Decompression: One Month Later

Sitting in my room (at my own computer, with my own internet connection), I am trying to look back upon the month in which I have been home. To be honest, the much-anticipated culture shock never hit me. I probably have my Christmas trip to Ireland and the flight to Amsterdam to thank for this numbness.

That's what it's been: a numbness. It seems like nothing's changed. A few more knick-nacks in the house, an epidemic of new cookie-cutter homes in town and a new government in Ottawa. That's all. To be honest, I feel like I've been warped back to May 2005 and I'm living the summer over again, sans visa applications and expensive vaccinations.

Some things never change. Markham may be growing by thousands per week (I think almost 300,000 people should qualify it as a "city") and more and more farmland is being chewed up to feed the housing boom - but that's always been a constant. What never changes about Markham is that it's ALWAYS growing.

This first month home has been busy: working, reconnecting with family and friends, reconnecting with Maleaha, spoiling my dog, reacquiring my driver's licence and planning for the school year ahead. As it stands, I'll be returning to Ottawa in the fall, living with Lisa and Peter in their swanky apartment and taking co-op work terms in 2007 - thus I'll graduate a year late. Not that I'm sad about it, quite the opposite.

So far it's been just fine and dandy. I'm happy to be back at home, where it's nice and breezy, the sun doesn't beat down on me and the food is fantastic. I'm trying to gain weight, partly to impress Maleaha and partly because she's probably right. I came back from Ghana quite the skinny boy.

The days are flying by. Landscaping for my dad's company is long and difficult work ("oh, but you get so much exercise and fresh air!") and once I'm home, I'm too tired to do anything except read internet news and watch tv. My appetite for books is gone, although I'm pushing through Chukwuemeka Ike's Sunset At Dawn - perhaps Africa's answer to War and Peace.

I'm definitely enjoying being at home and I've taken note of some of the differences between Canadian and Ghanaian life... Toronto has not only blacks, whites and Lebanese, but a bevy of other ethnicities as well. Markham is especially noted for it's giant Asian community. Nobody stares at me when I walk down the street because nobody finds a white person that interesting. Sometimes that's a sad thing. I enjoyed a lot of intangible benefits as a privileged minority. On the other hand, it's nice to have fixed prices and not get screwed by vendors. Sometimes I consider haggling. "Oh Charlay, that guitar is not worth $500. We do 150."

And so life goes on. Everything seems the same, but I've changed so much. I've grown so much over those nine months and have so many wonderful memories. I also made many friends along the way. I may have also lost a few friends and I'm still not sure where I stand with Maleaha. Nine months apart can put a lot of stress on a person and even hurt them. How I wish that it could be easier...

So here I am. A little older, maybe a little wiser. I'm not trying to make my life sound like an epic adventure with a grand finale big-screen ending. As the Eagle's Joe Walsh sang, life's been good to me so far. And with all of the experience I've had over the last 10 months, I'm sure it'll get better.


Man, I could sure go for a FanIce right about now...

Feels Like Home To Me...

Sadly the 747 flight to Toronto was not nearly as engaging as the one to Amsterdam, however, they did have an awesome Indian veg option for the in-flight meal. I think my generation won't understand the fixation with poor airline food as our ancestors once did.

I also was in a strange dimension in which time passed slowly. Leaving at 1:45PM and arriving at 3:30PM whilst flying half-awake for eight hours really does wonders for one's sanity. Time lost all meaning, with place and distance being my only measure of linear progress.

Soon, through the clouds I could see familiar-looking hills, roads and even snow-capped peaks! We were over Quebec. Mercifully, we arrived in Toronto and I unmercifully, the carousel took forever to dispense my many pieces of luggage. Again mercifully, the customs officer let me pass with my litre-and-a-half of apeteshie and I was home free, legally.

My parents barely recognized me. My father had to point me out to my mother because she couldn't spot me in the crowd. Hilarious. Our reunion was most joyful.

Under threatening skies, we drove home. Soon I was back on the farm and my dog was going nuts seeing me for the first time in nine whole months.

So there I was: finally home in one piece - sun-baked, malaria-ridden, culture-shocked me. Home. We had dinner together (pasta), I wrecked their immaculately-cleaned living room with all of my junk and showed them all of the things I brought back with me, telling random stories off the top of my head in rapid succession.

Being jet-lagged, it was just the three of us and we kept it low-key for the evening. But damn, it's good to be home.

An Unusually Quiet Morning In Amsterdam

The fatal flaw in our plan was that we only allotted about two hours of our overnight flight for sleeping. Thus, we arrived in Amsterdam at 6AM somewhat sleep-deprived. Added to this was my three-hour ordeal at Kotoka, which sapped my energy. But Lisa and I had a morning to kill in Amsterdam and we'd be damned if we were going to spend it sleeping on a bench at the airport.

Our first impressions of Amsterdam at 7AM? Eerily quiet. In fact, until 9, the only people we saw in the entire city were other tourists. It's like the entire downtown core had partied the night before and were all hungover.

We didn't take any pictures because I left my camera in the storage locker in the airport (along with my boarding pass, but that's another story), but here's what the city looks like:



Actually, it was more like this:

So we walked around the eerily-quiet capital of the Netherlands for a few hours, seeing no marijuana cafes, prostitutes or doctors euthanizing people, but we did have a pleasant stroll walking along the canals of the city, passing cyclists (who seem to outnumber car drivers - imagine that!) and generally feeling like crap - albeit crap walking around a world-class city.

What is there really to say? Nothing was open, so we found a small patisserie (or whatever they call them in Dutch, probably a Voortgofligjerny), ate some awesome pastries and drank real, fresh, whole milk. It was spectacular.

We walked around until 11AM, decided not to go to the Sex Museum - although I did argue for it being a form of cultural tourism - and instead took the train back to the airport. Lisa and I had some lunch, said our goodbyes and I got on my flight to Toronto as she waited for hers to Montreal.


Sidenote: Lisa and I had an awesome nine months and became great friends. We boosted each other when times got tough, especially with our respective partners. Along with Meghan, we became the Three's Company of Ghana. Yes, I was Jack. In fact, things went so smoothly that I'll be living next year in Ottawa with Lisa and her husband Peter in their swanky apartment. Let the Ghana experience continue!

Out Of The Frying Pan...

I found my seat, much to Lisa's relief and walked up to her nonchalantly with Akwaaba-stick in hand. I probably said something witty, like they do in the movies when someone arrives unexpectedly. The plane took off promptly.

And what a plane it was! We were flying a brand-spankin' new 777, with spacious cabins (but not seats) and personal tvs embedded in the back of every seat, with the viewer controlling everything by remote - movies, tv shows video games and CDs, all on demand! I was so culture-shocked that I sat there for the first half-hour like a four-year old with my jaw hanging wide open.

It was almost too much, like they had broken the unspoken rule of air travel: you are supposed to be at least somewhat bored. You're supposed to at least have enough time to make you want to read the safety card - you know, just in case. Instead, I had to actually make a plan for what I was going to watch and when I was going to watch it!

And then there was Lisa and my goal: to get totally trashed on free drinks. That didn't take long. We had wine with dinner and Irish creme afterwards and we were sloshed in no time. We made observational humour, laughed at our stupid jokes and probably annoyed our new Chicago-bound friend named Chester. A few hours later, I fell asleep while watching Casablanca. Nice one.

Blinking lights on the airplane wings
Up above the trees
Blinking down a morse code signal
Especially for me

Ain't no rainbow in the sky
In the middle of the night
But the signal's coming through
One day i will be alright again
-The Eels

Escape From Accra

So the final day arrived. To most of us who had been in Ghana since August, it was like Christmas in May. In usual fashion, I awoke to men yelling loudly in Twi outside my door. For the last time. For sure.

My last day in Accra was relaxed. I went to Shiashie market for souvenirs and got out in record time, I packed up all of my worldly belongings (leaving things for Babadoo and Muhammad the tailor) and entertained visitors - probably more than I've had all semester. (But my place was such a bachelor pad...!)

As the countdown neared, the obligatory goodbyes were said and I got kinda somewhat sort of just a bit halfway sad. I didn't get to make as many friends this time around as I did first semester, but that doesn't mean that there weren't awesome people. To name them all would be impossible and I'd be insulting those whom I had forgotten, so let me just say this:

If you were there, you know you were. And if we had good times, you know we did. And that's all that matters.

Jon had left earlier, looking rather snappily-dressed, to try and weasel his way into first-class. Lisa and I, having our seats booked next to each other on the same flight to Amsterdam (thanks to the incredibly lax and probably illegal privacy policies of KLM Accra... they printed off my flight itinerary and gave it to Lisa!) took our final cab ride to Kotoka International Airport. Laura, whose boyfriend was arriving on the plane we would be leaving on, came with. Interesting juxtaposing of us, no?

So we arrived at the airport. After nine months of watching the planes take off and land from my balcony and one flight of my own, I was finally going home. Home. The faded dream that it had been for so long would be the reality that I would trade those last nine months for. Would I let go of Ghana easily, or would I be dragged away from it kicking and screaming? What followed next was probably the least-expected chain of events possible...

In the end, I didn't have the option of either. At check-in, we were made painfully aware of KLM's new baggage policy. Long story short: my giant suitcase that I brought with me was now obsolete because it's contents needed to be split into two to be accepted. But I didn't HAVE an extra bag. I tried to disperse the weight amongst different bags (and since my djembe and guitar's body were stuffed with clothes, I was running low on options). Finally after almost an hour, the security guard helped me buy a crappy bag (at double the market price), filled it and I was let through.

Hurdle #2: Everyone had checked in by this point and there was little time for dawdling. But what's this? Apparently I was not on the passenger list! After watching the ladies talk at each other worriedly in Twi, whilst periodically looking at me with unencouraging looks, I tried to figure out what was happening. Check-in had ended and I was going to be stuck for another day because the print-out that I was given by the KLM office was NOT valid for me to be given my boarding pass (liar!). I was likely screwed and minutes away from tears. When I pulled out my old ticket from before I changed my flight, suddenly everything made sense to them and I was issued my ticket! As we ran with the rest of my luggage to the next point, the security guard laughed and yelled at me...

"I WILL BEAT YOU! GET ON THAT PLANE!"
(in the most lighthearted and comical way possible, of course)

Hurdle #3: By this point, I was passing through customs quickly, due to my plane taking off in less than half an hour. I pushed ahead through the line to the lugubrious customs officers. Eventually, I got my stamp. Lisa was being quite a good sport for not killing me throughout this episode, since she didn't have any of my problems. She made her way to the plane.

Hurdle #4: Though I had checked my bags, apparently my guitar case and djembe (filled with clothes and a bottle of Ghanaian homebrew) were too heavy to be taken to the cabin. This was a pain in the ass, filling out forms and such, but at least I only had one bag remaining (that's right, five bags in total).

Hurdle #5: There was a drunk guy at the gate. He was so not getting on that flight. I however, was getting on that plane if I had to run across the runway (which the transport bus did for me, thankfully).

Finally, with 10 minutes before take-off, I climbed the stairs to the plane, turned around for one last look at Africa, and got on the plane. I was officially no longer on land and had entered a different world: one of modern technology, multicultural society - and free booze.

Let the games begin.

All Things Must Pass... (Last Night in Ghana)

She don’t care what it’s worth
She’s living like it’s the last night on earth

So it’s about 2AM of my last night in Accra, in Ghana, in Africa. Far from home, half a world away. However you put it. By this time tomorrow I will be somewhere over the Sahara en route to Amsterdam, the gateway to the “developed” world, a place far different from this one.

After returning home from a delicious dinner at Minnie’s and drinks at Jazztones, I came home and continued the process of packing, wrapping fragile gifts, trying to find order to things and finding interesting ways of maximizing the space available. Even my guitar is filled with my socks and underwear...

Festus came by my room for a chat as I was removing posters, maps and flags. When I turned around to look at the place I had made as my own space and sanctuary, I was struck by how empty it is now. No signs of life or character, just a bunch of junk on the floor; my life being jammed into a few small pieces of luggage.

This is the life I’ve come to know in the last nine months. And it’s become one that I’ve become rather comfortable with. I know the ins and outs of the university, the city and the country, plus a few others, somewhat. By now, I can dispense advice and wisdom like a human Bradt guide. I can eat almost anything and can sleep almost anywhere. Here, I’m capable, independent and treated as an adult (if not curiously by Ghanaians, like a free range zoo animal). I can make my way across the city, the country and beyond. I can pack a bag and leave anywhere at a moment’s notice. I can haggle.

Alas, I still have a life back home that I had put on pause. I suppose to say that is a bit naive, as if the universe will stay in suspended animation, like Super Mario in mid-leap. The world keeps turning and so has the world I once knew. People are getting lives, getting jobs, getting married.

Tonight, before packing it in my suitcase, I sat and slowly went through the giant scrapbook of home that Maleaha made for me. I realized that it represents another time and place – my “old life”, as it were. Everything looks a bit aged and faded. This is a life I can remember by sight, but not by hearing, smell, taste or touch. It’s all so fuzzy now, this life from so long ago.

The irony of this is that my “old life” is also going to be my “new life” (with some adjustments) by Saturday in the late afternoon. It’ll be back to work this summer, catching up with friends (hopefully, still) and playing some good tunes as well as seeing some great shows, inshallah.

Don’t get me wrong – I’m beyond excited to return home and I’ve been counting the days for almost two months. While I’ve become comfortable with my liberated, jet-set life here, I’m yearning for the one that I spent 20 years building up. Like a sympathetic executioner arriving at an inmate’s cell, I can hear the words calmly echoing in my head, “Okay... it’s time.”

I can see
The need in everyone
A change of season

I have parents to go home to, friends to spend time with, a dog to play with and a woman to build a future with. Beers that need drinking, basements that need jamming, movies that need watching and jokes that need laughing. These are the things that make life the rich tapestry that it has become. Like a fine kente, a Ghanaian would say, it is brightly coloured and intricately woven.

In the last nine months, I’ve done many crazy things, seen many fantastic places, experienced the warmth of human kindness and felt the presence of God throughout. I can’t help but be thankful every day for this experience, even if sometimes it can be too difficult to remember why. I’ve experienced so much and grown likewise. I’ve met so many people and have made so many friends from different places and have made strong friendships that will last for a very long time. I can’t imagine that by tomorrow everything will pass from me and become just a memory, a dream that I will have awoken from in my bed. I shudder to think that these nine months will soon become just a collection of stories that I’ll tell to others who will try to imagine it for themselves...

I’m just a boat on the ocean
I’m just a ship lost at sea

But hey, I’m still Mr. Obruni. And I’ll probably be back someday. Tomorrow never knows...

Squeezing The Life Out Of Accra

Thank heaven for Joe's moto. We had some "bizness" to attend to in Osu (don't ask why I just put outdated slang in quotations) and ended up getting done in three hours what would normally take me two days by tro-tro. First we assisted our friend Judah set up a bank account for his new bar, then went to the pan-Africanist bookstore that is perpetually waiting for the next shipment of books. If that place was a play, it would be called "Waiting for Nkrumah". On the way, we stopped at one of the famed workshops that makes custom-designed coffins. Options include a giant fish, beer bottle and cocoa pod.

We went all the way across town to Circle (good riddance) to the post office to check on my still-incoming birthday parcels (they weren't there) and pick up some bad Nigerian Films (someone will be receiving "Baby Police 2" as a gift when I return). We stopped at Assase Pa one last time for veggie food, at the Ghanaian designer clothes store MKO.GH and one last coffee at Max Mart.

Lisa and I had one last sunset run on campus. The coffee didn't help.

In the evening, Meghan, Lisa, Laura from Guelph and Alix (pronounced "Aleeks") ate a final dinner at Minnie's. It was delicious, but poor Jacob had malaria.

Finally, we had drinks at Jazztone, an American bar that plays great tunes and has a live band on Thursdays. Oh expats, how I'll miss thee...

Limping Towards The Finish Line

Every time I think about back home
It's cool and breezy
I wish that I could be there right now
Just passing time

Everybody seems to wonder
What it's like down here
I gotta get away from this day-to-day running around
Everybody knows this is nowhere
-Neil Young

So I finished the dreaded Written Arabic exam. I think it went alright, but it's mostly just nice to have it out of the way, after having it hang over my head like the rainclouds that we should be getting here these days. It's still bloody hot outside.

Being only three days away from departure, one would think that I (and my friends) would be going out every night, trying to fit in all of the fun that I can while I'm in Accra. Instead, somehow I've managed to spend the day siting around the hostel, sleeping, avoiding studying, eating yam chips and watching old concert videos of Janis Joplin and the Grateful Dead (Jessee's brother mailed him the Festival Express DVD). Could I possibly think of a more dull way to spend my final days?

Probably not. But at this point, we're all tired and ready to call it a year. We don't feel like experiencing many things Ghanaian, because we're gearing up in "Western" mode and we don't feel like going out to dinner, because the places that we eaet at are mostly substitutes for things that we have at home. Indian, Chinese, Lebanese and even Ethiopian can be found where we will be returning, so what's the point?

Only In Dreams

At this point, I only have a fuzzy feeling of what Canada is like. I can remember in my mind what things look like, but not really about the way things smell (better than open sewers and burning garbage, I hope) or how things taste (save for waffles) or how things feel, like a comfortable bed or my dog's fur.

I had this problem when I first arrived in Ghana. When I woke up, I was so disoriented and thought I had been living in a dreamworld and that when I awoke, I'd be in my bed in Markham, just like always. Soon Markham became the far-off dreamy place. Simon and Garfunkel said it perfectly in America when they sang, "Michigan seems like a dream to me now"...

When I got to London, things were so different (and developed!) and in a few days, it was Ghana that felt like a faraway dreamland thousands of miles away (well, physically, it was).

When I returned, the feeling came back, again, for Ireland as the magical dreamland that I awoke from - on a bus headed towards Mali!

It's going to be especially strange to think that in six days, I won't wake up with people talking loudly outside my door in Twi, eat fresh bananas, mangoes and pineapple for breakfast and go out walking in the scorching sun to the road to squeeze in a packed, sweaty deathtrap tro-tro. That too will become a distant memory...

Far out, man.

The Fine Art of Tro-Troing

During first semester, I wrote a large piece on tro-tros, the most popular form of transportation in Ghana. When the computer blew up on me, I never got around to re-writing it.

I have a love-hate relationship with them and apparently Coleen Ross of CBC does as well. This article really sums up everything I think about them and comes with pictures, too! There are also a number of features on funerals, police corruption, violence against women and other topics available that any Ghanaphile should totally read.

Some other interesting takes on tro-tro culture include a Ghanaian editorial on tro-tros and a hilarious video of anthropology student moonlighting as a tro-tro mate.

On the darker side of public transit, I was told that an American student was killed when her tro-tro flipped on the Accra-Kumasi highway. She sounded and looked like any of my Ghana travel buddies and the tragedy made me consider my own mortality, like with the close calls I had on the same road. Tro-tro safely, kids. Sometimes it's worth taking the trip the morning after.

I-And-I And Saying Goodbye

As you may know, there are a lot of Rastas in Ghana. But there are very few Jamaicans here (although Rita Marley is an exception to the rule).

Somehow one of our friends last semester found out about this little restaurant in Madina (10 mins North of campus) off the main road that is owned by a Jamaican Rasta named Jacob. His specialty is kick-ass vegetarian Jamaican dishes and drinks. It has to be our favourite place to eat and we're always craving his cooking. Anyone can go to an Indian, Lebanese or American restaurant in Osu, but Jamaican?

In other news, Rochelle, who has been here since the beginning last August, flew back home this evening. There was a big group hanging out in her room and a weird vibe in the air... like everyone wanted to see what it was like for someone to actually go home, especially a veteran like herself. She was a real cool cat and definitely latched on to the laidback Ghanaian lifestyle better than anyone. Ah well, I guess it all goes downhill from here.

One week left. Seven more sleeps. Hey, hey, I guess it hasn't hit me yet...

Over The Hump

Jeepers... I just finished three exams in two days. Africa and the Global System went swimmingly yesterday morning and Colonialism and the African Response went pretty well this morning also. This afternoon's Societies and Cultures of Africa seemed to go alright, although I don't fancy myself a sociologist...

The point is, I'm over the exam hump and can relax and study until Monday when I face the music with the dreaded Written Arabic exam. Oy vey, I'm not excited for that.

However, it's 8 more sleeps until I'm on my way home, and for that I'm quite stoked.

Tuesdays With Addo-Fening

While I may have some issues with a few profs at the university, I've also been privileged to have some brilliant lecturers. Last semester I had Akosua Darkwa, an angry, young African feminist who taught Globalization and the Developing World and took no prisoners. For the whole year, I also had Robert Addo-Fening teaching the history of Colonialism and the African Response. He always had interesting insights and had a keen sense of what went wrong then for Africans and what is still happening.

The professor is a 70 year-old man who has been teaching for fifty years in one form or another. He's lived through the Gold Coast's drive for independence and has been witness to the entire history of the nation of Ghana. He was a student at Legon starting in 1959, when it was an elite, Oxbridge-like institution (they had formal sit-down meals and servant boys serve tea every day at 4pm), and with some stints in Australia, Nigeria and the US, has basically been teaching history at the university ever since. The man has seen the trials and tribulations of the university and the nation and his brain should be considered a national treasure.

I started casually popping into his office late last semester, asking questions about the course. The man can talk your ear off and a single question could coax an answer a half-hour long. Sometimes we'd just talk about football for an hour and that would be fine by me. It was so refreshing to hear candid opinions on history and politics from someone who was well-educated, understood issues as someone who had seen it all and wasn't afraid of saying something that would step on another's toes. At his age, he doesn't need to be afraid of the government. Or his students, whom he actually challenges to think, a quality that is becoming increasingly rare for Ghanaian students.

It's really neat to hear him talk. I haven't had a grandfatherly figure to look up to since I was a child and I suppose he is a poor surrogate, but I find him to be the most fascinating person in the country. This year (after 10 years of contracted lecturing, propping up the crumbling history department) he is finally retiring for good. "I want to spend time with my grandchildren", he says. Today I conducted an hour-long interview with him which was part history of the university, part autobiography and it was a privilege. He will be one of the professors that I always remember and will probably be an inspiration for me for a long time to come.

Two Week Warning

One day this week I came to the realization that I only have two weeks left in Ghana and that I have a helluva lot to do. I've already finished my Arabic Oral exam (for which I was quite nervous) and Working With Persons With HIV/AIDS (which went quite well).

This weekend: One last visit to the Volta Region with Meghan for some charitable work (and of course, to swim in the lake)

Next week: Three exams in two days, which will be an endurance test. Already my schedule is filling up quickly with last-minute things to do before I leave and my bank account is being depleted at an inverse ratio to the filling of the schedule. Hopefully I'll have enough space to bring all of my junk home. But that's just another worry these days, another brick in the wall...

Joe's Moto

So let's pretend you're an on-the-go student activist/pleasure seeker. Tro-tros are too slow and inconvenient and a car is too bloody expensive. What are you to do in a hostile, foreign country? Why not invest in a moped?

That's exactly what Joe and Jon decided to do. They each bought their own "motos" and have relied on them ever since for most short-distance transportation. They're relatively cheap (a few hundred dollars for a bike) and go easy on petrol.

On the road, they're fantastic. Accra's traffic can get heavy at times, taking over an hour to get from downtown to campus. With a moto, you avoid the traffic jams by simply going in between lanes and passing by all of the other suckers in their cars, although avoiding hawkers at stoplights can be a challenge. Suddenly that hour-plus trip takes 20 minutes and you're home in time to watch your favourite Ghanaian soap opera.

Probably the one caveat would be the maintenance. Unless you develop a good rapport with your mechanic, he'll just fix your bike long enough for it to run for a week before it has to come back. And charge you through the nose for it.

Over the time that he's had it, Joe has allowed me to ride with him, which for me is always a blast. For someone who has never had a license before, Joe certainly learned how to drive well (in Ghana, it's done offensively) and avoided accidents all this time. He even taught me how to drive it one day. Anyways, we've had some excellent mini-adventures on his Piaggio, from exploring Accra to weekends at Kokrobite and Winneba. Riding around with him on the open road, listening to our iPods, singing bad tunes like "Born In The USA", weaving in and out of Accra traffic and yelling at bad drivers will all be fond memories that I'll have for many years to come.

Sadly, one day Joe will have to give up his moto and will have to start taking the bus again like a schmuck - that is, until he gets a license and a sweet job and will be able to drive whatever the hell he wants. Until then, whenever I hear a whining two-stroke engine in the distance, I'll always think of him.

Mr. Obruni's Triumphant Comeback

It's been a bit of a waste of a weekend, but I'm feeling good now, almost at 100%. On Saturday I was still a bit queasy, but at least my eyes didn't hurt, so I could read (God's Politics by Jim Wallis, one of my favourites), as opposed to before, where I could only listen to music and sulk. Now, I'm just feeling a little tired, although it's hard to tell because it just might be the fact that it's Sunday.

Meghan's progress has been slower, but she's walking around and eating now, which is good. Tonight for dinner I had the package of Mr. Noodles that my parents sent me in September and it was definitely the most delicious Mr. Noodles I've ever had.

Tomorrow I've got plenty of business to attend to and I'm going to try the gym. We'll see if I collapse under 20lb weights or what. Here's hoping...

Down With The Sickness - Two Nights at the Nyaho

Thursday evening, walking by Meghan's room, I came upon her being huddled in blankets, shivering and delirious. She had a wicked fever and considering that two weeks ago, she had malaria, it sounded like the virus strikes back. So Lisa and I took her to the Nyaho private medical clinic, because private = better care, right? Yeah right. That's what they WANT you to think.


The nurses were less than cheerful or considerate ("So, which one of you is sick?") and the night doctor - intern is more like it - seemed rather clueless as to the situation at hand (Lisa dubbed him Doogie Howser, which was rather apt). For some reason, he wanted to run a bunch of tests despite the ailment clearly being malaria. Her test came back negative, but since the test isn't reliable anyways, she should still be treated for it. Somehow we got out of there in the early morning after lots of arguing, an IV, a prescription and a number of visits to the pharmacist (probably Doogie's little brother). We even got a ride home from a Lebanese family who I helped out, since they spoke little English (Level 100 Arabic student to the rescue!). Being sandwiched between three large Lebanese men in the back seat of a Toyota is something I'll have to add to my list of life's experiences.

That evening I had experienced some stomach pain and fatigue and when I woke up on Friday morning, I had chills, dizzyness, aches everywhere and other sexy ailments that kept me in bed for the day. Looks like my plans for one last visit to Green Turtle Lodge were dashed. Lisa monitored me and after my temperature hit almost 39 degrees all signs pointed to more malaria, so she took me to the Nyaho.

People were friendlier there during the day (apparently they only come out at night) and it seemed like everything would go smoother. My malaria test came back negative, of course. Then we waited for the doctor to give us his esteemed opinion. It got dark then. We should have known better. Quite cold and uncaring, he heard my story and after much thought decided that I should stay the night (big $) to get an IV and more tests...

But wouldn't that take just a few hours?
Well, yes.
So couldn't I just get those done and go home tonight?
It's possible, yes.
Then the nurse came in and informed him that the ward was full and there were no spare beds.
Alright then, I'll just write you a prescription and you can go home.

Incredible. You must be Doogie Sr. It took that long just to get the prescription that we wanted. He also wanted me to take some weird tests that would end up costing more money. That's the vibe I get at this place: they just want you to spend as much money as possible, whether it be for a bed, more tests, consultation fees or whatever else. Being here really makes me really appreciate the high-quality public healthcare that we enjoy in Canada. Being sick away from home is no picnic, as I learned last time around and having to cut through so much administrative crap. Three weeks left until I get back and I can't wait. I know Meghan can't either.

Running For Home

Today, Lisa, Jon and I, who will all be flying out on the 12th of May, opened our Advent calendars that we picked up on clearance at Max Mart, Accra North's obruni supermarket. This means that I have only 24 more days left in Ghana. That's over 8/9ths of my safari complete, so I'm really into the home stretch now. Classes are finishing this week, I'll only have another week or so of drum lessons and then in May it'll be exams and then I shall be whisked away home. Somehow I'll find time to buy lots of junk for loved ones and visit my favourite places one last time. Here's hoping...

Any other year and I would be excited for Easter - family gatherings, great food, chocolate, the most upbeat church services of the year... However, I couldn't quite hope for all of that, being in Ghana. In fact, to avoid homesickness and Accra being even busier and evangelically-crazy than it normally would be (and because I needed a rest anyways), I tried to get as far away from the city as possible.

Eventually, I found the best place to be Lake Bosumtwi, ironically close to Kumasi. A week ago I couldn't imagine myself going back, but there I was in Kejetia Market with Hannah, trying to find our way to the lake, 30km south of the city. Getting there, we had to avoid sinister cab drivers and pay a questionable tourist tax.

And yet, as per usual, it was all worth it. The lake is surrounded by large, green forested hills and reminded me of Lake Okanagan in British Columbia. The difference? When you jump into Lake Bosumtwi, it's deliciously warm! That, and no Ogopogo, although an Akan god may live in it, which would explain why canoes are forbidden on the lake.

The place, Rainbow Garden Paradise Guesthouse, was a bit pricey, but the people were friendly, the food was good and the scenery was great. Not only that, but they had a dog named Johnny B. Good and a brand new puppy! Needless to say, I was quite happy there.

The sunsets were great there as well. On Holy Saturday night, we saw a brilliant orange moon rising over the hills and on Easter Sunday night, there was a loud and brilliant, although harmless thunderstorm, both of which made for a great backdrop for conversation with an Austrian school volunteer and a British doctor working in Sierra Leone.

All that and I broke my Lenten fast with a large Club beer. And a well-deserved one at that. A Happy Easter, indeed.

Random Ghanaian #386: The Magic Waffle Lady

Every Thursday evening, for the past two months or so, a lady by the name of Gladys comes to the hostel kitchen with her waffle iron and batter and makes fresh waffles for us. She's Ghanaian and isn't a cook by trade, but just likes to make delicious food, apparently. Lucky for me, Maleaha brought me a jug of real maple syrup, in case of emergency.

Gladys also lived in Norway for a few years, so when the Norwegians come, they all start talking in their funny language to each other, which is hilarious (my imitation Norwegian is actually getting pretty good - you should hear it sometime after I've had a few).