Tempting Fate At 30 Cents A Ride

Today my tro-tro almost caught fire. It suddenly stopped, smoke came from the engine (under the seats) and everyone ran out like a bomb was about to explode.

Stranger yet: five minutes afterwards it was working fine and I got right back on. I know those things are deathtraps, but perhaps I'm getting a little too used to unsafe public transportation...

You know what I can't wait for? Working seatbelts.

Total Eclipse of the Heart - Er, Sun

This morning would have been pretty average for a Wednesday if it had not been for a total solar eclipse in coastal Ghana. For almost two months, posters around Accra warned that the eclipse was not a sign of angry gods or the Apocalypse, but a natural phenomenon (as my good friend Rick would be able to tell you). They also advertised 3D-esque eclipse-viewing glasses, which sold out days ahead of the event. (Yet another brilliant business idea that will never come to fruition)

I was awoken this morning by the screams of girls in the hostel. I noticed it was dim outside. "How terrible, it's cloudy, right before the eclipse." Actually, it WAS the eclipse. I went out to my balcony with Jessee (we're kinda like Tim and Wilson from Home Improvement in that way) and we observed the earth, as it quickly became very dark. Then we observed the blotted-out sun (for about .2 seconds) and sang some Pink Floyd. Soon, the sunlight returned and Accra, which undoubtedly had stopped moving for a good four minutes, returned to normal. Far out.


All that is now
All that is gone
All that's to come
And everything under the sun is in tune
But the sun is eclipsed by the moon.

No Meat No Fish - Or I Die

Speaking of chicken, I really don't eat much meat in Ghana. There are a few reasons, notably:

1. Most of the Carleton kids here are vegetarians or former vegans, so we often end up going to restaurants that accommodate as such.
2. The chicken is either stringy or has the flu. "Free range chicken" means "the ones walking around picking at the garbage all day".
3. The fish is narsty, at least most kinds are. I just likes me halibut, plain and simple.
4. The beef - well, there isn't really beef, except at nice restaurants. And goat just doesn't turn my crank.

So basically, eating meat hasn't been high on my priorities. After so many months, Ive gotten used to either going to the vegetarian joint for dinner or ordering the vegetarian option to not offend my friends. (They never do get offended, but something tells me eating bacon in front of them probably wouldn't increase their comfort level...)

In addition, it's cheaper to not eat meat and as long as I get my protein, who cares? It really sends the average Ghanaian for a loop. For the first few months, we'd say "no meat, no fish", so of course they'd give us chicken. Now it's "no meat, no fish, or else I die!", which usually works better.

When I go home, I'll probably be more conscious of what I eat and go for the chick peas or tofu once in a while. However, until they make a convincing substitute for a ten-ounce Alberta beef steak, I'll always be prey to my own carnivorous tendencies.

Some People Just Can't Take A Joke...

One morning George W. Bush is sitting at his desk in the Oval Office when Condoleeza Rice comes in with his daily intelligence briefing on the War in Iraq.

She informs him, "Yesterday, 3 Brazilian soldiers were killed."

"OH NO!" the President exclaims. "That's terrible!"

She stands, stunned, nervously watching as the President sits, head in hands.

Finally, the President looks up and asks, "Condi, tell me - how many is a brazillion?"


After telling this joke, a group of Americans sitting near us got up and left, one muttering, "That was so inappropriate..."

The moral of the story: when your government spends all its time and money putting its hands in other nations' cookie jars, don't be surprised if when you travel you find people are angry about your country's destructive foreign policy.


Besides, the Germans thought it was hilarious.

Play That Funky Music, Obruni

The semester is progressing along decently (suddenly we have less than a month left of classes... didn't see that one coming) and I've managed to make good on my first goal of this semester: Take drumming lessons.

I found out about the lessons through my neighbour and bizarro-Mr. Obruni, Jessee. For over a month now, I've been taking private lessons from a Rasta (of course!) named Harrison who basically builds African drums and teaches white kids how to play them for a living. He's quite an odd duck sometimes (ladies, you know why), but he's full of positive energy and has the patience of a saint - especially with me.

I get the benefit of having a mix of group and solo lessons and it's become a great way to blow off steam and get funky doing it too. West African drumming is pretty awesome and it's almost too bad that I'm only scratching the surface.


Last week, Habib Koité, one of West Africa's top artists, came to town and played a fantastic show. He combines Malian traditional music with blues and pop - his live band could have taught Dave Matthews a thing or two. And his percussion section was out of this world. Definitely recommended.

"Roughing It" in Africa

As much as I like to consider myself half a world away from home, the reality is that we at Legon are probably the most connected to home of any group that's gone away.

Consider this: I have internet access, which I use daily, which allows me to e-mail and chat with friends. I also get the same international news that I get at home and I can even keep up to date with music, movies, etc. I talk to Maleaha almost every day. If I have the time, I can upload photos for all to see and at some places in Accra, I can even use a webcam. Also, I have a cell phone that, while too expensive to make international calls, allows me to receive them from my parents, who call often.

Looking back five years, there might have been slow, but moderately reliable internet access on campus, although probably not in the hostel. Phone calls would be much trickier - and there wouldn't have been cell phones here anyways, since they've exploded just recently in Africa. Landlines are really only for businesses.

Looking back ten years, there would be no internet, calls would have been ridiculously expensive and the primary mode of communication would probably be by air mail. Even two years ago, I probably wouldn't have had an online journal to write in.

All things considered, we've got it pretty easy these days, communications-wise. We're definitely living in a globalized age and it's made life much easier. I can't imagine being a Peace Corps volunteer, whose postings are for two years in small villages and aren't allowed to speak to their friends and family for the first two months!

Yes, we're definitely roughing it, in the Dark Continent and - oh wait, I need to take this call...

A St. Patrick's Day Of A Different Colour (or, Water Is Thicker Than Blood)

I always look forward to St. Patrick's Day, but this year especially, since my trip to Ireland. It's like every March 17th my blood starts to boil just a bit and I feel like dancing a merry jig and all of that stereotypical nonsense.

Accra itself was looking rather Irish: it was cold, windy, it rained that morning and after months of drought, things were starting to look a bit greener! (Indeed for myself, it was the first rain I had seen in Ghana since November)

For some reason, as with Independence Day, I wasn't feeling motivated to jump on it. On top of this, Felicity (my Aussie chum studying in at Columbia University) was celebrating her birthday at a highlife bar in La Paz - not quite the St. Paddy's Day I had envisioned! Alas, I felt that I should be there for a friend, religion and heritage aside...

Regardless, I had fun and we ended up having our cake and eating it too, since we all wanted to go to the famous Ryan's Irish Pub. By the time we got there (midnight) they were almost completely out of beer and a local band was finishing their set on the patio. Where was the Guinness draught? The ceilidh? How about the Irish Rovers? The Pogues? Thin Lizzy?

So Ghana hasn't quite nailed down the St. Patrick's Day tradition. Considering the massive crowd that came out for it, next year's should be better. But I'll be back in Old Ottawa South by then. So for all of my friends on Bank Street, I'll be seein' ya at Patty's Pub same time next year. 4pm, right?

I've Been Everywhere, Man

So I arrived on campus tonight at about 8PM from my tour of the North. At this point, I've seen every region of Ghana (even if I was mostly passing through the Upper East) and have been to all of the places that I've wanted to see since I arrived. It might be a bit pompous to say it, but I've pretty much seen it all and I'm ready to go home!

I've booked my flight and I leave Africa on May 12, 2006 and arrive in Toronto the next afternoon. Ya heard!

So I've got 56 days left (Lisa, who is on my flight, has been counting the days religiously) and for me, it's a bonus round. I've got classes to attend, exams to study for and write and will spend most of my weekends seeing small things I have missed or revisiting some of my favourite haunts.

I'm quite excited to be going home. After seven months down and under two ahead, I can see the light of the tunnel quite well and am very excited to be coming home. After being away from it for so long, I've realized how important it is (long wistful entry to follow). I've got to get back to my life, my school, my family, my friends and to Maleaha - all of which I've been missing terribly. So, we'll see how the next two months go. Should be a doozy, my great-grandmother would probably say...

Riverboat Fantasy pt. 2

When I woke up, I was surrounded by tall, green islands in the lake. Apparently, not all of the earth had been submerged by the damming of the river. The islands were beautiful, sitting on the water in the Harmattan mist. As we trolled by them, I noticed that there was nary a village or boat to be seen in these parts. It felt as if we could have been here millions of years ago and it would still look the same.

I spent much of the day reading, with an overcurious boy named Saddam (I think) looking over my shoulder. Seriously, I don't mind the odd glance, but a solid hour of staring kinda throws off my concentration. He also didn't mind when his elbow came into physical contact with me, like he was absorbing my lifeforce through osmosis. Evidently, there isn't much to do for a boy on a boat full of yams.

Not long before we came into port, I finished Contact. I'd already seen the movie, which I love anyways and of course the book was better than the movie. It's a bit outdated (written in 1985 and set in 1999 - with the Soviet Union still in the picture!), but all in all it was a very worthwhile read. At first, I wondered why the hell I, a travelling Canadian student, was reading a book about interstellar travel while sitting on a boat full of yams in Ghana. However, although the book is about talking to aliens, it's a story that reinforces the idea of the oneness of humanity as well as the Universe and God. Somehow, by that reasoning it became hyper-relevant.

By the end of the trip as the boat rolled into Akosombo in the late afternoon, I was beginning to get the feeling that I had more or less "conquered" Ghana, travel-wise. I'd seen every region and all of the major sights to see. Most of my future travel will be in small places or places that I've already been. I also started to get the feeling like it was time I started thinking about getting home.

Daniel, who incidentally worked at the Pita Pit at Whistler for a year, and I got off the boat via a passageway between stacked crates of yams. It was pretty surreal. "Though I walk through the valley of the shadow of yam, I shall fear no evil, for I have ketchup." We got a taxi with a Nigerian man who thought I was from Israel (Jewish misidentification #2 in nine days) and parted ways as Daniel headed for the Volta Region, I headed for home and our new generous friend Michael went somewhere else.

After that, I somehow got some quick tro-tros home (with a little help from kind strangers and a taxi driver,- many thanks) and even the useless, waste-of-cash International Programmes Office Bus picked me up to take me to ISH. It took the long route, but considering it was under a full moon, the university's white buildings were illuminated in blue and the red clay rooves in purple. I was suddenly struck by the idea that my campus could be beautiful!

Ah well... it's not home, but it will always be ISH, sweet ISH.

Riverboat Fantasy pt. 1

Cocaine kisses and moonshine Misses
That's the life for me
I'm sailing away from my heartache
On a riverboat fantasy
-David Wilcox

By chance I ran into a fellow traveler in Yeji - a Mexican named Daniel. We made our way to the ferry and found spaces on the ridge to sleep on on the deck. ("You come where the white people sleep," the man said. I didn't know they did that on boats anymore...) It being almost a full moon, we sat out on the roof, casting blue shadows on the aluminum. We had a nice, long talk as we stared at the sky (and Daniel enjoyed a joint). Everything looks different in the sky from the equator. I didn't know that there was a rabbit in the moon...

I woke up the next morning to a German who plays the blues on a tiny guitar. Strange. The day was spent mostly lying in my sleeping bag and reading. I finished Miriam Toews' A Complicated Kindness, about a girl growing up in a Mennonite town in Saskatchewan, kinda like New Waterford Girl for the Praries. I traded with Daniel for Carl Sagan's Contact. The rest of the day was spent staring at the scenery. I was in quite the comfortable zone.

Lake Volta is an infant of a body of water, historically speaking. It's only 40 years old. It was created as a result of Kwame Nkrumah's damming of the Volta River at Akosombo and the resultant flooding has made it the world's largest artificial body of water.

It's so young that in the shallow Northern end, the skeletons of dead trees that haven't decomposed stretch out of the water like hands, forever trying to grasp on to something that will save them. The haze created by the Harmattan gives it a particularly sinister feel, like a neitherworldy fog.

That day we stopped at a few ports and eventually the deck started getting crowded with crazy Ghanaian women trying to take our mats. Then some angry soldiers came and rudely took our mats. (Actually, they were theirs, but they sure were jerks about it) I felt like a kid getting my ice cream cone getting taken away from me. Except when you lose an ice cream cone, you still get to have a comfortable sleep.

Take Me To The River...

Getting to Yeji at the top of Lake Volta was, as travel often is here, a chore. You'd think I'd be used to public transit in Ghana by now, but I keep getting surprised at how unbearable it can be. The first tro-tro to Salaga was one of the dustiest I'd ever been on. I probably shouldn't have changed into clean clothes before boarding. My mistake.

The next one to Makongo was like a cattle car on a train. The upside was I rode up front in the cab; the downside was that all of the engine fumes went straight into the cab. I was high as a kite and probably knocked off a few years of my life with teh damage done to my lungs. To add to the fun, the truck traveled at a speed somewhere between "stubborn donkey" and "three-legged cat". It was likely the worst public transportation that I have taken in West Africa. When I tried to take a picture of it, some people got very angry. I guess they didn't want the secret to get out: that they had the worst tro-tro in Ghana.

Finally, I rode the ferry from Makongo to Yeji, where the boat headed South towards Akosombo was going to dock. I helped a Burkinabe woman out with her ticket (it's hard to say "no" to a woman with a baby) and met some government workers and an Indian engineer who were driving around the country showing farmers how to maintain their new Indian-made tractors. When they heard it was my birthday, they offerred me scotch. I couldn't refuse, lest I would offend them (Sorry, Jesus).

The information in the book on the ferry was sketchy at best, but somehow I was on the right track, the people of Yeji assured me. It was set to leave at 3AM, but one man let me stay at his bar until it closed. I had fufu and realized that I finally had stopped being such a puss about eating chop. Yet another proof of me being comfortable in my environment, I suppose. I had a long, circular conversation with a very drunk man, which was mercifully broken by a phone call from Maleaha. Of all places!

Hot Tamale

The morning of March 13 was a defining moment of my travels: in addition to my being in Ghana for exactly seven months, it was also the time in which I felt further away from home than I've ever felt before.

At 4:30AM, all the mosques in the village turned on their loudspeakers and announced the Muslim call to prayer. And here I am, sleeping on a mattress on a roof in a sleeping bag that isn't mine (thanks again, Meghan). It was very dark. Moments later, a bus comes rolling down the road, honking loudly, announcing its arrival. I groggily threw my things in my bag and ran to the bus, which was about to make it's way to Tamale. Somehow I got on the packed vehicle with the help of my alleged pseudo-guide friend. I don't remember much.

Four hours and a flat tire later, we were in Tamale. The girls opted not to go with me to Lake Volta but instead make the gruelling trip back to Accra via tro-tro (another 13 hours in a confined space). Chacun son gout, as the French say...

I went to the nearest hotel, the Al Hassan (of course!) and booked a cheap single room, of course one of the "first-floor hotboxes" as described by the Bradt Guide that, "are best avoided unless you enjoy sweaty, sleepless nights." Apparently I do.

I spent the day napping, using the internet and walking around town. Pretty uneventful, but they have a very large mosque downtown. Tamale is the largest city in Ghana North of Kumasi and an important transport hub. If you want to go anywhere in the North or go onward to Burkina Faso and Mali, you need to pass through Tamale. It's also hot. Ridiculously hot. So. Damned. Hot.

Basically I could feel the sun slowly evaporating my soul. Considering they probably haven't seen rain there for at least four months, I can see why. It was probably the hottest place I've ever been. I felt sorry for the Americans who were in Mali at the time. Even the ones from Texas!

As expected, that night was spent roasting - even the bed was mysteriously a source of heat. A bucket shower helped me adjust, since the water was out (ironically the selling point in the Bradt Guide for the Al Hassan was its "fabulously enthusiastic shower"). Another swing and a miss.

As thrilling as Tamale was, the next morning, I was off to meet my destiny on Lake Volta...

Larabangin'

The rest of the day was spent walking on eggshells (not literally, of course). I had met a teenager at the park who I feared was one of the pseudo-guides. He wanted to take me to see Larabanga's famous mosque and I, being naturally polite, gave one of those non-committal answers that would end up coming back to haunt me. He kept following me, even on bike back to the Salia Brothers (Sometimes Ghanaians don't understand that Westerners find this behaviour creepy). There was also something about donating to the local soccer team. My tourist alarm was going off in my head, so I spent the next few hours in the fortress Salia, where I was safe from the rest of the world.

At sunset, I got a real tour of the village with one of the brothers' nephews, Ali. The highlight, of course, was the mosque. The chapel-like mud-and-stick structure is known as the oldest mosque in the country, dating back some six centuries. Nobody knows for sure, because it's all folklore. But the story behind it is great, featuring rulers, holy men, prophesies and a flying Qu'ran from Mecca.

Later, my new Legon friends Joanna and Jillian were invited for some T.Z., a local meal. I forget what T.Z. stands for, but it's somewhere between fufu and akple. Being that it was homemade, the sauce was awesome. The weird part was that the allegedly pseudo-guide was there with us and he didn't know that I had already gone on a tour! We all went for minerals (soft drinks) afterwards and I had a long conversation with him and it turned out that he really wanted to be a professional tour guide and loved learning history. As strange as it was, had I misjudged the boy? It's hard to say, but I felt like I had definitely not been up front with him, let alone shortchanged him. I spent the last few hours of the night in pensive mode...

Ghanaian Lion Safari

The only reliable bus to Larabanga, the next stop on my tour of the North, left before 5:30AM. Somehow there were many more passengers than seats. Delightful.

The upside to this ridiculously early start to my day was that I arrived in Larabanga at 9AM, so I had time to experience the village and nearby Mole (pronounced mo-lay National Park a day ahead of my plans. Due to Larabanga's notorious reputation of having many pseudo-guides, spongers and opportunists, I quickly headed for the Salia Brothers Guesthouse. The twin brothers Hussein and al-Hassan are very friendly and energetic men who have worked hard (or so they claim) to help the village prosper as a result of traffic to Mole, which is entirely government-run and has few, if any, links to the community.

Coincidentally, two American students from Legon were there that day to see Mole. After breakfast, I rented a bike from the brothers and went to join them at the park. On the way in, I passed by a warthog family and some baboons.

When one thinks of "National Park", one thinks of Land Rovers driving through remote savannah searching for elusive game. Mole is something more like African Lion Safari, - but without the lions. The Mole Motel (and pool and bar) are built on an escarpment in front of the two main watering holes in the park, so during the dry season when water is scarce, all the animals go there to cool off. Elephants, bucks, gazelles, monkeys, crocodiles and birds all congregate, have a drink and wash off the accumulated dust from the Harmattan.

The patio allowed us to see all of these things from the comfort of the motel. However, five minutes after I arrived, a Floridian biologist's bread was stolen from right behind him by a large, aggressive baboon, who got very angry at the man before running off with the loaf. Even if I had left right then, it would have been worth the price of admission.

We still did the ground tour with armed guard, which was interesting, if only to see the animals up close at ground level. It's hard to believe that visitors, even with an SUV, are only allowed to see a fraction of the park. There actually are lions, but they're much deeper in the park than anyone goes. I felt the place was more of a practice run for an East or South African safari. Perhaps some years down the road?

Back to Wa

Some Ghanaian students arrived last night by car and we had a conversation with them. Apparently they're from the University of Development Studies in Wa. Basically, their curriculum is almost identical to ours, except they learn in a Ghanaian context and they have a fieldwork requirement. Finally: proof of Africans developing Africa! We were quite pleased to meet them.

Riding back to the town was absolutely exhausting. And my butt was aching like never before. Then we had to wait a while for another pickup to come by. In the meantime, I finished "Everything is Illuminated" by Jonathan Safran Foer, which is both very emotional and freaking hilarious. Please go out and read this book. Mom, Geoff, Dave and Maleaha especially.

Returning to Wa and walking around during the daytime, I must conclude that "Wa", is native for "Dull". Talk about nothing to do. We tried to go to a restaurant under a kilometre from the town centre. We noticed that the Bradt guide was completely useless. Whomever drew up the map was whacked out on apeteshie, because it took us at least half an hour of brisk walking to get there. But they had delicious honey-roasted chicken. So it was worth it.

Random observation: Today I wore my large-print t-shirt from Nosara, Costa Rica. The local word for foreigner in the Upper West is "Nasara". How apropos.

Hip-Hop Anonymous

We awoke on the roof on a cloudy morning, ready for our hippo safari. We rode the bikes to the river, where our yacht (read: canoe) awaited us. So there we were - sitting in a canoe on the remote Black Volta, the Western boundary between Ghana and Burkina Faso, on the lookout for the elusive giant beasts. (Pardon the dramatic flair)

Embellishment aside, it was quite exciting. The river was very quiet, save for the sounds of birds, insects and the occassional fisherman. Soon we saw a group of eyes looking at us from the water's surface. We had found a family of seven and they evidently were quite aware of us. While they wouldn't perform any routines for us, we were content to watch them from afar (when agitated, they are notoriously dangerous) and get a good look at them with binoculars. They were beautiful creatures and it was quite satisfying to watch them in the wild, even if they didn't do much persay and we couldn't see them underwater from behind a large glass case. We sat there for almost two hours watching them slip underwater for food, pop up and blow their nostrils like miniature whales.

In the afternoon, Agba took us to a nearby Lobi village. The Lobi in this area were still very traditional and it could be seen in their architecture (their Flintstones-esque compounds were mud-and-stick), economy (husbands grow yams, wives do just about everything else, goats and cows are everywhere) and lifestyle (polygamous, with many children). This village had some help from the hippo sanctuary as each compound has a solar-powered light in the courtyard - quite an achievement in such a remote area. While the village was far from perfect, I noticed that people seemed happy where they were. This place is quite underdeveloped, but in a way it seemed almost okay...

We went back to the river in the afternoon for another hour. Evidently the male (every group only has one, or else they fight) was upset at us because we interrupted him trying to have his way with one of the other hippos. Sorry-o. We got much closer and had better views of them (and hopefully some decent pictures as well).
The sanctuary was a highlight of my stay here, undoubtedly. And when you go, you really feel like you're supporting responsible tourism: funds go to the community (a new pump-well is positioned smartly outside the tourist office) and you can buy local crafts at the office. The sanctuary is only 8 years old, but its popularity is growing. It's been twinned with the Calgary Zoo, so it's getting lots of help (and Canadian exposure). A great deal of Ghana's tourism is very eco-friendly and community-based, which definitely makes one feel good about supporting them. And Wechiau was definitely one of them.

Getting to Wechiau

In the morning, we wandered the sleepy town of Wa, ate beans for breakfast and found a covered taxi going to the village of Wechiau, near the Western Burkinabe border. The taxi was like the infamous one taken from Mopti to the Mali border, but mercifully less dusty.

Two hours and a flat tire later, we were in Wechiau. After being swarmed by curious children, a man eventually came to the doors of the tourist office and let us in. We arranged for a two-night stay at the sanctuary and rented bikes to get there. We brought rice, beans, tomatoes and onions for food and (so it seemed) plenty of water sachets.

The man, named Agba, became our offical guide and we set off in the mid-afternoon for a two-hour bike ride. Thankfully, the harmattan winds are at their peak, which acts like a giant dusty fog that shields us from the sun (which appears as a blurry, white circle in the sky), but doesn't do much for scenery. The ride was long and hard, since I had my large travel backpack on. I can imagine a giant T-shaped welt on my arse from all the pressure on it!

At the base, there was a long, Lobi-style traditional building that served as a guesthouse for visitors (and looked like it belonged in the Flintstones) and a large water tank, filled from a nearby well. Very nice.

While Agba prepared some dinner, we had refreshing bucket showers. As the night closed in, we told him what it was like to live in Canada and how life was not as perfect as it seems. We informed him that indeed there is poverty and even wealthy people can be very unhappy - simply because they buy so much stuff to make them happy and it never does. The fact that the average Briton tests lower on psychological "happiness" tests than the average Botswanan surprised him greatly. In return, he told us about what it's like to be a Northern Ghanaian. I wish I could remember half of the things he told us!

The night was so nice that we brought our mattresses to the roof of the building and slept out under a bright half-moon. Beautiful! After two whole days of travel, we finally got to where we were going, one of the remotest places of Ghana. And we were terribly excited for the things we were about to see...

Go North, Young Man

(Note: I currently am in a cafe in Tamale, so I have some time to write about my travels)

Skipping class on Wednesday and going on a rumour that STC had a bus that goes to Wa, in the Upper West Region of Ghana, Meghan and I went to the station. Thank goodness there was one.

The trip was 13 hours and compared to the bus to Ouagadougou, was a breeze. Things of note: The drivers were hilarious people, I powered through Hemingway's "Old Man and the Sea" (a whopping 112 pages about catching a fish) and a lady threw up on the bus, with our backpacks in the blast zone. Suddenly, bringing a bar of laundry soap didn't seem so crazy after all!

First impressions of Wa at 10PM: it was hot, very quiet and the people were disarmingly friendly and helpful. The cab drivers pointed us in the right direction with no malice and a teenager named Isaac took us all the way to our hotel. We stayed at the luxurious Kunateh Lodge. The fan helped, the truck's blaring horn at 5:30AM did not.

African Lion Safari (No, Seriously)

As per the stipulations of my birthday present to myself, tomorrow morning (Inshallah) I’ll be taking an all-day bus to Wa in the Upper West Region of Ghana. The next nine days will consist of hippo watching at Wechiau with Meghan, then afterwards striking out on my own watching wildlife at Mole National Park and whatever else I have the time for in the North of Ghana. My plans will ultimately culminate in getting to the Northern tip of Lake Volta and taking a ferry all the way to Akosombo, only two hours drive from Accra. If I make it home in time for classes next Friday and St. Patrick’s Day celebrations, it will be a success. Here’s hoping!


(Note: As a birthday present to the rest of you, I transcribed my travel notes in Mali from January 24th to February 6th, including my über-exciting trip on the Niger River.)

Happy Ghanaian Independence Day!

So it was on this day, March 6, 1957 - forty-nine years ago - that Kwame Nkrumah gave a famous midnight speech at the Accra Polo Grounds proclaiming the Gold Coast's independence from Great Britain, to be henceforth known as Ghana, in memory of the first great African empire.

This was the first African nation to proclaim independence from a colonial power and was merely the first domino to be pushed in a long chain of nations that would over the following decades follow in Ghana's footsteps. Already having a keen eye on his United States of Africa, Nkrumah stated, "Ghana's independence is meaningless unless it is linked to the total liberation of Africa." Indeed, Ghana's constitution was probably the first one ever written that explicitly announced that it would give up its sovereignty to another country: a united Africa.

So every March 6, Ghanaians celebrate their freedom and Africa's as a whole. There are parades, celebrations, speeches and parties and everyone gets the day off. I myself was looking forward to going to Independence Square to see the events - so much so that I delayed my trip by a few days just to see it.

In the end, I missed the balloons, speeches, soldiers, tanks and schoolchildren (Although apparently President Kufour's speech was a real snoozer). I was so tired in the morning I didn't get up until 11 and only left the Hostel to go to the bank and eat a mango. However, in the evening, the Carleton students (minus Hannah, who is in Niger) and Felicity from Australia had Ethiopian food for dinner - a first for me - and talked about the kings of the only African Empire that withstood the might of Europe. So in a way, we were still celebrating Africa, no?

Oh, Those Crazy Evangelical Christians...

So I walk into church today, expecting the usual Sunday morning 9AM mass, and it's packed, full of strange decorations and the sermon is being read. Apparently this means 1) mass started at 7AM, 2) something special is going on and 3) there is some sort of conference going on.

It turns out that it's for some ecumenical conference that includes a LOT of charismatic evangelicals. Now, I love my fellow humans, but this breed is quite the handful. The mass featured lots of loud singing, yelling, dancing and a handful of bewildered - and probably a bit scared - clergy.

Now, I don't mind a lively mass, but considering it's the first weekend of Lent (i.e. fasting, pennance and a general toning-down of things), this mass didn't exactly say "humble". And judging by the repeat-business customers at the church, they weren't too pleased about this development. The guests (including a VERY charismatic band/choir) probably didn't notice and something tells me they don't have Lent written down on their calendars, since the usual decorum was disregarded. I got out after 10:45 and we had JUST received communion (but only the repeat-business customers, of course).

This seemed weird, because I always felt the Catholic Church was a sanctuary from crazyness. Apparently not anymore! Now my church has been hijacked by evangelicals! Somebody call the Vatican!

Further infuriating me was the news that Meghan has been effectively pushed out of the school choir that she joined because she's not an active churchgoer. Apparently not recalling this week's Bible readings is a grave sin and the way to deal with church truants is intimidation and expulsion. Great way to set an example of love and tolerance, eh? The leader even asked her at one point whether she was Evangelical or Pentecostal - as if they're the only two choices! We're not talking about Coke vs. Pepsi, people...

Thus, this Sunday certainly wasn't the most ideal for the obruni. First our churches get all wild and crazy and then those who don't go get ostracized. I feel not only bad for Meghan for being denied something that she loves (i.e singing) as well as a trip to Cape Coast for a competition, but also ashamed to be associated with people who can be so insensitive. Again I ask: What's so funny about peace love and understanding?

The Name Game

A curious thing occurred at my birthday party during the "Champs" leg of the tour: One of the bartenders stopped me and said, "Hey, you're Mr. Obruni, right? Do you remember me? You used to come into my old work at Pizza Inn on Terrific Tuesdays!"

I was totally floored. I knew that many obrunis came into Pizza Inn, but I had no idea that he remembered who I was. After coming back from my travels, I've noticed that a lot of people seem to know me, especially on a first-name basis. My problem is that I can't remember anyone's name for the life of me, usually just faces. It's not just a problem for me in Ghana, but back home too. Names always seem to come last.

This brings us to one of life's little important lessons: Always remember people's names. From the people you work with to the guy who always serves you coffee in the morning, because you never know when they'll know YOUR name.

Last Time I Checked, I'm A MAN.

21 years old. Now, there's no turning back. No special discounts, no restrictions and increased responsibilities. And I can drink in the US. Clearly, I am no longer a youth and am now an adult under the eyes of Western society. Forward ever, backward never, as Kwame Nkrumah used to say.

But that doesn't mean we can't have a little bit of fun on my birthday, eh? Which brings us to rule #12 of living abroad:

Just because you are away from friends and family doesn't mean you can't have an excessively large party on your birthday.

Thus, I brought out almost 20 friends for a night around the world: Chinese food, Lebanese ice cream, fake Irish pubbing and British karaoke bar. We had a grand old time (a special thanks to those who bought me a drink) and the hardiest of friends got to watch me sing "Summer Nights" from Grease with Priscilla.

Birthdays are kinda like funerals because people always come out of the woodwork to show that they like you. It's always great to be reminded of how many great people are here with me this semester. From the Carleton kids and Canadians to Americans to Ghanaians and beyond - it's great to be reminded. And my closest friends got together to buy me a drum. How cool is that?

Adulthood: it can only go downhill from here.

Lenten Blues

Ah Lent is upon us... which means for Christian folk 40 days of fasting. Then crucifixion, resurrection and if he sees his shadow it'll be 2,000 more years of guilt! (Apologies to Robin Williams)

Seriously though, I like to "fast" for Lent, which in this day in age means giving up something one loves as a sort of cleansing ritual, like Ramadan, except not quite as hardcore. In Ghana, they take Ramadan quite seriously, although I'm not so sure about Lent, since it's more or less indigenous to the Catholic faith...

Regardless, I had a difficult time finding something that 1) meant something to me, as an improvement upon myself and 2) that could be realistically done during Lent. For example, I could give up my beloved Fan Ice, but that is my only source of calcium. Or, I could take up running, but I'm already doing that. Can you see the dilemma?

After a long, hard discernment (i.e. 2 days), I decided on alcohol. As enjoyable as it is, it adds nothing to my well-being and is non-essential to my existence (save for holy wine). Thus, for 40 days, I'll go without and enjoy myself.

Now, there will be two exceptions: the first is my birthday, since it's my birthday and we've already planned going to Ryan's Irish Pub. The second is St. Patrick's Day, again because it's St. Patrick's Day. Is this a cop-out? Perhaps, but the rest of the time won't be a cakewalk.

Test #1: Tonight was trivia night at Champs, which brought back Reach for the Top memories. Our team did so well that we not only won the challenge (which entitled us to 300,000 cedi of alcohol), but also won the tequila bonus round. What did I have to drink last night? A milkshake. And I'll bet you didn't know that Champs makes fantastic milkshakes.

I Walk The Line

I remember when I first came to Accra six and-a-half months ago, I had this wonderful idea that I would slowly adapt and become assimilated into Ghanaian culture - changing my clothes, speaking some Twi, playing whatever sports Ghanaians play (apparently football) and hanging out with all of my new Ghanaian friends, doing what Ghanaians like to do (apparently go to church all the time).

Isn't that so adorable? Looking back, I can see how idealistic and perhaps unrealistic I once was. The truth of the matter is, I haven't become assimilated - if anything, I've become even MORE aware of my own culture and how proud I am of it. I never learned any useful Twi, because my school wouldn't give me credit for the classes. Arabic is fun, but us Canadians look like idiots when we can't converse with Ghanaians in their native language. That's a key to being respected here, so for the time being, we're all just ignorant foreign tourists who never bothered to learn the language. Trust me, learning the local language can make a large difference.

I'm no good at playing football, although I am learning the finer points of the game and can talk about it with people. Finally, it's really hard to make Ghanaian friends, especially when having to sift through who are trying to get a free ride from you/sell something to you and who genuinely wants to be your friend. In addition, it's hard to make deep relationships with people who think and act much differently that you. The (probably vast) majority of Ghanaians aren't interested in travelling around or world politics. University students yes, but most others are relatively humble and simple folk, so it can be tempting to spend more time with other like-minded international students instead.

However, for all of my failings in adapting to Ghanaian culture, I think I've done a decent job. Instead, I could have been a typical Western expatriate, like an embassy worker: wear fancy Western clothes, eat out at expensive restaurants, drive an SUV, (of course, for those treacherous Accra streets), shop for groceries at Koala or Max Mart live in a high-security compound with DSTV (satellite) and air conditioning. And these people have the nerve to say they "lived in Africa".

I definitely don't buy into that and hope I never will. I like to think that by wearing "normal" clothes, (save for the shorts, which no Ghanaian university student would be caught dead wearing) taking tro-tros, eating local chop bar food like waakye and akple in groundnut sauce (yum!), buying food from fruit and veggie stands (where you haggle because prices AREN'T fixed) and using the local slang ("Chalay, how?" = "Hello sir, how are you?"), I've been able to see a bit of Ghanaian society that so many people pass over because they simply can't handle the culture shock.

All in all, I like to think that I've been able to walk the line between being a local and expat while living here. Yes, I spend more money on comforts and live a semi-charmed life here that I wouldn't have access to back home, but I try to be humble as well, trying to find that balance. I'm happy with the state of things nowadays and I feel like because I haven't been reaching hopelessly for a nativist ideal, I can start living my life here on my own terms.