Ghana! A Travel Journal of Ghana and West Africa

When you were a kid (or yesterday if you're a klutz like me!) did you ever run full steam into a glass door? Thats kind of what it feels like to return to the Western world after a couple months in a refugee camp. That invisible shock that knocks the wind out of you when your least expecting it. Most people don't realize that most challenging part of an experience like this comes with the return to the “real” world. This advert I took from a place in Dubai where they nearly finished with this project to build these massive man-made islands as luxury resort homes ( and also where I had a day layover after leaving Accra; you can see why it was such a shock. Also watch this advert video about making another artificial set of islands in the shap of all the continents of the world- it gives you an idea of the infinate excesse of the place.) (Sorry about the poor embedding of the video, this blogger interface is a real pain to work with). Dubai has got to be one of the most extravegant, nausiating displays of wealth and waste that I have ever seen. It is the Las Vegas of the ultra-rich. Imagine my disgust to be thrust into this environment after two and a half months of this, one of the most impovershed region in the world.

When you go off to a place like Buduburam, the refugee camp, its such a major experience in your life, a turning point for many people, that it comes as a complete shock when you return to see that for everyone else life is carrying on as normal. You somehow expect the world to have changed along with you, and finding out that it hasn't can be very unnerving. Whats worse is the nagging feeling that soon I too will be back to my same old routine while the refugees are still stuck in their same old routine, just as if nothing ever happened.

The first few days back the guilt feels like a kick in the stomach. It's not that I don't enjoy my creature comforts, its for the very reason that I love that I feel so nefarious. As much as I would love to say that living in camp opened my eyes and brought me closer to humanity or some other crap like that, I can't. If it really did open my eyes and was such a touching experience than what am I doing sitting on these nice leather couches typing on my computer that costs more money than some people on camp will see in years (literally years!).

Yes, I wish the Liberians were living better, as well as the Darfur refugees, the Sierra Leoneans, the Ivorians, the Somalis, etc. but do I wish it enough to give up this life? No

Thats what makes me feel like crap coming home. I love the fact that I have this home to come to. I love that I will always have the safety net afforded to me by the mere happenstance of my birthright. The idea of having to live like those on camp for life without that plane ticket home in two month or two years scares me, a lot. So as much as I'd like to reject the West with our stupendous waste, astounding ignorance, and our unparalleled gluttony (thats the word that comes to mind when I find out the U.S. alone spends more on makeup than what it would take to feed the hungry of Africa, not that throwing money at the problem is any type of solution, I simply use the figure to frame the situation), I can't.

So I guess it wasn't the contrast between my changed state and that of the rest of the world, but the subtle understanding that I really haven't changed at all which gives me the gut wrenching feeling of guilt that twists my stomach as I revel in the joys of a hot water shower for the first time in months.

The first pair of clean cloths I put on when I came home was a $50 pair of jeans- thats more than two months pay for a CBW employee.

Yet I'm still wearing them...

Well, it’s down to my last few hours in West Africa before I’m off the western world again. I can't think of anything profound or philosophical to write to conclude my experiences here, this probably has something to do with the pounding on my skull, a painful reminder of the too much fun that I had last night (nothing like taking a long intercontinetal flight hung-over!). But I do know that I will be back again. This doesn’t feel like a ‘goodbye’ so much as a ‘seeya later’

It seems weird but I’m actually looking forward to the opulence of economy class flying with such luxuries as one person per seat, air conditioning and other such nifty innovations. That’s to say nothing of the food either, no fufu or plain white rice in sight! Oh the joys!

Once I get to Australia, where I think I have a couple days layover so I don’t have to immediately hop on another plane for the states like I originally thought, I will try to get a bunch of pictures uploaded onto here. The internet here has been too particular for that to be practical so far.

Ok its time to go to the airport, I've heard they want you at the airport here something crazy like 5 hours before departure time. I can't figure out why, (it was like this before the London thing) but then again I've learned to not to ask the 'why' questions sometimes...

Thanks to everyone for all the comments, emails and support. If anyone had subsribed to this blog they might want to unsubscribe soon. I will have to do some work on it too add the pictures and it might end up sending a gazillion emails to your inbox and that might get a bit annoying.


So hopefully, if all my many flights go well I will be seeing everyone very soon!

As my time here dwindles to a close I look back on 2 and a half months spent here and wonder at how it went by so quickly sometimes and so aganizingly slow other times.

I remember my first unsure steps off the airplane and out of the airport. I remember getting the first taxi outside of customs. A taxi driver approached me, cautiously and taking an obvious interest in his surroundings as a drug dealer might as he approaches his customer. He asks too loudly from 5 feet off if I want a taxi. When I nod my affirmation he comes in for the awkward extended handshake and pulls me uncomfortably close and says under his (fowl) breath

“you want some cedis (the local currency)? I got cedis, you change dollars? Euros? Pounds? I got it all, I give you good rate, black-market rate. Come, lets go”

I go with him because a) He’s offering a better exchange rate than the banks and b) I’m tired are jetlagged and it would be so nice to change my money and get a ride to the hotel all in one swoop. Mind you it’s not quite legal but it’s not something you would get in trouble for, I felt uneasy mostly because he made it feel like I was buying crack not cedis. We hop into the back of his beat up old Peugeot taxi, he slides in next to me after obviously scooping out the environs, I’m not sure if he was looking out for police, more customers or what but it didn’t do anything to appease my unease. I slip him my $100 US bill (yes slip- I fancied myself being all cool and subtle like in movies, of course those who know me probably also know my complete ineptness in this arena!) and he pulls out a duffle bag stuffed with cedi notes. $100 US equals about 1 million cedis and he’s giving it to me in all 5000c notes. That’s like getting $100 in 50 cent notes!

He counts out 250,000c and passes the thick wad to me, I try and stuff half in my wallet, which now doesn’t even come close to closing, half in the pocket, in which it barely fits and 5000c notes are spilling out the top- a great way to travel around my first day in an unfamiliar city in Africa! He gives me another 250 grand, which I clumsily stuff in my backpack. By the time he gives me the last wade of currency I have money stuffed everywhere, in both pockets, in every nook and cranny of my backpack, and my wallet, so I have to carry the last 250K just in my hands- because that isn’t asking for a mugging at all! Of course now I REALLY feel like I’m either doing a drug deal or selling secret nuclear information to the Soviets (oops, I guess now I have the CIA’s attention on this blogsite!).

At most stoplights here (They actually, generally, stop at red lights here!) there are beggars of all kinds. So now, on the ride to the hotel, at every stoplight we pull up to the beggars spot the white guy and come running to my open taxi window (why not close the window one might ask, a grand idea if it had and attached hand crank intstead of the metal stub from where it had broken off). I hate my self as I’m sitting there with oodles of cash sprouting from all over me, making me feel like I’m literally made of money, while I tell an elderly blind man with a disfigured stump for a left arm that I can’t spare him any change. It might sound heartless and more than just a touch cruel, but after much soul searching and travel I’ve formulated a personal policy towards this that I consider grounded in benevolent reason. It doesn’t make me feel any better as I’m sitting there, however, with the beggars mangled stump beseeching me through the open window. It is always so terribly tempting to cave in on my morals and hand the guy some change, but deep down I know I would merely be assuaging my guilt rather than acting on any selfless expectation of rectifying the inequality presented before me. It would feel good to give him money, but it would do more harm than good.

That sounds like an easy out, a perfect way to do nothing and dress it up with all the frills of altruism. But I think- no, I hope- that this is not the case. The reasons I give for this are so irrevocably intertwined in my personal attitude on aid/development work and human nature that any discourse on such subject would make a great philosophical conversation, (ahem, Kiran and Katie!) but requires a mastery of prose that thus far eludes me and as such precludes it from making it onto this page.

Wow, don’t I sound like the pompous ass! I've only been here for little over 2 months, which is how long the orientation period is in the Peace Corps, and I'm acting like an expert. What do you guys think; it would be great to get a dialogue going on something like this (the whole beggar type thing, not pompous ass thing:-).

For today I think i'm off to the refugee camp for one last time, show Justine around, take one last meal at Brotherhood (hmmm egg and bread mayonaise sandwich...) and say goodbye to everyone.

Oh, and Atlanta family, I'm not sure but I was thinking of trying to go to the cabin for my fall break, which is usually around 10-12 of October, would any of you guys be around then?

I made it back alive! Not that this was ever in any doubt, I guess I should say: I made it back sane!
Oh, before I forget here’s a link to my travel buddy’s (Malcolm) website: http://www.crazymalc.co.nz

It’s very well done and has pictures and everything (which I soon (inshallah) will too have up here). I would have put it up earlier but was afraid Mom and dad would get worried when they saw pictures of what we were travling in...(remember, going 14kph you can't get into a whole lota trouble!)

I think I last left off with that god awful bus ride out of Mali. Well after touring around Bobo Friday (described by the guide book as "undoubtedly the most beautiful city in West Africa," yeeeeah, I don't know what they were smoking) we hopped on a bus Saturday for the 7 hour trip to Ouagadougou. After an uneventful night there we got up at 550am to catch a bus to Accra, another grueling 24 hour trek (which in fact turned into 26 hours) where I am now, alive and well after almost 5 days straight in busses or something of the sorts! And now, No more! No more busses dropping me off in the middle of the night strange cities in countries I've never been to speaking languages I've never heard of, no more hassle of Visa's, corrupt border guards and endless (and of course corrupt) military checkpoints, no more falling apart bush taxis that make Egyptian taxis seem like fine oiled pieces of machinery, no more painful 28 hour tro-tro rides that leave you covered in scrapes and bruises in unmentionable places, yes I am DONE!

I am going to miss Burkina though and especially its people. They were so open, so curious and so nice. They have no concept of “alone time” or personal space, but that’s ok, it forced me to practice my French. I think I learned more French in the two weeks in French West Africa than my entire stint in France last year. I could defiantly see my self putting in my 2 years at Peace Corps in a place like Burkina.

But now I’m back in Accra. Its amazing, after the poverty of Burkina Faso, Ghana feels like a completely developed nation. I was amazed as we drove through the countryside after the border crossing; it almost felt like being back in the west. And Accra, wow, it feels like I haven’t seen anything so modern in my life! Little things like paved roads, stop lights, buildings not made out of mud-brick, shiny cars that aren’t rust buckets: Ghana’s got it all! As we drove back into the city I felt like a country bumpkin ooing and ahhing at the sights and the lights of the Big City.

But people are waiting on me, we bumped into a couple of girls in Ouagadougou, one from Norway (which made me very excited, I told her “Je con iki shnakie Norsk”, or I can’t speak Norwegian, the first time I’ve gotten to say that since we lived there- she said I have a very good accent. She lies) and another from Alberta. They’re doing some work in an orphanage 6 hours north of Accra and were up in Burkina trying to do some work near Goroum-Goroum but were thinking about going to see the refugee camp here in Ghana. So it looks like were going to take them out there sometime this week. I’m also trying to meet up with Katie’s friend from Elon, who just got into Ghana to do some research I think, so hopefully that will work too. She’s got a good blog up at: http://jsteendavis.blogspot.com/

Ok so I can't wait to see everyone soon! mom (wherever you are!) and Kendra and Kiran i'll see you guys in chicago! Dad Ill see you in about a week and everyone at purdue ill see you in 2 weeks! Everyone else, come visit (i want to make a trip up to SB too hopefully soon)! I'm getting very excited!

Let me tell you about the trip from hell. For those of you who have never had the dubious pleasure of a tro-tro experiance first imagine flying economy class on American Airlines, right at the back of the plane on the one seat that doesn’t lean back. Now imagine the airlines cramming another person onto your same economy class seating while the airplane sits on the tarmac with out air conditioning while the mercury breaches the 100 barrier with humidity to match. That would be a plush tro-tro experience, double your discomfort, take away the fabric seats and add plastic that sticks to your sweaty body (which is also sticking to your neighbours sweaty body), and then you have something like a tro-tro on a hot day. You got that? For those of you who have had the the tro-tro experiance imagine this: 28 hours on a decrepit tro-tro that that makes Ghanaian tro-tros look luxurious, including on overnight stay in the middle of god knows where and getting caught in a rain storm with glass on only half the windows leading to a wet and very cold, long, miserable trip.

We were told to show up at the bus station in Mopti at 6am to get the bus to Bobo-Dilasso. So we faithfully (or naively) showed up at the mud brick bus station at 6am only to be greeted by one sleepy attendant who wearily sold us bus tickets and told us to be back at 4pm when the bus was now scheduled to depart.

Of course when 4pm rolls around (we’ve now been waiting for 10 hours) the people at the station (as well as the numerous touts who were aiming to be our ‘guide’) informed us that no, the bus had not sold enough seats and was now leaving tomorrow morning. Well no, actually half the people said it wasn’t leaving until tomorrow morning so we should go find a hotel (strangely enough these people also seemed to be the ones with cousins who could hook us up with a hotel room for ‘a bery good brice’….) while the other half insisted that indeed the bus was leaving tonight, although not for another few hours.

Finally at 6pm the dilapidated bus rolls up, our bags are loaded on top and, and after they bang away at various parts of the bus with a hammer and chisel, we start to head out for Bobo (this is where I start the timer for the 28 hour trip). The first sign that something wasn’t quite right should have been when we pulled up to the first stop to pick up more passengers and after a big cluncking sound and much lurching the driver hopped out, whipped out a new drive shaft from under the seat I was in, and started going to town on our vehicle. The second sign should have been when Malcolm and I, both seated on different parts of the tro-tro, could clearly see the road through the floor. The third sign should have been that the only way to start the bus is if all the male passengers piled out and pushed (those “might have to get out and push jokes” hits a little too close to home in this case!). But at this point we were on our way….or so we thought.

At the first of ohhhh so many police/military checkpoints the bus turned around (after about 45 minutes of unexplained waiting), headed back to the first town where they had replaced the drive shaft to wait for another hour or so, then headed back Mopti, where we started to wait for another 30 minutes. All of this is done without one word of explanation to us about what’s going on, very frustrating. When I ask all I get is l’autobus, c’est pas bien, (the bus, its not good). No word on how long we will be waiting or if were even going to leave at all. All I want to do at this point is just get back into Ghana but it seems like the universe has other plans for me.

At 10:30 pm ish we again leave Mopti and this time for good. Mom, I know your probably worried about your son on some crappy 40 year old piece of junk bus in the middle of the bush in west Africa, but this was probably the safest vehicle I have ever ridden in. I can say this with complete confidence because I think that when you crash anything that is going an average of 14km/hr (9mph) you can’t do much damage. A combination of a road that seemed to be built to challenge a tank and our bus meant that when we took out Malcolm’s GPS it gave us a precise moving average of 14.6 km/hr (9.12mph). Most people bike faster than that and I’m sure it wouldn’t have given much of a challenge to a runner. All this is compounded by the maddeningly numerous police check points, inexplicable delays where the driver stops in some random town in the middle of the bush and disappears for hours on end leaving Malcolm and I wondering if he’s ever coming back, and the ever present breakdown.

So to make a loooooooooooooooooong story shot(er), 28 hours after we piled on, we got off in Bobo-Dillasso in Burkina Faso. Near the end I was close to losing it. I don’t mean this casually like how most people say it; I mean I was close to losing my marbles, flipping out. We were squeezed in so tight at the end that my neighbour and I have to take turns leaning forward because there wasn’t enough room for the both of us to sit with out backs against the seat at the same time. The infuriatingly slow pace of the bus complied with the distinctly painful accommodation and the utter lack of information during the trip on where we were, how much more there was to go, and what was going on got to me like none other.

This was defiantly a low point on my trip, but at least its over and I will never, NEVER complain about those 15 hour trans-pacific flights again. I could only dream of such plush luxuries as economy class seating! It took us 28 hours to travel the 372km (232 mi) from Mopti in Mali to Bobo in Burkina- that’s trip average (including the stops) of 13km/hr (about 8 mph)!