April 24, 2011
Here it is. The cliché “I went abroad and did some extreme activity that involves jumping off some tall structure” post. My method of choice was paragliding and my structure was Kwahu Plateau.
We left for the Eastern Region mid-morning on Friday because we were told the festival was only an hour away, so we figured that was plenty of time. Eight hours, a bus, and two tro-tros later, we made it. Ghana loves Easter, let me tell you, because the whole weekend was the liveliest I’ve seen anyone in Ghana since I arrived.
We wandered around Obo for a while looking for hotels, which were all booked, as we had been forewarned, but I’m not entirely sure how that works, considering every time we tried to make arrangements, we failed miserably, but I guess it’s the oboruni factor or something. I wasn’t worried, and I was actually quite content staying with one of the 80 billion random people who had offered their homes, but some of my fellow travelers were not quite as amused by that option.
When we were in Accra looking for the correct bus to Nkawkaw, we met a woman who led us all through the city to get us to the right starting point. She had given us the name of her sister (biological? Who knows. Everyone is everyone’s sister, so it could have been some random lady she had gone to pre-school with 40 years earlier, but we accepted it nonetheless) and her phone number, because she lives in Obo, so when we were stuck with no options, I gave Auntie Acos a call. I started talking, and before I could even explain the whole situation she asked me “where are you? Where are you? You want to stay at my house? I will come pick you up.” Quite a welcoming little lady, if you ask me!
It turns out we were able to grab a hotel room, so unfortunately we did not get the pleasure of staying with Auntie Acos, and boy was she upset. She called three more times that night (“You don’t want to stay with me? Why? I want to be your friend” and “I am making dinner for you. Where are you? I want to show you the sites”) and once the next day, but we never had the pleasure of meeting Mrs. Acos. Next time, I suppose.
That night we went to join in on some of the festivities at Ohenenana, where there was music and dancing and kebabs galore. For some reason we were basically the only oborunis we saw all night, which surprised us given the nature of the festival, but in any case we attracted more attention than usual. The best comparison I can come up with for the whole affair is that it felt like a Ghanaian Fourth of July, minus the independence and the fireworks. Granted, those two things are a large part of the Fourth of July, but all the same kind of celebration and excitement was there.
Saturday was paragliding day, so after a fun night that ended in with our taxi driver momentarily abandoning us for a quick little fight, we woke up and headed up the mountain. We got there around 8:30 or 9:00 and weren’t scheduled to fly for a while, so we hung out and watched the others before us. It was literally a cliff cleared for this event, so there was basically a hill about 50 yards long leading down to the face of the cliff, so you run down it and once you hit the end, you better hope your parachute has taken off. Luckily, mine did, so Alan, my Norwegian pilot, and I had a lovely little ride. Immediately off the cliff we saw all the jungley trees, so that was really cool, and as we got out a little further, we rode over Nkawkaw, where we had come into town the day before. My pilot and Hannah’s were good friends, so we got to play around with them a bit, and at the end, we did some twisting and turning and things I don’t actually know how to describe, because I don’t actually know what my physical orientation was at any point, but it was quite cool. Quite nausea-inducing, as well, but I ignored that part.
At the highest point I was 1200 meters above sea level, and at the lowest point, I was, well, on the ground. All in all, a successful adventure. Happy Easter!
Monday, April 25, 2011
Thursday, April 21, 2011
Well Hello There
April 21, 2011
Remember Cesar? The self-appointed “you must be racist because you are
hesitant to have me lead you down an unlit alley in an unknown African
city” tour guide from Tamale? (See “Elefun”). Well, we met again. In
the chaos of late night beach activities at Kokrobite last weekend,
Julie pops out from behind a hut, Cesar not far behind.
Mind you, Tamale is a good day’s journey north, and Kokrobite is
practically next to Accra, on the coast, i.e. not towards Tamale, at
all, so it's not as if we ran into him in his hometown.
It’s a weird world.
Remember Cesar? The self-appointed “you must be racist because you are
hesitant to have me lead you down an unlit alley in an unknown African
city” tour guide from Tamale? (See “Elefun”). Well, we met again. In
the chaos of late night beach activities at Kokrobite last weekend,
Julie pops out from behind a hut, Cesar not far behind.
Mind you, Tamale is a good day’s journey north, and Kokrobite is
practically next to Accra, on the coast, i.e. not towards Tamale, at
all, so it's not as if we ran into him in his hometown.
It’s a weird world.
Wednesday, April 13, 2011
Stay Alive, By Order.
April 13, 2011
Seven weeks from now and I’ll be home sweet home. Since I’ve become so Ghanaian recently, that’s hard to believe.
How so, you ask? Well, I weave baskets, I bargain in Twi and I perform impromptu in productions of African plays. I also still entertain the entire tro-tro when I try to say where I’m going, overpay for most of my purchases, and depend entirely on hawkers and tro-tro mates to get me where I need to go when I’m traveling, but hey, these are baby steps.
Last weekend four of us ventured to Nzulezo to visit a stilt village. It’s in the Western Region, very close to Cote D’Ivoire, about seven or eight hours from Accra, and when it was first brought up to me, I thought all the people would be on stilts. In retrospect, I wholeheartedly admit that was a pretty dumb thought.
We left Friday and somehow scored a limo (school bus with air conditioning) to Takoradi, which is maybe fiveish hours away, then got on a regular tro-tro for the rest of the journey. As usual, we had no clue where we were going but at a certain point we noticed a lot of people were slowly dropping off the tro-tro, so we decided it was probably time for us to give it a go, too. We asked if we could go to the stilt village that night and everyone around laughed at us, and offered essentially no other information, so that was inspiring. The driver assured us he would take care of us, so after literally every other passenger had alighted (see, I’m so integrated I even use Ghanaian terms these days) he drove for about 10 or 15 minutes into darkness. He could have done anything with us and we wouldn’t have known the difference, but luckily he drove us down a road (well, a clearing about the width of a car surrounded by trees, bushes, rocks, etc.) and walked us right to reception at a wonderful little thatch hut hotel. Once again, the general good-heartedness of Ghana pulled through for us.
The next morning we got up and took a canoe to this stilt village. It was 45 minutes on a fresh water lagoon through two jungle sections and some bogs, and it was quite refreshing. The village was really small—you could walk the main pathway in five minutes—but it was really cool to see. Everything was built up above the water, and nobody was really able to explain why the people had built like that, besides that “they wanted to build on water,” so information was somewhat difficult, but the exploration was certainly swell.
In our hotel we had seen advertisements for all the wonderful tourist attractions in the area, one of which was fishing with the local fishermen. We talked to them and they said it would take an hour to get out, we’d spend an hour on the high seas, and then an hour to get back. It sounded cool, so we decided to give it a go.
We should have known that’s not what we would have been doing.
We found ourselves inside one of the traditional fishing boats with four Ghanaian men who really didn’t speak too much English; because we were so close to Cote D’Ivoire, most people spoke French. Since my knowledge of French extends to the three-month workshop I took in sixth grade, I was virtually useless. It turns out that by fishing really they meant a ten minute voyage out, five of which they were yelling at me and Hannah to “HOLD ON!” because both of our hands were not clasped to the benches at all times, and the other five of which were Kate and Elena trying to find the best position to perch in the tiny compartment in which they had been stuffed. Why we were seated differently I don’t know, but I didn’t question it.
After we battled the waves, the commotion settled a little bit, and then they asked in French if we knew how to swim. Now, they had asked us before we left if we wanted life jackets, and we said no, so off we went, without the jackets, but you’d think maybe that would have been a proper time to ask if we could swim. Nope. Anyway, we assumed the question was small talk, since we were at a beach and all. Wrong again. Two minutes later, we were all overboard, clothes and all. We swam about in these “high seas” that were ten minutes from shore and it was all great fun. Eventually it was time to climb back in, so I hoisted myself up in an oh-so-graceful manner, especially considering the dress I was wearing. It was a shining moment for my femininity.
Then we tried to get them to paddle us to Cote D’Ivoire, but they would have none of it. Something about civil war or something. Lame, if you ask me.
We ventured back to Accra and became celebrities that week. We went out Wednesday night to see a band and when the show was over suddenly we became famous. Every member of the band, including back-up and stage crew, wanted individual pictures with all of us separately. You could attribute it to the oboruni girl factor, but Johnny was just as popular, so I think it’s just that we live in an inverted world.
Now Joe calls me five times a day to invite me to church. Maybe I shouldn’t have come up with such an elaborate story about my vocal talents. Oops.
On Friday I learned how to weave baskets. I’ve got quite the talent, let me tell you. I came up with a design never-before-seen by Beatrice and Joyce, our teachers, and I couldn’t tell you how I did it. There’s a perfect divide where I switch patterns halfway through, completely unintentionally, and I don’t know what happened, but I attribute it to my artistic genius. We were there for five hours, and when we asked Beatrice and Joyce how long it would take them to make the same baskets we did, they said fifteen or twenty minutes. Like I said, I’m a natural.
On the way back my Twi bargaining came into play. Trying to get a cab, our potential driver was not taking our price. We were having fun with him, joking back and forth, but he still wasn’t budging. After failing to convince him that since I’m Afia, born on a Friday, and it was Friday, we deserved the lower price, I whipped out my skills. “Me ka Twi. To so, mepaakew” (“I’m speaking Twi. Reduce the price, please”) was all it took. His eyes lit up and he beckoned us into the car, and off we were. Victory!
Over the weekend we went on our last CIEE trip to the Eastern Region. We toured some botanical gardens, a cocoa farm (Ghana is the leading cocoa producer in the world) and Boti Falls. All were lovely, especially the falls. We hopped on in and splashed around, despite multiple signs that said “Do not swim. Stay Alive. By Order.” I guess we’ll see what kind of parasites I discover four months from now.
Monday we convinced the only Asian I’ve seen in Africa that he should open his clearly closed bowling alley for five of us and bowled away. I’m not sure why it seemed so necessary to bowl in Ghana, but at the time, it was vital.
I briefly mentioned my dramatic debut, so I know you’re probably on the edge of your seats for further explanation. I went to see “Cinderama: The African Cinderella,” which was the same story except that Cinderama’s waist beads broke as she was running away at the strike of midnight, and lo and behold, at the end, they needed an audience member to dance away. Of course I didn’t volunteer, but they picked me anyway, and I was quite a star, if I do say so myself.
So that’s my life, as of late. Yebehyia!
Seven weeks from now and I’ll be home sweet home. Since I’ve become so Ghanaian recently, that’s hard to believe.
How so, you ask? Well, I weave baskets, I bargain in Twi and I perform impromptu in productions of African plays. I also still entertain the entire tro-tro when I try to say where I’m going, overpay for most of my purchases, and depend entirely on hawkers and tro-tro mates to get me where I need to go when I’m traveling, but hey, these are baby steps.
Last weekend four of us ventured to Nzulezo to visit a stilt village. It’s in the Western Region, very close to Cote D’Ivoire, about seven or eight hours from Accra, and when it was first brought up to me, I thought all the people would be on stilts. In retrospect, I wholeheartedly admit that was a pretty dumb thought.
We left Friday and somehow scored a limo (school bus with air conditioning) to Takoradi, which is maybe fiveish hours away, then got on a regular tro-tro for the rest of the journey. As usual, we had no clue where we were going but at a certain point we noticed a lot of people were slowly dropping off the tro-tro, so we decided it was probably time for us to give it a go, too. We asked if we could go to the stilt village that night and everyone around laughed at us, and offered essentially no other information, so that was inspiring. The driver assured us he would take care of us, so after literally every other passenger had alighted (see, I’m so integrated I even use Ghanaian terms these days) he drove for about 10 or 15 minutes into darkness. He could have done anything with us and we wouldn’t have known the difference, but luckily he drove us down a road (well, a clearing about the width of a car surrounded by trees, bushes, rocks, etc.) and walked us right to reception at a wonderful little thatch hut hotel. Once again, the general good-heartedness of Ghana pulled through for us.
The next morning we got up and took a canoe to this stilt village. It was 45 minutes on a fresh water lagoon through two jungle sections and some bogs, and it was quite refreshing. The village was really small—you could walk the main pathway in five minutes—but it was really cool to see. Everything was built up above the water, and nobody was really able to explain why the people had built like that, besides that “they wanted to build on water,” so information was somewhat difficult, but the exploration was certainly swell.
In our hotel we had seen advertisements for all the wonderful tourist attractions in the area, one of which was fishing with the local fishermen. We talked to them and they said it would take an hour to get out, we’d spend an hour on the high seas, and then an hour to get back. It sounded cool, so we decided to give it a go.
We should have known that’s not what we would have been doing.
We found ourselves inside one of the traditional fishing boats with four Ghanaian men who really didn’t speak too much English; because we were so close to Cote D’Ivoire, most people spoke French. Since my knowledge of French extends to the three-month workshop I took in sixth grade, I was virtually useless. It turns out that by fishing really they meant a ten minute voyage out, five of which they were yelling at me and Hannah to “HOLD ON!” because both of our hands were not clasped to the benches at all times, and the other five of which were Kate and Elena trying to find the best position to perch in the tiny compartment in which they had been stuffed. Why we were seated differently I don’t know, but I didn’t question it.
After we battled the waves, the commotion settled a little bit, and then they asked in French if we knew how to swim. Now, they had asked us before we left if we wanted life jackets, and we said no, so off we went, without the jackets, but you’d think maybe that would have been a proper time to ask if we could swim. Nope. Anyway, we assumed the question was small talk, since we were at a beach and all. Wrong again. Two minutes later, we were all overboard, clothes and all. We swam about in these “high seas” that were ten minutes from shore and it was all great fun. Eventually it was time to climb back in, so I hoisted myself up in an oh-so-graceful manner, especially considering the dress I was wearing. It was a shining moment for my femininity.
Then we tried to get them to paddle us to Cote D’Ivoire, but they would have none of it. Something about civil war or something. Lame, if you ask me.
We ventured back to Accra and became celebrities that week. We went out Wednesday night to see a band and when the show was over suddenly we became famous. Every member of the band, including back-up and stage crew, wanted individual pictures with all of us separately. You could attribute it to the oboruni girl factor, but Johnny was just as popular, so I think it’s just that we live in an inverted world.
Now Joe calls me five times a day to invite me to church. Maybe I shouldn’t have come up with such an elaborate story about my vocal talents. Oops.
On Friday I learned how to weave baskets. I’ve got quite the talent, let me tell you. I came up with a design never-before-seen by Beatrice and Joyce, our teachers, and I couldn’t tell you how I did it. There’s a perfect divide where I switch patterns halfway through, completely unintentionally, and I don’t know what happened, but I attribute it to my artistic genius. We were there for five hours, and when we asked Beatrice and Joyce how long it would take them to make the same baskets we did, they said fifteen or twenty minutes. Like I said, I’m a natural.
On the way back my Twi bargaining came into play. Trying to get a cab, our potential driver was not taking our price. We were having fun with him, joking back and forth, but he still wasn’t budging. After failing to convince him that since I’m Afia, born on a Friday, and it was Friday, we deserved the lower price, I whipped out my skills. “Me ka Twi. To so, mepaakew” (“I’m speaking Twi. Reduce the price, please”) was all it took. His eyes lit up and he beckoned us into the car, and off we were. Victory!
Over the weekend we went on our last CIEE trip to the Eastern Region. We toured some botanical gardens, a cocoa farm (Ghana is the leading cocoa producer in the world) and Boti Falls. All were lovely, especially the falls. We hopped on in and splashed around, despite multiple signs that said “Do not swim. Stay Alive. By Order.” I guess we’ll see what kind of parasites I discover four months from now.
Monday we convinced the only Asian I’ve seen in Africa that he should open his clearly closed bowling alley for five of us and bowled away. I’m not sure why it seemed so necessary to bowl in Ghana, but at the time, it was vital.
I briefly mentioned my dramatic debut, so I know you’re probably on the edge of your seats for further explanation. I went to see “Cinderama: The African Cinderella,” which was the same story except that Cinderama’s waist beads broke as she was running away at the strike of midnight, and lo and behold, at the end, they needed an audience member to dance away. Of course I didn’t volunteer, but they picked me anyway, and I was quite a star, if I do say so myself.
So that’s my life, as of late. Yebehyia!
Subscribe to:
Comments (Atom)