Eat more Kenkey

That was the doctor’s advice. Eat more traditional dishes and maybe I won’t get sick. Well, I only have myself to blame because I didn’t take heed and I have another cellulitis attack.

The day I noticed the infection I was planning a trip to Togo, Benin & Niger – alone. I’ve been upset at missing so many travel opportunities with friends, so I stubbornly decided to head out alone. The main concern is that these are French speaking countries, and the extent of my French – ‘there’s a little stream with little fish’ and ‘I’m American’ – probably won’t get me very far.

So I was upset when sickness foiled my plans once again, but I received two bits of motherly advice that provided necessary clarity. What is it with Moms? How do they know exactly what to say? How do they know my internal battles? Why did I ever think I knew myself better than the woman who birthed me?

First I received a package from my mom with a little note “Don’t beat yourself up if the outcome isn’t what you expected.”
After choking up on the phone with Mamaw (grandma) she sent me an e-mail “Tears are a way of cleaning out your eyes to see things differently.”
That trip would’ve been foolish – what’s the point of traveling if it bears little more than frustration?

I woke up the next morning with a clearer vision and a smile. Immediately I knew what to do with my free weekend and within the hour I was headed to the beach. Kokrobite is a favorite weekend spot for Ghanaians and volunteers. It’s not as peaceful as Axim but boasts a different beauty. It doesn’t drive out the surrounding culture. I spent the weekend with other stray travelers, Rastafarians and pick-pocket-in-training children. For breakfast each day I had banana pancakes (more like crepes) with lime zest and watched the fisherman push out the boats and pull in the nets (I'll watch this time).

At night I watched the horizon disappear as sea and sky blended darkness. Occasionally what seemed like a lone star would reveal the edgeof the earth. Its disappearing act – dipping below sight behind a wave, slipping down the curve of the earth, or silenced by the breeze – revealed it as the candlelight of a fishing boat. Each time it disappeared I had a rush of anxiety, wondering if it had been taken by the means of its life, and I was the only witness of the end.

It was a nice way to recognize Easter.

Have I addressed yet why I’m here?

I suppose the line from my introductory post is the best you’ll get – I like to travel and I have to start somewhere to go everywhere. I especially like the serendipity of traveling in uncertainty. Curiosity fuels me (but it also killed the cat).
Maybe that should be my epitaph: Curiosity killed the cat.

I like to tell stories.

“Knowledge and Experience do not necessarily speak the same language. But isn’t the knowledge that comes from experience more valuable than the knowledge that doesn’t?” The Tao of Pooh

Backtracking - Kumasi

I went to Kumasi a few weeks ago for the world cup qualifying match – Ghana/Benin. I’m getting sloppy, but here are the highlights:

During the bus ride there – a few altercations in Twi, most of which we didn’t understand, but were somehow the cause of and also defended for. I’d like to explain what it feels like to sit cramped at the back of an old bus, literally on top of the motor, without air conditioning or open windows. I thought my flip flops were melting, but couldn’t check because my feet were buried under luggage. It’s hard to relate to because most people try to avoid that level of discomfort.

Kumasi market – sounds of chopping bones (not like the expected ‘snap’ – more like chopping through an apple) smells of cow hooves & fish in the sun, selling yams for the entertainment of market women, chaos.

The game was fun – Ghana won.

After the game – to say I was nearly trampled would be an exaggeration. To say it was a possibility, an understatement. I had clear visions of being face down in gravel.
I kept one hand on Natalie’s backpack and the other tightly cradling my bag. Ignoring the hands in all of my pockets and attempts to overwhelm and rob me I kept my elbows tight at my sides. When out of the danger zone I realized Natalie’s bag was slashed just under where my hand provided false security.
Still shaking from the anger of being robbed and possibly trampled, Natalie was ready to throw ‘bows (elbows). She challenged anyone to mess with her in a rage.
Then we heard a gunshot. Thankfully as a group of three it was easy to stay together in the scramble. Backs pressed against a wall, straining to see what was happening, everyone froze for a few long seconds, time kept by heartbeats pumping fresh adrenaline. I decided it was just a car backfiring and started to cross the street, laughing at my moment of cowardice. Then a man ran into the street swinging a machete.

What’s the deal with machetes here? They’re used for cutting grass, not bodies. The blades are rusty and dull, not the shiny Arabian swords conceived by imagination and adrenaline.

I took a step back and paused. Another gun shot and I turned, pushing my friends down a dark side street. Whatever happened was not directed at us, but our skin glows in the dark making us easy targets. Thinking I was overreacting I stopped to gather my thoughts, but passing crowds screamed at us to run. We dodged into an alleyway and crouched behind a pile of tin scrap from the shacks surrounding us. More commotion sent crowds in motion again, and I visualized a madman chasing them and seeing us poorly hidden. Whatever was down the dark alleyway was better than my premonition, which my friends must have been shared. In sync like N*Sync, we took off in a sprint. I lost my flip-flop, but didn’t feel the jagged rocks slicing my foot. Young boys and fluffy women directed us between the shacks, inviting us to sit out of sight in their makeshift cul-de-sac. Those that spoke English translated our account to the group. Most stared at us in disbelief, embarrassed that the foreigners they warmly welcome were now shaking and scared. The fluffiest of women held Natalie and me in her bosom. The best comfort. A man named Samuel directed police officers to our hideout and they gave us a ride to the hotel, lights flashing and all.

I still think I overreacted with the tears and weak knees. Whatever happened, it wasn’t directed at us, we were just caught in the chaos. I snuck away from the concerned group and dramatic revelations to grab water up the street. Walking back I came face-to-face with the man who just 30 minutes before held a machete above his head, face frozen in my mind with wild eyes and mouth stretched in a raging soundless oval.
My breathing stopped; I hoped it would make me invisible. He passed without a glance.

After that I decided trekking West Africa over land alone doesn’t sound like much fun.
(Adventure with no one to share it with is wasted.)

I don't mind digging in the mud, but prefer playing in it

Hello friends,

Sorry for the lapse in blogging. I sat down this morning to let it all out, and just as I was afraid of, it was a mess. It will take a day or so to sort out the weeks of 'what's been happening' - mostly in my head.

Here are some of the highlights:
I spent Easter on the beach. Kokrobite. A nice little retreat.
The reason for that trip was for a little clarity - peace of mind.
The reason for that is I have cellulitis again.

The rainy season started this week. (good thing I got a nice burn at the beach)
I'm trying to recruit people to play in the mud with me, but everyone is traveling.
(More on why I'm not to come in the next post)

Classes are officially over. Time to start studying.

I have a cold. Yes, a cold in Africa. Only me, right?
I've been eating about 5 oranges a day.

I think that's it for now. I'm still breathing & adjusting, but happy to be here.

Cheers,
Kaci