Return

It was raining when I got back to DC, just as it was when I left. My mother picked me up from the airport, treated me to a burrito and drove me to Takoma Park. My roommates had failed to take down the Christmas wreath off the front door and everything in the family room was eerily in the same place. It was all exactly as I had left it a month ago, as if I had been in Narnia.

I dumped my pack and collapsed upstairs, but I kept waking up in the middle of the night, first at eight, then at midnight and then at five. I kept dreaming of Ghanaian soccer and couldn’t get a Weezer album out of my head. Maybe it was the jetlag or maybe it was the Larium. I decided to go into work early since I was up. I grabbed a medium t-shirt that was usually snug and put it on. It was now loose.

Work was work. Our last report was still upstairs with the Inspector General and the entrance conference for our next review was still not scheduled. I had lunch with Staats and Tristin who reported that nothing had happened over the past month. Yup, it was all exactly as I had left.

My run after work went surprisingly well and I weighed myself afterwards. I lost fifteen pounds. How is that even possible? A half a pound every day?

I decided to grab some Chinese when I got home, so I went down the street and ordered some kung pao. I chowed down while watching Countdown, which left me with an enormous stomach ache. Apparently, this whole food thing is a shock to my body (unless it was Keith Oberman). I guess I should have gone with yams for dinner. At nine, I became massively sleepy and felt light-headed. I stumbled upstairs and passed out again. I kept waking up expecting to see blue walls. I need to get off this Larium.

I’m sure in a couple of days, I’ll be acclimated. Oddly, though, both physically and mentally, I miss Ghana. Who would have guessed?

The North

I made it to a village called Tongo outside of Bolgatanga. Tongo is in the savanah with fields of amber grass rising from the ruddy earth. Trees are scattered through the landscape, but each far enough from the other to be considered lone. Drier than dry, Tongo is the image of Africa the west has in its mind, minus the lions. It is so stunning, it is surreal. I stayed with Jesse, a Peace Corps volunteer who teaches art to deaf children. The children moan and hit each other for attention, which makes it easy to understand why the Ghanaians think they are idiots when they are not. Jesse hopes to teach them how to make a few craft so they can survive. Other than helping his students, Jesse hates his time in Ghana. He spends his nights drinking, playing cards and talking to two other volunteers who he seems to share a brain with. They finish each other's thoughts and are fascinated by each other's banal tales of shopping at the market and dealing with the locals. The presence of outsiders is almost jarring to their rhythm of isolation. Once his two friends leave Ghana, Jesse says he will leave.

I went to see a woman's community craft shop near the Burkina border (the tour was given by a man). I also went to see the chief of Tongo's house (17 wives) and the very gross shrine near his home (priest sitting in a pile of Guinea fowl carcasses). Some Ghanaian told me I was in the wrong Tro Tro just so he could get the front seat, which caused a huge fight between him and the Ghanaians who were looking out for me. It was kind of awkward.

At least the north had some okay pork skewers. I gulped down the fat and skin knowing that I needed the energy. Eating is chore here. Amazing.

Two days of bus transport followed. The Tongo to Bolga, Bolga to Tamale, Tamale to Kumasi, Kumasi to Accra, Accra to Nick's place. Hours of delays, hours of traffic, hours of road construction. It was terrible. I caught some sort of cold from the trip and had the worst headache I've had in 15 years. Last night, I walked into a field and collapsed practically weeping in pain. Other than that, it was really a beautiful night.

Adventure

Ooof, what an adventure getting to Mole and back!

So, I got a bus towards Mole, which stops in a town called Larabanga, 6 kilometers outside of Mole. From chatting with people on the bus, I learned that there is an annual "festival" in Larabanga the next day. Since I wasn't sure if Mole had a bed for me anyway, I got off the bus with the other few travelers to spend the night in the crappiest town in the history of man. A Dutchman, an American girl and I went to the "guest house" where the American girl's Slovenian friend was living. At this point, the pity of the Slovenians begins in dusty,dusty Larabanga. The poor Slovenian was fed just rice by her host family at night and bread in the morning. There was no running water (just a barrel of rain water) and the toilet was a hole in the ground. The Slovenian had no computer, tv or any entertainment. The worst aspect of the town is that they play dance music until 4 in the morning and start again at 6 in the morning that literally shakes her rat infested cement home. The Dutchman, American girl and I slept on the roof after eating white rice for dinner. I taught the others my trick of shoving wet toilet paper in my ear. I was so tired, I actually slept a good four or five hours through the music, but the Dutchman and the American girl didn't sleep at all. The Slovenian, as well, couldn't sleep.

I was awoken in the morning by a strange boy who was excited about the festival. "Today," he said "Larabanga will be like Accra." At the time, I was skeptical, but eventually realized the kid was delusional. I also wondered how and why some stranger kid walked into a house that wasn't his and climbed on the roof just to tell a foreigner about the festival. Went walked to see the sights of town. First, we saw their magic stone, which is sacred, but can be photographed for 50 cents. The magic stone was moved to straighten the road, but somehow returned the next day to the same spot. Then, a woman crashed her car, only to survive unharmed near the rock. Then, were taken to the town's magic mud puddle (diameter 2 yards), which women were drinking from. We were told that the festival would begin at 10:30 so we headed to the oldest mosque in west Africa, along with the 30 children we had accumulated along the way.

Nick warned me about Ghanayan festivals. "A festival is standing around," he warned. The oldest Quran in west Africa was being brought to the oldest Mosque in west Africa. People came as far as Nigeria to see it. We were warned not to take any pictures about 8 times by the clerics because the Quran was "mega-Sacred." We waited from 10:30 and, finally, after 1, the Imam and the Quran arrived, covered in blankets. There was about 300 people standing around to see this event. And that was it.

So, we walked to Mole (it was nice to leave Larabanga) and went on the tour. We saw some elephants, baboons, warthogs, green monkeys, cobbs, Guinea fowl. It was nice, but we were starving. After getting back to the Mole gust house, I ordered some curried chicken and a coke, went for a dip in the dirty pool and relaxed. Mole was brief, but very nice, especially after spending a day in the worst village ever. A slept until 4 am when we had to catch the bus back to Tamale.

Halfway down 100 km dirt road from Mole to the highway that goes to Tamale, a bus blocked the road. It was clearly trying to turn around and got stuck in a ditch. The Ghanayans were having no luck trying to put tree limbs and rocks under its tires to get it out. Other minivans tried to go around and got stuck. Soon, it was a pile up of stuck vehicles. It was so ridiculous that even the Ghanayans on the bus were laughing.

50 km from anything, stuck in the middle of a dirt highway under the hot sun in the middle of Africa. Still, we couldn't go back to Larabanga. So, we started walking and left behind the hundreds of stranded Ghanayans. Luckily, one the buses (not ours), off-roaded it around all of the pile up. They picked us up on the other side of the mess and we road to Tamale. Success! Incredible! It was a cramped ride in which a Guinea fowl crapped all over me, but I was happy to make it back to crappy, crappy Tamale.

Tired inTamale

I spent yesterday on buses and am exhausted today. I had to catch a shared taxi into Kumasi and then a tro tro to Techiman. From Techiman, I went by shared taxi to Nkoranza and then by tro tro on a horrible road to Boabeng to see a monkey sanctuary with two different types of monkeys. The monkey's were neat, but like the grand canyon, it's a long trip and after 30 minutes, you've seen it. A Peace Corps volunteer was in my tro on the way to the sanctuary. He seemed ready to kill himself from the isolation. I remember isolation well from China, but his must be worse for him. At least I had a couple of fiends to see in the evening and some McDonald's in Shanghai. He has a lot of dust and the polluted nothingness of Techimen. He says market day is the highlight of his week. As fun and romantic and the Peace Corps may seem at times, Margo's description of it being "two years of being really bored" seems pretty accurate.

I then had to go back to Nkoranza and then Techiman to hop a bus crowded with Muslims to Tamale. God, that was long. When I arrived, it was super late and most hotels were booked. I also unfortunately picked up a tailing kid who tried to meet me today, but I managed to finally offend him and got rid of him. I got my ticket to go to Mole. The place is booked, so I'm not sure where I'll be sleeping (maybe the town 4 km away). Oh well, I'll figure it out. Muslims can't deny you a place to sleep.

Lakes and Haircuts

I decided to go see Lake Bosumtwee, where Ashanti souls pass after they die. It was a nice misty and mystical lake. Some guy pretended to be the chief and wanted me to give him money for tree planting. When I didn't give him anything, he called me a racist and tried to fight me. The other villagers apologized for him.

Upon return to Kumasi, I decided I needed a haircut. This is a dilemna, though, as clearly no one knows how to cut white hair. So, I got buzzed and now my hair is shorter than ever before in my life (well, maybe birth). It looks okay, but, then again, I'm tanned so everything looks fine. The barber asked if I wanted a shave and I said sure. He then shaved my face with his hair clipper. If you ever have the chance to shave your face with a hair clipper, I would recommend passing on it as it was extremely painful. I struggled to hold back tears as the clippers ripped into my neck hairs. Ahh Africa.

Tomorrow I head north to a monkey sanctuary. Awesome.

More Beaches and Kumasi

Heading west of Accra, I checked out the forts of Cape Coast before heading to the beach. The forts kept slaves before their trip to the New World and they were pretty dreary. The guide kept making note of the lines where crap was before they excavated them. The people of Cape Coast wouldn't really let me walk around at night- they kept telling me to go home because it was supposedly dangerous. The Ghanans are always looking out for me, often too much.

I hit the beaches of Busua which were, of course, great. They were deserted and and beautiful, but the waves never got high enough to surf (despite the presence of surf shops). I took a tour of a palm making facility in the jungle. It looked more like a meth lab, really. Industrial barrels and antifreeze containers held the wine as it fermented. Little kids as young as four ran about blitzed off of palm wine.

I hopped a van to Kumasi that broke down. After a half-hour of sitting by the side of the road, a bus drove bye and picked us up. Kumasi is busy and industrious. The Ashanti people are colder and more business oriented than the Ewe in the east. The Ashanti sold the Ewe into slavery. Somehow, it shows.

The Larium is beginning to get to me. Dreams are stronger and I can't sleep as well. Though, it may be the fact that at night people leave their TVs blasting. In the morning, they sweep. The Ghanans are a sweeping people. From 4 to 8 am, they sweep, sweep and sweep. The sound of handleless brooms wakes me every morning and prevents me returning to slumber.

Ghana, Togo, Benin

Ghana is a funny place, but isnt everywhere? How to describe it? Well, very dirty. All streets are lined by two-foot concrete ditches filled with garbage and waste (yes, waste). You have to look down at all times or else you might fall in and break a leg. The food is horrible. They have seven different blobs of grain that you dip into various soups and eat with your hands. Also, they have rice. Its all carb with little fat or protein. That said, the Ghanans are friendly, but trying. They yell "yaboo" at you all day (thats foreigner or tricky dog) and get offended if you ignore them. I spent new years with Nick and his Peace corp friends at a "bar" (some tables at the side of the road) in front of an Accra brothel. I next went to Nick's village. Its a beautiful location with palm trees, chickens, goats, women carrying everything on their heads and families wanting you to take their children to America. Nick must be very, very bored.

Nick and I crossed into Togo and noticed the French had done a much better job than the English. The country has better roads, closed sewers and people leave you alone (except the kids who yell yaboo bon sua). Togo's landscape, like Ghana's is stunning with miles of untouched beach. They cant really swim here and the undertoe would kill them anyway. I went by myself into Benin and caught a car to Abomay, where I'm going to check out some skull throne or something before heading home to Ghana. The Beninese are noticibly active compared to the lounging Togolege and Ghanans. Who would have guessed? Not knowing French is tough.