
It was time to move on to more rewarding ventures. We gathered worldly possessions we could part with to try trading it for new crap at the market. Armed with bug spray, deodorant, Immodium, candy, Pepto Bismol, and a false identity as volunteers (students are assumed to be rich here), we dodged the angry taxi drivers and hopped on a tro-tro.
Markets are always a little overwhelming for me. It’s been hard to do much shopping because the constant ‘tsss-ing’, grabbing, and bargaining - and the piles of everything from smoked fish to super glue bombard my senses.
I tried to focus on each stand individually. Shoes – digging for a matching pair in my size through a mountain of smelly, worn, mate-less soles – too much effort.
I glanced at stands of bags, dresses, African curio – all things I’ve seen before and learned to resist. Then, like a mirage, I saw it; a brilliant stand of African herbal remedies.
The signs, mostly misspelled, identified the magic pill for any ailment you could imagine. Medicine is something to appreciate here. Someone suggested I go to a clinic that specializes in bumps. Any bump, they can take care of it. The billboard has pictures of the most hideous lumps I’ve ever seen. Tumors, growths, rashes – my cyst was not even worthy for this place.
Back to the stand.-
The remedies available were mostly to cure sexual disorders. I’m typing this directly from the drug fact sheet I received. Warning – this could be inappropriate for some readers:
Develop the Breasts – Increase in the size & firmness of breast which will attract good men to you.
Vigina Tightener – A drug which narrows and tightens the vaginal mucus membranes. This decreases the size or width of vigina.
Viginal Itching – Localised microbial infection on the vagina, which makes scrape and out of the vigina of the woman.
Sexual Weakness (Man Power): Weakness of man during sexual intercourse, the weakness can be lack or reduction in sexual appetite; if the penis weak soft in the vagina during the act, this is treatable (come and see us).
Early Ejaculation (Long Journey): is where the man releases very early, during sexual intercourse before his partner, and also leading to a big disappointment on the part of the woman. In short the female remains sad.
(hahahahahahahahahahahaha)
(remember – this is the medical diagnosis – not my own)
Super Aphrodisiac: He is whish increases the sexual appetite it also increases and reinforces erection during sexual intercourse, it is real exciting.
Penis Enlargement: Increase in the length, width and thickness of penis; it become large strong and long. 10 to 25 cm
(no comment – seriously. I don’t use the metric system)
White Vaginal Discharge: A white discharge from the virginal of the woman, it’s a vaginal infection. Come early to avoid disgrace. This is your womanhood.
(C’mon ladies – your womanhood is at stake.)
Women Frigidity: Unable to obtain orgasm during sexual intercourse is normal. It’s treatable. Today is the answer to your problem.
(These guys really know how to sell)
Develop the Buttocks: Big buttocks attracts men.
(sold!)
Cures for more serious disorders are also available – please contact me if you would like treatment for diabetes, liver disease, typhoid, bed wetting, blocked horns…?
I bought most of my gifts there. That’s what I told the medicine man, anyway. My womanhood was at stake – was I supposed to admit the vagina tightener and vaginal discharge stuff was for me?
Jenn & I both chipped in for the weight loss pills – we’re in this sinking ship together. He also suggested breast enhancers; no thanks, a-hole.
We were forced to pay with cash – he had no need for our Western medicine and didn’t see the irony in trying to trade candy for weight loss pills.
The rest of the afternoon we had no choice but to trade straight-up since we dropped all our coin at the popsicle stand.
The bug spray was a hit since malaria is kind of a big deal. One woman thought it cured stretch marks too (not sure where she came up with that) but we didn’t dissuade her, hoping that would be the selling point in exchange for her wooden salad tongs with carved animal handles.
A few bracelets and a backpack later my t-shirt was drenched with sweat. I had accomplished enough in this day and deserved a nap.
Running water (and other luxuries) (March 1)
I was awakened from my mid-morning nap (yes, mid-morning) with resounding cries of ‘the taps are flowing!!’
In a mad dash I headed towards sounds of splattering water. The first shower sputtered & choked; still hopeful I ran to the next floor where I definitely heard flowing water.
Another wonderful cold shower. And I don’t say it sarcastically. The power & water have been especially problematic the last couple of weeks. It’s interesting – the things that would halt our days at home don’t receive the bat of an eyelid here. Electricity goes out during class – no problem. The fan is usually turned off at the start of lecture anyway, because someone is cold. I, however, am normally hot as balls, disgusted by the sweat rolling off my back and the pool forming just below my boobs.
No consensus is needed. He who acts first makes the decisions. The fan stays off.
The professor can continue without PowerPoint and the class manages to follow along just by listening! In the US if the professor attempts to move forward without visual aids the class revolts. We can’t be expected to learn if not entertained, right?
No running water? Grab a bucket and get in line at the water spicket. That’s not an excuse for skipping lecture or work.
When it rains however, rumor is most professors don’t even show for lecture. Unfortunately, the only time it rained I didn’t have class.
I didn’t come here for things to go smoothly, hence the name of this blog ‘misadventures’. If everything was easy I would have too much time to drink.
So this post is for my dad, who called me after reading the last post, worried about my physical & mental health. When he called I was lounging in a nice air-conditioned house with running water, a backup generator, fast internet & mindless television. My friend Jenn has family contacts in Accra – a few pilots who fly for major companies in Africa. They tell us to pop in at any time and urge us to eat home cooked meals and lounge all weekend. (By the way Dad, they fly a King Air 350 & 200 if that makes sense)
His call nearly brought me to tears – not because he cares, I already knew that, but because I realized I’ve probably worried a few people. This post is for anyone that has worried. I won’t tell another story about why Africa has been coined ‘The White Man’s Grave’. I won’t bitch about spending most of my time waiting because no processes seem to be in place. I won’t mention how mid-morning naps are absolutely justified after my 7:30-9:30 am class. (ok, I crossed my fingers) I’ve focused on these things not just because they happen, but because it’s more entertaining than when things go well. Who wants to watch a show about someone’s perfect life? Unless it’s on E! TV…
I’ve mentioned that I enjoy Ghana, but hate Accra. If it was that terrible I would leave, so here’s why I’m staying:
Plantain chips & fresh guacamole
Full meals for less than $1
Big bottles of beer for $1.50
Beaches
Mid-morning naps
Mid-afternoon naps
70% is an A
No one laughs when I sweat profusely
Zero to walking out the door (including shower) in 10 minutes
People still ask me to marry them despite deformities on my face
I always have a good excuse for skipping lecture. (No faking the doctor’s notes)
Lots of time to read
Playing Frisbee
Egg sandwiches
All-you-can-drink nights at Champ’s (X that one out…)
Fresh pineapple for <$1
Besides, if nothing went wrong I’d complain about boredom and then I couldn’t blame anyone else.
I’ve also had inquiries about classes – yes, I have them.
I’m taking:
Monetary Theory, Int’l Banking & Finance, Int’l Marketing, Drumming, Traditional African Dance, & Twi (language).
Each lecture is two hours long and two of my classes also have 1-hour tutorials each week. Sixteen hours a week in the classroom, thousands (it seems) free to find ways to fill free time.
I only have a slight issue with one professor – the rest are respectful and interested in why I’m here. I’m growing accustomed to the style of lecture – at home it’s fast-paced, here it’s more recreational. A little more joking & laughing, less complaining from students, and no homework. Grades are determined by one exam at the end of the semester. That is why 70% is an A. They aren’t necessarily easy, but most of the challenge is in self-motivation. Professors don’t take attendance (although it’s easy to tell when I’m missing) and don’t assign work to keep us on track. I don’t think I’ve ever taken a comprehensive final, and am realizing now I should’ve checked the ‘70% piece of cake’ attitude at Immigrations.
In a mad dash I headed towards sounds of splattering water. The first shower sputtered & choked; still hopeful I ran to the next floor where I definitely heard flowing water.
Another wonderful cold shower. And I don’t say it sarcastically. The power & water have been especially problematic the last couple of weeks. It’s interesting – the things that would halt our days at home don’t receive the bat of an eyelid here. Electricity goes out during class – no problem. The fan is usually turned off at the start of lecture anyway, because someone is cold. I, however, am normally hot as balls, disgusted by the sweat rolling off my back and the pool forming just below my boobs.
No consensus is needed. He who acts first makes the decisions. The fan stays off.
The professor can continue without PowerPoint and the class manages to follow along just by listening! In the US if the professor attempts to move forward without visual aids the class revolts. We can’t be expected to learn if not entertained, right?
No running water? Grab a bucket and get in line at the water spicket. That’s not an excuse for skipping lecture or work.
When it rains however, rumor is most professors don’t even show for lecture. Unfortunately, the only time it rained I didn’t have class.
I didn’t come here for things to go smoothly, hence the name of this blog ‘misadventures’. If everything was easy I would have too much time to drink.
So this post is for my dad, who called me after reading the last post, worried about my physical & mental health. When he called I was lounging in a nice air-conditioned house with running water, a backup generator, fast internet & mindless television. My friend Jenn has family contacts in Accra – a few pilots who fly for major companies in Africa. They tell us to pop in at any time and urge us to eat home cooked meals and lounge all weekend. (By the way Dad, they fly a King Air 350 & 200 if that makes sense)
His call nearly brought me to tears – not because he cares, I already knew that, but because I realized I’ve probably worried a few people. This post is for anyone that has worried. I won’t tell another story about why Africa has been coined ‘The White Man’s Grave’. I won’t bitch about spending most of my time waiting because no processes seem to be in place. I won’t mention how mid-morning naps are absolutely justified after my 7:30-9:30 am class. (ok, I crossed my fingers) I’ve focused on these things not just because they happen, but because it’s more entertaining than when things go well. Who wants to watch a show about someone’s perfect life? Unless it’s on E! TV…
I’ve mentioned that I enjoy Ghana, but hate Accra. If it was that terrible I would leave, so here’s why I’m staying:
Plantain chips & fresh guacamole
Full meals for less than $1
Big bottles of beer for $1.50
Beaches
Mid-morning naps
Mid-afternoon naps
70% is an A
No one laughs when I sweat profusely
Zero to walking out the door (including shower) in 10 minutes
People still ask me to marry them despite deformities on my face
I always have a good excuse for skipping lecture. (No faking the doctor’s notes)
Lots of time to read
Playing Frisbee
Egg sandwiches
All-you-can-drink nights at Champ’s (X that one out…)
Fresh pineapple for <$1
Besides, if nothing went wrong I’d complain about boredom and then I couldn’t blame anyone else.
I’ve also had inquiries about classes – yes, I have them.
I’m taking:
Monetary Theory, Int’l Banking & Finance, Int’l Marketing, Drumming, Traditional African Dance, & Twi (language).
Each lecture is two hours long and two of my classes also have 1-hour tutorials each week. Sixteen hours a week in the classroom, thousands (it seems) free to find ways to fill free time.
I only have a slight issue with one professor – the rest are respectful and interested in why I’m here. I’m growing accustomed to the style of lecture – at home it’s fast-paced, here it’s more recreational. A little more joking & laughing, less complaining from students, and no homework. Grades are determined by one exam at the end of the semester. That is why 70% is an A. They aren’t necessarily easy, but most of the challenge is in self-motivation. Professors don’t take attendance (although it’s easy to tell when I’m missing) and don’t assign work to keep us on track. I don’t think I’ve ever taken a comprehensive final, and am realizing now I should’ve checked the ‘70% piece of cake’ attitude at Immigrations.
Subscribe to:
Comments (Atom)
