I realized this New Years that I actually managed to spend
the entirety of 2013 in just ONE country. Which was the first time since 2010.
And before that, 2007. It feels
kind of weird. Who would have thought that my time in Peace Corps would be the
most “settled” I’ve been in years (actually living in one place for more than a
year; weird!).
So this year, 2014, is going to be quite a year. I left
Benin for the first time since I got here in the beginning of January. Sometime
this fall I will come back to the States; either for one month or possibly to
“stay”. Regardless, I will move out of Kerou, my home for the past two years. I
am both excited for the new opportunities, and really quite fretful that my
service will be ending.
This year has already been fantastic, in fact one might even
say epic. So pull up a chair, grab some coffee or hot chocolate, and get ready
for a long entry about traveling in a few beautiful, wonderful places in West
Africa.
Sunday, 5 January 2014
I left in the morning to taxi over to Accra, Ghana. This
involved two border crossings; first in Togo, and then into Ghana. When leaving
Benin, I got a marriage proposal from a guard. Then going into Ghana, one of
the guards asked me how Obama is doing. I told him that Obama is doing great.
In fact, I talked on the phone with him last night, and he’s fabulous. “You
talked to Obama last night?” asked one guard, as the one behind him smirks;
realizing that I’m being facetious.
“Yep, we’re best friends. We talk all the time.”
“Wow, well tell him I say hi. And Ghana loves him.”
The ride turns out to be shorter that I was planning, which
was great. For some reason, my guidebooks told me it would take 9-12 hours; it
only took 7. Plus, between Benin and Togo is a time-zone change, so I gained an
hour. As I drive in Accra, I start thinking, wow, this almost looks like an
American city! It’s had to describe what makes me feel this way, but I almost
felt I could have been driving through Baltimore or something, especially
because of the hills (versus places like Charleston which are perfectly flat). [Later,
Ryan, fresh arrived from the Western world, just looked at me pitying-ly, and
said, “Well, I mean, it’s nicer than, say, Dakar, but I wouldn’t say it’s
American…”] Anway, I happened to walk up to the front desk of the hostel just
as Ryan is walking down the stairs (her flight arrived pretty early). We
embrace, I check in, lug my stuff up the stairs, take a quick shower (traveling
is always gross), and just as we’re walking down the stairs, Allison walks up
to the front desk! Talk about perfect timing!
We kill some time sitting at the hotel bar; catching up on
life and love, etc. Ryan and Allison already know more about each other, as
they saw each other a lot last summer when Ryan had an internship in the same
city where Allison lives. But a few questions of my own, and I get more caught
up.
We decided to go to a restaurant called “Tasty Jerk”, which
was circled by the previous owner of the guidebook we had. This person said it
contained great food. So we went and got some Jerk Chicken and Rice, which was
delicious. However, the woman behind the counter was rude and unhelpful. It’s
not exactly surprising, because customer service is really lacking outside the
US. But then there was this incident where I had ordered a pepsi, which she
said costs 2 cedis, which I paid. Then, the restaurant was out of Pepsi, so I
got two small waters, at 1 cedi each. But then, at the end of the night, the
woman insists that the pepsi was only 1.50 cedis, so I owe her another 50 pesos
(cedis are like dollars; pesos what we would call cents). I explain that I paid
2 cedis, though she refuses to believe me. We argue for a while, then finally
she just says to me, “well, you obviously don’t want to pay so just stop
talking.” Then she just starts talking in her local language to my server.
Obviously about me, and obviously mean. I think to myself, “TWO CAN PLAY THAT
GAME,” but then I remember that I’m in an English-speaking nation, so talking
in English behind people’s backs is less effective. I just walk away, and
explain the situation to Allison and Ryan. “So…I guess we should just leave…”
We decide there’s nothing to be done, and we will exit having had a delicious
meal. We can just never, ever come back. Which I guess is fine, seeing as we
will probably never need to. As we’re walking away, we joke that the name is
appropriate. The food was TASTY, but the service was JERKish.
Monday, 6 Jan 2014
Today we headed to Cape Coast, Ghana, which is a few hours
west of Accra (in the opposite direction of Togo and Benin). It was quite
terrifying, as we had barely gotten to the edges of the city, when this tractor
trailer decides to veer across a few lanes in traffic right in front of us. Our
driver breaks rapidly, and avoids hitting anything. But then he gets out of the
van, leaving it in the middle of the highway to yell at and possibly fight with
the driver of the tractor-trailer. He comes back, and pulls around to the side,
and gets back out for more yelling. At this point we see that the
tractor-trailer managed to hit another taxi-van. I don’t know how this
happened. It just seems like the driver made a last-minute decision to make a
wide U-turn, cutting across traffic and ran into the side of a taxi-van making
a U-Turn in the opposite direction. It was such a bizarre accident, I almost
felt as though the tractor-trailer was trying
to hit the taxi. But luckily, no one appeared hurt. And even the people getting
out of the taxi seems relatively unperturbed. The tractor-trailer lost its
bumper, but I think they deserved that. Our driver helps the other taxi-van
driver yell at the tractor-trailer driver for being an idiot, and then we
continue on our way.
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| In a tro-tro |
We arrive in Cape Coast, and take a taxi to our hotel.
Ironically, the amount we paid was double the amount we would pay back to the
station after we became more aware of the correct prices. The only thing that
bothered me, however, was that we asked a young local man the price. Apparently, he didn’t
actually know, or was deliberately unhelpful.
Our hotel informs us that we can easily walk to the beach,
which we promptly do. We get some street food (rice and beans with plantains)
on the way, from a woman who seems positively thrilled that we stopped at her
place. The short walk through the city shows us a pretty laid-back seeming
place. All of the streets are paved (still a bizarre concept to me), and the
atmosphere is not menacing at all. We would even walk back after dark, and I
never felt any worries. After spending some time there, we decided it was
almost like a hippie town (like Haight Asbury), just with an African twist.
Maybe it was just that it was a beach town, so everyone was just chilled out.
The beach was amazing. I haven’t been to the beach much, as I live so far away.
Plus Beninese beaches can be pretty dangerous (dirty, undertows, etc). Here the
waves were definitely strong, and I could feel the undertow. But as long as I
stayed constantly aware of how far out I was, how much I was drifting, etc, I
was fine. It was absolutely amazing to be in the water, and look back at the
shore. To our right was an old castle built by European traders, then from
there a line of palm trees, then further down to our left, a group of fishermen
hauling in the day’s catch. We joked about bringing our cameras into the waves,
however none of them were waterproof, unfortunately. We contented ourselves
with snapping pictures along the stretches of the beach, and then just standing
in the water in awe of our beautiful surroundings. I also spent a long time
jumping in and out of the waves, feeling the water and waves rush around me,
crash over me, and my body just be a part of this beautiful, powerful force. Of
course, this is tiring, so after some time I got out, and we sat on the beach
together for a while.
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| Cape Coast |
As the sun crept down towards the horizon, we finally
admitted that perhaps we should leave the beach. We went back to the hotel and
showered, then set out to find some dinner. We were looking for one place the
guidebook mentioned, but it turns out this place was no longer running. So a
local pointed out a little restaurant just off the road on the beach, and we
went there. We laughed at the menu, because though it seemed extensive, it was
actually just written in an over-the-top way. For example, one pay might be
dedicated to: Rice with Vegetables. Rice with Fish. Rice with Chicken. Rice
with Beef. Rice with Vegetables and Fish. Etc. Then, when Allison attempted to order Groundnut [Peanut]
Sauce, we were told the dish would take a long time; probably about 40 minutes.
So, instead we all ordered a dish called “Red Red”. It is essentially
black-eyed-peas in tomato sauce, with fried plantains, then chicken or fish if
you want it. The meal took 40 minutes for us to get anyway. Oh well. It was
such good food, however, and we enjoyed sitting listening to the waves crash in
the distance.
Finally we went back to our hotel, exhausted from our day of
traveling and the beach, and full from our delicious meal. However, we spend a
lot of time just sitting up and talking. Ryan and Allison are probably the
people I feel most comfortable talking to about anything and everything ever.
We talk about boys and parents, sex and theses, body art, careers, love,
travel; the list just goes on. I can admit things I simply can’t to anyone
else. We have such a good understanding of each other, even if it’s just from
having a lot of similar experiences. We also have really inspired each other to
take certain actions, whether it’s regarding women’s issues, exercise routines,
or starting retirement funds. Among the three of us, there are really no
subjects that are off limits, and it’s really great. I think it helps, too that
we have similar worldviews, especially in regards to traveling and living in
other cultures. Though we’re at different points in our life (Allison has a
“real” job; Ryan is currently at Oxford getting her Masters, I’m in Peace
Corps, whatever that means) and relationships, we still just have such a great
connection. I fell asleep very content with the day and the company.
Tuesday, 7 January 2014
Today is dedicated entirely to exploring Cape Coast and the
surrounding areas. On our way to the famous Cape Coast Castle, we stopped at a
bunch of shops. Cape Coast seems to have a bunch of Reggae inhabitants (as does
the whole of Ghana). Many of the arts-and-crafts-esque shop owners have dreads,
and lots of references to Bob Marley among their wares. There are some
additional shops filled soley with products made from batiks, or died West
African fabric. I love Ghanaian style a lot, because I’ve seen a lot of people
wearing patchwork like dresses, skirts, shirts, etc. I think it’s really lovely
and beautiful. Plus I really, really like the fabric that looks more like a
tye-dye to me. Not in that it has many colors, but designs with softer, less
precise edges. So in one of the shops, I found this absolutely perfect skirts.
It had a bunch of stripes of the fabric that I love. Unfortunately, it doesn’t
fit. I happen to have thick thighs and wide hips, sometimes earning me the
title of having the form of an idealized “African” woman. Unfortunately,
however, these shop owners have a target market of skinny American and European
travelers, so there is nothing to be found for me. Luckily, however, the woman
selling the skirt has actually made them herself, so she promises to add in
another strip of fabric, and when I return I will be able to pull it over my
generous flesh. In the very next shop, I also find a collection of purses that
have the patchwork. I look down at my purse, which after a year and a half in
the dust of west Africa is looking pretty raggedy. Then I see that this guy has
actually taken old purses, and just sewed fabric around them. Basically
creating new, wonderful purses, but still ones that are strong. Usually ones
that are pure fabric begin to rip around the straps quickly. So I give him my
old purse, and he promises to have a new cover for it the very next day.
We wander along the street of shops, until we come upon a
guy selling fresh coconuts. We get some, drinking the coconut water inside, and
then eating the flesh. It was so good! Finally we make our way over to the Cape
Coast Castle, and go inside. We are supposed to pay to take photos, but that
costs more than the entrance fee. And once inside, we realize this rule is not
really enforced at all. We go around a museum that talks a little bit about the
history of the Castle as well as the Slave Trade in general. Then we get a tour
of the building as well. This Slave Castle, originally built for trade in gold
and timber, but soon became a trading post for the larger, more profitable
slave trade. In fact, the Obama family actually visited this castle, as
Michelle has reason to believe that her ancestors came from this area.
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| Inside Cape Coast Castle |
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| Cannons posted along the wall |
Even though I’ve heard about the realities of the slave
trade multiple times: from school lessons and from my other trips in West
Africa; it doesn’t get any easier. Standing in rooms that once held humans by
the thousands, as they stood in their own waste and other bodies of souls that
had given up. Going into a room where rebellious slaves were thrown and starved
to death. Their last scratches still etched on the walls. The courtyard where
women were stood and picked out to be raped. I do maintain some callousness to
the stories being told; otherwise it would all be overwhelming. At this castle,
however, there was a moment where I was very moved. It was when the “Door of No
Return” was opened, and I saw the beautiful landscape: a small bay with
incredible soft aqua water, lapping against the sand, and a hill dotted with
burnt orange houses, filled with life. All I could say was, “it’s so
beautiful!” I felt bad, because I think whether you’re leaving a beautiful
shore or a dank, rocky, place, it still is terrible to go with no choice,
possibly to soon die or otherwise live a life of servitude. But as superficial
as it might sound, the beauty of this piece of land that awakes such a love in
me, makes me feel the tragedy of the souls forced to leave this land—THEIR
land—even more. I gazed out at the shores, lined with fishermen and nets, a
buzzing of activity, and I wonder: what would this place look like today, if we
had never stolen away a huge portion of its inhabitants? Lost souls, lost
ideas, lost leaders, lost healers: all culminating in an overlooked history and
an unsure future for this country; this continent.
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Allison, me, and Ryan
outside the Door of No Return |
I turned back from the door, and left this monument to this
terrible past. I emerged onto the streets of modern-day Ghana, enjoyed a
fabulous meal with Allison and Ryan, and then walked down the street of a
bustling market.
We were looking for the tro-tro (taxi-van) station, but we
never found it. Then we reached this section of regular, smaller, (more
expensive) taxis, who informed us that there was no tro-tros going to Elmina,
the small town nearby where we wanted to go. “It’s not a fishing day,
obviously!” they said. We would never find a tro-tro. Not today. I didn’t
believe them, especially because Elmina is a mere 12km away. Things that are
further distances, and less frequented, sure. There is only one taxi every four
days from Natitangou to Kerou. But between close towns, you can always find
them, every day. So many people have to travel for school, work, etc. But these
drivers, of course wanting us to take them, refused to give us any help in
finding a tro-tro. One driver would talk to us, and whenever we’d say, “No, we
do not want to take you’re taxi,” he’d say, “Calm down!” which of course
annoyed me to no end. I am calm! Or at least I was before you started telling a
perfectly calm girl to “calm down” just because she refused to do what you
wanted. Since at this point we’d been walking around for a while, we finally
just took a taxi, instead of continuing in our so-far fruitless search. What we
discovered later, however, was that actually where we were standing when the
taxi drivers were harassing us WAS a tro-tro stopping point. Had we waited 5-10
minutes longer, we probably would have seen a tro-tro drive by. So that is, of
course, why they wanted to rush us into their taxis before we realized what was
up. At least it was a very quick ride, and then on the way back, we immediately
found a tro-tro in Elmina to take us back to Cape Coast (so much for the no
tro-tro theory).
Anyway, like I said, Elmina is 12km away from Cape Coast.
Today it is predominantly a fishing village, and indeed when we were there, the
entire lagoon was lined with pirogues (small wooden boats), and the village was
filled with people in the middle of building more boats, repairing fishing
nets, etc. We passed by so many piles of little flat fish.
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| The town of Elmina; the lagoon is filled with fishing boats |
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| Myself, Ryan, and Allison at the top of Fort St. Jago |
There is a former Slave Castle there as well; St. George’s
Castle. We took a tour there. Allison, who claims to get distracted easily from
tours, sat it out. I really like this about traveling with Allison. She doesn’t
like doing things like traveling or museums for too long, or doing anything on
an empty stomach. But the important part is that she knows this. She doesn’t
make it about her, and attempt to sabotage everyone else’s good time, just
because she is feeling grouchy or tired. She just takes a step back, and lets
us do what we want to do, while grabbing a little bit of rest for herself. It
also means that the scheduling must be more relaxed (no 12-hours-in-one-day
kind of trips just to get somewhere), which in the end actually makes the
vacation better.
So most of the Elmina Castle was pretty similar to Cape
Coast Castle. It was still a place home to terrible deeds done to human beings.
Afterwards, we walked up to Fort St. Jago, which is at the top of the hill
across the lagoon from the castle. It was made for look-outs and defenses. The
fort is empty, except for one family who actually lives there. I think they are
maybe like the gatekeepers; the guy was the one who opened the door for us and
charged an entrance fee. We went inside, and just wandered around on our own,
and then we climbed up to the tallest tower. From there we had an absolutely
amazing view of the area around.
We joked about how this would never be possible in America, because of
our worries about preservation, safety, and liability. When we cam down, the
guy in charge was holding his young son, sitting on the edge. Ryan made a joke
that he was the Prince of the Fort, and asked the guy his name. “Felix” was the
response. So we spent the next five minutes cooing over this child and calling
him “Prince Felix”, all the while I’m sure the guy was wondering just how much
longer he had to put up with these insane girls. But we were having a good time
just joking, which we do all the time. All of us are really pretty funny, and
enjoy each others jokes.
Finally, we took a tro-tro back to Cape Coast. We got off
and walked directly towards the beach, briefly stopping at the shops. My skirt
was finished, and it was so beautiful! There is a little hostel/restaurant on
the beach called Oasis, and that’s where we chilled for a while, watching the
ocean and having some drinks. We reviewed our day, and talked about plans for
the following day. I briefly ran down to the ocean and jumped in, battling the
waves again. But it was getting to nighttime, so I got out. It was really quite
another wonderful day and evening.
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You can see my skirt in a lot of the other pictures [multi-colored stripes]
Here is a cool hat I bought in Cape Coast
As well as earring from Cotonou |
Wednesday, 8 January 2014
Today we went to Kakum National Forest. It is only 33km
north of Cape Coast; so it was really perfect. We took a taxi to the tro-tro
station, so that we would be assured of actually finding it. Taxis here always
try to convince us to take them all the way to our destination. “I can take you
to Kakum, it will be really easy,” the driver says. We insist that we want a
tro-tro. Though tro-tros are squished and not so direct, they are usually 3 or
4 times cheaper, or even more. We tell the taxi drivers that they can take us,
if we can still pay the tro-tro price. They all respond that well, of course,
that’s not possible, but they swear it will still be super-cheap. We here these
offerings all the way to the tro-tro station, where finally the driver accepts
defeat. We pile into the van, and wait around for other customers to show up
before setting off.
Finally, we reach the forest, and get out of the taxi to
walk up the drive. The guy at the entrance stops us, demanding an entrance fee.
We respond that clearly the sign says that we pay the tour fees at the building
further up. And he says, no there’s an entrance fee as well. We think he’s just
making it up, until he points to the smaller print on the sign that indicates
this is a real fee. We pay it, then as we are going up, Allison, Ryan, and I
ponder if we are too suspicious of people here. In general, there haven’t been
many people trying to rip us off. In Senegal there was a lot; especially when
it came to taxi rides. While in the north of Benin it’s not as bad, I still am
the target of unjust fees, etc, and this is terrible in tourist-areas. But,
maybe, we conclude, Ghana is just different. People aren’t out to rip you off
(as much) as we’ve experienced in Senegal/Benin. Maybe WE’RE the jerks…
We decided on taking two tours. Obviously, we wanted to do
the canopy walk. It’s just such a cool idea. We also decided on taking a hiking
tour with a guide. Unfortunately, the canopy walk involved a bunch of other
people. It was simply annoying waiting for those less used to climbing up a
little hill in the jungle on our way to the canopy. And one of the women had a
break-down and refused to actually go out on the walk. Another made it part
way, screaming and carrying on the whole time. While some of this was entertaining
in terms of analyzing personal motivations and family dynamics, we quickly
tried to distance ourselves so we could enjoy our adventure in peace.
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Allison, Me, and Ryan
On a platform along the canopy walk |
It was a really cool experience. We were walking at the
height of trees. The landscape was somewhat blocked by the trees that grew up
even taller around us, but the view was still very impressive. We looked down
and around at this overabundance of green. Thick vegetation, as far as we could
see. Through a few breaks in the trees, we could also see hills beyond, covered
in this same green. Looking down was thrilling and terrifying, and in the end
we covered those seven stretches of the walk with a fast-beating heart and
tense arms. We made it, and became part of the people who have survived this
encounter (in fact, not one person ever has fallen, since the inception of the
park).
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| The view of Kakum Forest |
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| Where we walked |
After we finished our canopy walk, we went directly into our
guided hike. This was a more pleasant experience, as Allison, Ryan, and I were
the only participants. Our guide was very knowledgeable. We never saw any
animals, unless cicadas count. But we were shown many different trees and
plants. He explained to us about them, their qualities, uses, and so on. He
seemed very passionate about the subject, and enjoyed every question we asked.
He even grabbed us some nut-thing, and had us try it after we asked about it.
It was very cool to learn so much, plus he entertained us with stories ranging
from chasing poachers to being chased by elephants.
Once we were done in the park, we went down to the main
road. Across the street there was a place that had different rasta artist shops
and also a sign promising coffee. We stopped in. As Allison went and looked in
one of the shops, Ryan asked a guy there:
Ryan: “Can I get it cold?”
Ryan: “Can I get it to go?”
We were invited to sit down to wait for the coffee and for
Allison. We joked and placed bets on the ACTUAL availability of cold coffee to
go. We ranked the chances very slim. Allison came back into the room after
making a purchase; but she is waiting for some change. We meet the commune-cat,
whose name is Ice, and who loves my attention. We also talk to the guys that
are there. They seem to be having a pretty good business, that largely revolves
around catching people on the way into the park, and having them order a
bracelet with their name on it. While these people are in the park, the guys
make the bracelets in red, yellow, and green colors. Then the people pick them
up after they are done. They have other various crafts available as well. The
guys are from all over. One is half Lebanese, half Ethiopian, another from
Mali, another from Guinea, one from Burkina Faso, and some other places. As we
talk to them, our conversations get more and more absurd. Actually, the
majority of the conversation is each group of people (us girls and the rasta
guys) talking to our peers about the ridiculousness of the other group. At one
point I believe we were actually offered ganja—but not to worry, it is
all-natural forest ganja (we still declined). Allison keeps asking for her
change, and the guy says not to worry, he’s sent a boy on a bike for it. Since
the verb he used in French for not to worry was “deranger”, Ryan jokes to
Allison, “Yeah, don’t derange yourself!” We erupt into laughter, and the rasta
men think we are crazier than before. At some point we are brought three
mis-matched, dirty cups, three packets of Nescafe (so much for the all-natural
motto), and a teacup barely full of one cup of boiling water. This is our
“cold, to go” coffee promised to us. But we drink it anyway, still waiting for
our change. We make strong coffees, as there is not enough water, and not milk
or sugar to make it better. Finally, after we finish, the change arrives—or at
least part of it. Allison is still missing 1 cedi. But we’ve just been sitting
there long enough, and we kind of want to get away, so we get up to leave, and
are to the door, when:
Rasta guy: “So that coffee will be 5 cedis.” ($2.50)
Rasta guy: “No, each. Each coffee is 5 cedis.”
I stare at him. To give you reference, one packet of Nescafe
costs 50 francs in Benin, or 10 cents. Even if Ghana is reportedly more expensive,
we only pay 2 cedis for our coffee at breakfast (in our decent hotel). That,
however, consists of two packets of Nescafe each, sugar AND milk, plus an
actually sufficient supply of water.
Me: “What? There is no way the Nescafe costs that much! In
Benin it’s…” (I try to do some quick conversions in my head)
Rasta guy: “Well, each packet is 50 pesos. [25 cents] Plus I
had to boil water!”
Ryan and I (thinking of the pitiful quantity of water): “Oh,
yeah, that must have been SO hard.”
At this point we realize a lot of our assumptions were
wrong. Firstly, of course we were never given the cold coffee to go that we
“ordered”. We didn’t really think any coffee was going to arrive at all. And
when it did arrive—in its abysmal form—we kind of just assumed that it was a
‘here’s some coffee for our funny new friends’. Looking back: of course it
wasn’t. But I was outraged that he would charge us 5 cedis! So I lectured the
guy (he was from a French-speaking area, so I was the most proficient to deal
with him), about how if you’re going to charge an outrageous price, you should
at least have the decency to mention it upfront, so we can decline it
altogether. Finally Ryan, Allison, and I decide amongst ourselves to give 1
cedi each (and Allison even forgoes the 1 cedi she is technically still owed in
change). The guy at first tries to refuse the money, but then when we just
start to set it down on the floor, he tells Allison just to give it to him. We
storm out of the building, and then realize that there is a huge flaw in our
plan. If they choose to follow us…we have nowhere to disappear to. We are just
along side of a road, many kilometers outside of the city…there’s only occasion
transportation that comes by… Luckily, however, the guys I think knew that they
were in the business of charging too much, and knew that we were right. So all
that happened was that we stood awkwardly on the side of the road for 5 minutes
until a tro-tro rolled by, and took us back to Cape Coast. We discussed how it
turns out that the people in this country who were trying to rip us off the
most were actually this group of rasta guys: those that we would have assumed
would be more laid-back and less capitalist. I guess here, though, a lot of “rastas”
thrive on money from Western tourists—most of whom wouldn’t blink an eye at a
$2.50 cup of coffee. Whatever.
Upon returning to Cape Coast, we decided to go to the beach,
once again. We grab our stuff from the hotel and head over there. On the way,
we pick up my purse, which is awesome. Just really, really great and perfect
and beautiful. I’m so excited!
The beach is wonderful, as always. As Ryan and I head
towards the ocean, we see two guys come over, and begin to pester Allison. She
says she’s fine, and all she really did was mostly ignore them, until
finally—about 20 minutes later—they wandered off. I eventually come in, and we
sit down chatting for a while. Then there are some children that wander buy,
one selling plantain chips, and another sacs of water, both of which I buy. The
kids—mostly girls—stay around, and eventually another girls walks up. She
insists that I buy water from her. I protest that I did just buy water from
another girl. “No, you must buy one from me,” she says. “Plus, I know you have
10 pesos, you just put it in you purse.”
This whole scenario devolves into another hilarious
encounter. There are five girls and one boy standing around us, all with basins
on their head, selling various items. The girl alternates from trying to sell
us water to just talking with us. She seems to be the ringleader, or at least
the most outgoing of all the girls. She keeps making jokes, especially
regarding Allison’s figure. She points to Allison’s thighs. “They’re so big!”
she exclaims. Allison adopts this accepting but perturbed look, knowing it’s
not meant to be an insult, but of course it’s uncomfortable for a teenage girl
to repeatedly point out your imperfections. At one point Allison tries to
explain that in America we don’t talk about other people’s looks, but this
speech is completely lost on the girl. The girl requests that Allison get up
and shake her booty. They she wants me to get up so she can see my thighs, as
well as my height. She asks Allison if she can have some of her thighs. Allison
says, that of course the girl can, but then the girl concludes that this would
not be possible because they have different skin colors. “Yes, that is the only
problem with this idea,” says Allison in and aside to Ryan and I.
There is a girl who is mostly silent, and carrying onions on
her head. This is a riot to us, because who is going to be lounging on the
beach and wanting to buy onions. We even imagined a dialogue this girl might
have with her mother upon arriving home:
Onion girl: “But mom, I don’t WANNA sell onions!”
Mom: “That’s what we have, and that’s what you’re going to
sell!”
Girl: “But I don’t even sell that many! No one wants to buy
them!”
Mom: “Well if you went to the market like you’re supposed
to, rather than the beach, you wouldn’t have this problem, now would you?”
At one point, another girl freaks out, as a wave gets a
little too close. She runs to safety, but trips, and spills her basin of water
sachets everywhere. At this point the onions girl laughs for the first time,
which also makes Allison, Ryan, and I laugh at this girl finally coming out of
her reserved demeanor.
The girl who’s been harassing Allison about her thighs is
still going on making jokes. Allison calls her a “little troublemaker”. The
girl has never heard this word before, and goes off to someone to ask what it means.
I think they misunderstood, because she basically concluded that Allison was
insulting her. We had to explain a bunch of times, repeating “A trouble-maker.
Someone who makes/causes trouble.” Finally, someone understood the word
“trouble” (I guess it’s said with a different accent in Ghana?), and the girl
was actually quite satisfied with her new title. We continue this time of
laughing at each other, until finally the girls migrate off the beach, and we
are left chuckling at our day.
 |
| girls on the beach |
Allison looks back at the girl. “I wonder what will happen
to her. She’s super-smart. You can just tell. She’s funny, smart, quick, and
outgoing. I think she could go so far.” We contemplate the girl (Grace was her
name, by the way). I wonder if she even goes to school—or if she is required to
sell water all day. What will she do without an education? Or even if she does
go to school, he after-school job of selling water might cut in significantly
to her homework and studying. Ryan points out, however, that perhaps this is
the perfect place for a girl like her to be. She clearly has no problem just
walking up and conversing with tourists. As she grows older, there might be
many tourists who see her potential, and one that maybe helps her out. Or maybe
she will carve out a place for herself here, on her own, just doing what she
does best: interacting with people. She could set up a nice little restaurant
or shop, and talk people into buying whatever she wants them to. I hope the
future really does turn out as bright for that girl as we’d like to imagine.
After the beach, we went and had dinner a restaurant in
town. It’s called the Baobab restaurant, and apparently is attached to an
orphanage. There is a shop of things that supports these kids, plus the
restaurant is vegetarian. The food was good, and it was a nice night. Finally
we just went back to the hotel and to bed.
Thursday, 9 January 2014
We spent the next morning wandering around and doing some
shopping. We loved just how laid-back this place was. Everyone seemed to be
enjoying themselves. I mean, they do live in a beautiful place. At one of the
shops, I found a beautiful blanket, made in what I was told is a traditional
Ashanti pattern. I hate spending money, but this was just beautiful. I asked
Ryan and Allison their thoughts, and both of them pointed out that they had
bought blankets on their travels—Allison in Morocco and Ryan in Lesotho—which
they absolutely loved. So I talked the guy down in price quite a lot, but I
ended up buying the blanket. I am so glad I did. It is really very pretty. And,
of course I loved it mostly because it was in my favorite color ever, which is
teal (or really anything in the blue-green scheme).
After shopping, we walked along the beach once again, before
finally going back to the hotel, packing up, and checking out. We grabbed a
quick lunch, and then set off for Accra.
I really enjoyed the schedule of our trip. We had whole days
dedicated to “travel”, but in reality the actual trip would take a maximum of 4
hours, depending on where we were going. And even on non-travel days, our
actual site-specific time was limited. This allowed us to get up as we pleased
(though it was often early anyway; we’re all used to waking up early for jobs,
or in my case because the sun is up and everything starts moving). But we could
always casually have breakfast, then move on to anything thing we still wished
to accomplish in our current city, then grab transportation, and move on. We
could then squeeze in an activity in the evening if we chose, or just relax. It
was really a wonderful way to spend the time. We still got to do tons, but I
never felt rushed. It was really great.
Anyway, once in Accra, we go to the “happening” part—Osu. It
is a very ex-pat-filled area. We actually walked into a grocery store, and I
nearly had a breakdown. I really did have culture shock. There were things like
broccoli—FRESH BROCCOLI I TELL YOU—and huge green/red/orange/yellow peppers. It
was glorious. I mean the supermarkets in Cotonou can sometimes bring about
culture shock, but here even more so. We promptly left, and wandered around the
area until we went to the place we picked out for dinner. It was reported to
have “African” dishes. It was nice, as it was located on the second story, so
we could see some of the city. Instead of giving the local name for things like
“Red red” (apparently not classy enough), it just listed it as “Beans in a red
tomato sauce”. We shared a glass of wine, and had a fairly delicious meal. It
was nice, but honestly, Ryan, Allison and I are often just as content—and
sometimes more content just to eat “street food.” It’s basically the same meal,
but obviously for a much cheaper price. The atmosphere isn’t as classy, but
there are just some things that can’t beat getting served rice and beans by a maman
on a street corner. It’s simpler, and I don’t know, feels more hearty.
After dinner we grabbed some drinks, and went back to our
hostel just to drink, talk and chill. We were harassed by these guys who came
into the hostel courtyard, tried to talk to us, sell us stuff, and even took
our pictures without permission. But we mostly ignored them (and I told them
very forcefully to leave us alone when they tried to come and sit beside us).
Overall, a very pleasant evening.
Friday, 10 January 2014
In the morning, Ryan and I decided to go to the W.E.B. Du
Bois Museum. Being history buffs, I think the museum was especially appealing.
Allison declined going to the museum, and instead just walked around Accra to
take some of it in. This actually worked out really well, because Ryan and I
were allowed to geek-out to the max.
The museum is actually the former house of W.E.B. Du Bois,
who moved to Ghana late in life. He was invited actually by the first president
of Ghana, to work on writing a Encyclodia Africana, about the people and
peoples in Africa. I have heard of Du Bois before, in school, but I never
really knew much about his life. He was born in 1868, right after the end of
the civil war. This means he actually knew people from this era as he grew up,
and then into the civil rights era. He died in 1963, actually on the eve of
MLK’s “I Have A Dream” speech.
In the house is a collection of the books Du Bois brought
with him from the States, as well as copies of his own publications. I always
love books, especially ones with a story besides the one contained in their
pages. There is something that Du Bois touched, read, thought about. It perhaps
shaped part of him, his ideas.
 |
| Dubois's own books |
There were also many pictures of him with many people,
including the president of Ghana, and even Chairman Mao. In fact, there was a
hanging sent by China to Du Bois, on his birthday. He died peacefully in his
bed, and though given a state funeral in Ghana, and buried in a cemetery with
other important people, his body was eventually moved back to his property, and
it is interred in his old gazebo.
His (second) wife is also interesting; a smart woman herself
who wrote many books. She continued living in Ghana until there was a coup. She
fled to Egypt, then the US. As an activist, however, she still did not feel
safe, and ended up living in China until her death. She was cremated and sent
back to Ghana, so that her ashes might rest beside her husband.
We also talked with our tour guide. He was a young man, who
has a degree in History and Economics. He explained to us that the government
actually paid for his degree. Then, in return, they ask for a “year of
service”. He was assigned here, to be a tour guide. I think this is really
brilliant. I think, actually, every single young person in America should be
required to do some sort of service—whether or not they go to college and
whether or not they need financial assistance. But if everyone could spend a
year or two in service, either in the military, something Peace Corps-ish, or
something Americorps-ish (you could choose), I think this would help a lot.
First of all, it would provide kids leaving college with a guaranteed shot of
“experience” in the work force, which would help with later jobs. Secondly, it
would require everyone to do something they may not have otherwise, in service
to the country/world. Thirdly, it would force people to step outside of their
own bubble, meet new people and see new things. For example, we talked about
how people in the Israeli military (since service is mandatory) say that the
military embodies the actually cross-section of Israeli society, across all classes,
etc, meaning that you meet people you would never have any reason or desire to
come into contact otherwise. Anyway, that’s just my opinion.
After our time at the museum, we all left Ghana and headed
to Lome. This was the first time ever that Allison had crossed a border by
walking (I guess my first was on the way to Ghana, actually). We trekked across
the border, through all the different checkpoints and stamps. One part was
funny, because the border guard couldn’t tell us apart. He got really confused
by our different demands (only one of us needed a visa at the border), and
actually yelled at Allison, but only because he thought she was Ryan, and,
well, it was just a mess. But we figured everything out, and finally jumped
into a taxi on the Togo side to take us to our hotel (Lome is located precisely
on the border).
For dinner, we just found some street food nearby. It was
just rice with chicken kebabs. And this stand happened to be located by a
buvette. I introduced Ryan and Allison to Awooyo, a really good Togolese beer
(thanks to Togo’s brief flirtation with German imperialism). I took some shots
of rum, and we proceeded to get fairly drunk. I think we made a video recording
talking about our past few days. Then we went back to our hotel, where there
was live jazz music. All we wanted, however, was just a plate of fries. So we
ordered that, then got a little fed up with the cigarette smoke wafting
everywhere, so we headed up to our hotel room and passed out.
Saturday, 11 January 2014
In the morning, we ran a few errands around Lome, such as
*attempting* to get cash from the bank and visas extended. We were mildly
successful. The best part, however, was that the zemi drivers actually messed
up where are hotel was (even though I repeatedly was like, “are you SURE you’re
going in the right direction? I don’t think it’s this way.”) But in the end, we
got an absolutely fabulous tour of Lome. I was even prepared to give them more
money (I know, SHOCKING) because the trip was so cool. But they didn’t even
ask, and embraced the mistake as their own. It was actually really nice to have
taxi drivers who wouldn’t start yelling at you, and adding another 100F for
every few blocks, just because they messed up (I’ve had this happen in Cotonou
before). And the jaunt around Lome ended up being some of our top moments from
the trip.
After this, we took a taxi to Kpalimé. It is about 3 hours
north of Lome, and right at the foot of a bunch of mountains. The drive up was
pretty cool, especially as the mountains started coming into view. When we
arrived, we just ate lunch at the hotel, and then lounged in our pool briefly.
Then towards the evening, we decided to go into the market. There we just
wandered around, and actually made purchases such as a comb and toothpaste,
which we needed. I also introduced Ryan and Allison to “Soy Cheese” aka fried
tofu that they make here. Apparently it’s slightly saltier than the tofu we get
in the states, but it’s just really delicious.
Afterwards, we tried to head to this place called “Le Bon
Vivant”, which had been recommended to me by another volunteer. The zem driver
I had on the way to the market knew where this place was, and pointed out the
street it was on our way in. So I knew the general area it was, but not the
actual location. The zems we were talking to now, however, didn’t seem to know
where it was. They even questioned people on the street. Finally one person
asks me, “wait, is this the place with the fat white guy?” I shrug and tell him
maybe, and then everyone else goes, “Oh yeah, the place with the fat white guy!
We know exactly where that is.” I roll my eyes and we all hop on the motos.
The restaurant was really fabulous. It was kind of on a
backstreet, just a few tables, and other expats. The owners are this Belgian (and
yes, with a Santa-like figure) man and his Togolese wife. He wasn’t there when
we arrived, but he soon came through with his booming voice and jolly
disposition. Allison got a hamburger, while Ryan and I got lentil hamburgers.
Everything was so delicious! The owner came around and talked to different
tables, which was fun. Eventually we finished up, and returned to our hotel
very satisfied and ready for our big day tomorrow.
Sunday, 12 January 2014
We got up early this morning. While our hotel doesn’t
actually start serving breakfast until 7, the manager/whatever looked quite
perturbed when we showed up on the dot. He wasn’t done with his cleaning
routine, but served us grudgingly (eventually). He also insisted that we would
never find zems who knew their way to where we were going. But unable to come
up with any suggestions for how to work around this, we ignored him, and walked
outside. Within 10 minutes or so, we found three zems that knew exactly where
we were going, and we were off.
For the next 15 minutes, we each sat on a zem as it zoomed
up the mountain. The path climbed in a series of many, many switchbacks. The
path was mostly covered in trees, but occasionally we’d get a glimpse of the
next mountain over or the valley below. It was really, really pretty and cool.
We arrived at “Auberge des Papillons” (Butterfly Hostel),
which I had read about on the internet. It is a hostel owned by this guy names
Pascal (who we never met), apparently a fanatic about nature. He has some
people that work with him in their own little niche, such as the chef, the tour
guide, and the artist. We walked into the courtyard of this hostel, and then
were invited to sit down at a table with these guys. They asked us if we wanted
to take a tour, and we said that yes, that was why we came here. So then they
tell us the plan. We will set out now, the morning, to see butterflies and
plant life. We will go to a waterfall too. Then, when we come back, the chef
could make us lunch, and afterwards we could try some local coffee. We said yes
to everything, because it all sounded fantastic and exactly everything we
wanted.
 |
| Along our trek |
The first part of the tour seemed to the themed, “Things I
Found in my Neighbor’s Yard,” because we literally walked into the yards of
people in the surrounding village. Our guide showed us a cocoa tree, and then
yanked some of the cocoa-part out so we could see it and try it. He pointed out
where someone had a few cotton plants (nothing like the huge fields in Kérou). Then
we walked over where someone was drying coffee beans…it was kind of a weird
experience. Soon after that, however, we were into the forest. It was just a
beautiful green lusciousness all around us! Our guide brought with him a
butterfly net, and he caught a few butterflies in it (the mountain we were on
is home to over 150 different types of butterflies). It was really cool,
because he knew how to get the butterfly out and hold it so we might see it up
close. He also caught a grasshopper with a very neat pattern on its faces and
legs. He called it an “African mask” because the pattern was very reminiscent
of the beaded masks tourists can purchase in any African-crafts place. He
showed us plants that are used to make natural dies, as well as a carnivorous
plant, whose leaves fold shut when you stroke it. Our last stop was a
waterfall. It was a small one, but still pretty. On our way, we walked through
the village where the tour guide’s grandmother lives, so obviously we had to
stop and say hi. She was very nice, and taught us responses to Ewe greetings
(apparently “eeeeh!” and “oooo”).
 |
| Cool-looking grasshopper |
 |
| One of the butterflies |
 |
| At the waterfall |
Back at the hostel, we sat down, and first got cold drinks
to refresh us. Soon, our meal was ready. We had pate rouge, or what the chef
called Polenta. I’ve never had polenta before, but Allison informs me its
probably the closest equivalent to pate in the Western world. It was served
with a tomato-based vegetable sauce and chicken, and was really quite
delicious. Soon we were feeling the onset of itis, in combination with our
fatigue from the hours-long hike we just went on. On cue, the chef brought over
three cups of fresh coffee.
We asked the guys at the hostel about a coffee plantation
I’d heard about from other volunteers, called Café Kuma. It is run by a
Togolese guy who has worked quite frequently with Peace Corps, even attending a
conference in the United States. One volunteer sent me his website. I attempted
to email him, but never got a response (seeing his village later, however, this
quite made sense). Nevertheless, from the website I got the name of his
village, as well as the idea that it was located somewhat close to Auberge des
Papillons. This worked out, and the guys brought us coffee bags that had been
distributed in this village for us to buy. They also found a zem driver who
knew exactly where they guy’s house was, and was willing to take us there.
Allison decided she was tired, and ready to relax and/or possibly nap. Ryan and
I, however, opted to continue with our trek.
We said goodbye to Allison, then Ryan and I hopped on motos.
Our trek up the mountain had been entirely on paved roads. Now however, we
continued on the other side of the mountain, on an entirely dirt road, but
still with plenty of turns and switchbacks. Finally, we reach Kuma Dunyo, and
went to the guy’s house. “Peace Corps?” he asks as we come up, with our telltale
helmets (the helmets are huge, clunky things, and that, in addition to the fact
that it’s positively rare for anyone—Togolese, Beninese, or other expats—to
wear them, immediately identifies us to anyone who knows volunteers).
He actually was wearing a t-shirt he got participating in a
Peace Corps event. He took us to his plantation, which was actually just the
side of a hill. He showed us some of his coffee plants; apparently he grows
both Arabica and Robusta coffee, whatever that means. There is a spring at the
bottom of this hill, that is dammed up, where he and other villagers get their
water. I am quite impressed, because not only do they still carry the water in
huge basins on top of their head, they do this while climbing a pretty steep
slope. He also showed us some other plants he grows in the same area, such as
pineapples and cassava. He also has a small beekeeping operation among the
plants, and gave us a taste of his honey. It was incredible. We bought some
more coffee, and then headed back to Kpalimé. Back over the dirt road, and then
down we went on the paved road into Kpalimé. For this part, our drivers
actually just turned off their motors, and we coasted down the whole way. We
could see the town of Kpalimé through the trees, which was really cool.
 |
| The location of the coffee "plantation" |
We relaxed for a bit back at our hotel. Then we went out in
the town to get dinner. Because it was a Sunday, there wasn’t as much open, but
we still managed to find this area that had a few street food vendors. We still
raved over the idea that street food is just so satisfying, and so, so cheap.
Then we sat down at a buvette on the same street and bought cheap alcohol that
still gets us tipsy, and life was wonderful. At one point during our
conversation, I said something like, “Wow, guys were always so deep!” (I forget
what topic we were discussing at the time). Ryan responded, “Yeah, well, I
think we ran out of shallow things to talk about a long time ago.”
We compare the different African countries we’ve been in so
far. We feel far less hassled in Togo, of all of them. Senegal (for Ryan and
Allison) and Benin (for me) have been the worst in terms of hassling, unfair
prices, and so on. We wonder if it’s truly different, or if it’s because we’re
on vacation. Are we more relaxed, and therefore less worried if we do get
ripped off. Is harassment simply funny to us at this point? Or are we truly
getting less of it? We’re not sure. Although, at least for the Benin question, we
will answer that in a few days, when we arrive, and Allison and Ryan are still
newly arrived tourists.
Monday, 13 January 2014
Today we decided to not set our alarm, as we had no pressing
plans. However, we still got up quite early, and were again at the breakfast
table at 7 sharp, much to the chagrin of the manager.
We set off to see if there were any more shops we might find
to buy cute souvenirs. And we were also looking for a very specific seamstress
that had also been recommended by Peace Corps volunteers. We were told that her
shop was by Hotel Ize, though we had no idea where that actually was. It just
so happened, however, that a sign for it wasn’t far from our hotel, so we set
off down this dirt road. Once arrived at the hotel, however, it wasn’t apparent
where the woman’s shop was, so we asked someone standing around. A few people
discussed it in the local language, until they agreed on where we should go,
then one guy lead us to the store. It was nice, because he walked with us the
whole way, engaging in pleasant conversation, and then just left without asking
for any gifts or whatever.
Inside the shop we were greeted by a whole host of beautiful
things made of Batiks, or African dyed fabric. There were skirts, dresses, and
shirts, as well as wallets, purses, hotpads, placemats, napkins, and even
stuffed elephants and giraffes. She also had glass-bead jewelry and various
wooden objects. I think I wanted absolutely everything in the store, but I had
to restrain myself. I bought a few things for myself, as well as few gifts for
my neighbors, and then we set off back to our hotel. We relaxed a bit, then
packed up and checked out. We went back to the place where we got street food
the previous day, then headed to the taxi station. Most unfortunately, we
arrived just as one taxi had filled up and was heading out. This meant that we
were the first ones to arrive for the next taxi, and we had to wait for all the
rest of the passengers to wander in. This takes about an hour and a half.
Finally, we are off. Then less than twenty minutes into our
trip, the taxi breaks down. We all get out, and stand on the side of the road.
Ryan, Allison and I are annoyed, but know this is all too typical in West
Africa. So we just stand around and talk. At one point, Ryan indicates a man
walking past us, and says, “This old guy’s just like, “Fuck it, I’m walking.”
I take one look at this very old man, all hunched over and
shuffling down the road at a very, very slow pace, with a small sac slung over
his shoulder, and break out into laughter. Allison is laughing too. For some
reason, when I laugh, hearing other people laugh just makes it even funnier,
and soon I’m laughing at Allison laughing at the joke, and Allison is laughing
at me laughing, and I’m laughing at Allison laughing at me laughing… It’s
actually so bad, my laughs reach hysterically high heights, and I’m crying.
Then the other passengers are looking at the three of us, perhaps thinking,
“What is funny about this situation?” It takes a long time to calm myself down,
and there are still tears of laughter streaming down my face. People are
staring. A guy comes up and high-voices me (this is when a guy puts on a
falsely high voice to talk to white girls, which always angers me, because it
feels like they think they are talking to a dog or a baby). And while I might
understand it slightly at this point, because my laugh did reach a very high
pitch, I’m still annoyed, and call him a woman. He is insulted, and demands to
know why I would call him that. In a high voice of my own, I respond, “Because
you’re talking like this!” He then stalks away, to the other side of our
stranded party. I continue to have moments when I think back to the old man,
and chuckle a little more, but I finally force myself to stop (though even
writing this, days later, I still find myself laughing, just thinking back to
that moment)
We are still stranded on the side of the road. We turn our
attention to a chicken that has been with us for the ride. It is lying in a bag
on the ground, and has managed to stick its head out and utter a pitiful cry
every few minutes. Other people from the van our amused by our attention to the
chicken, which to them is just no big deal, and in fact, more than normal. I
think we even make a small video involving the chicken, and a short narration
of the events that just passed.
Finally another taxi shows up, and we start piling in. Ryan,
Allison and I are the very first people in the new van, as we were sitting in
the back. Another girl gets in, then an older woman. At this point the van
starts to roll backwards (I guess the driver forgot to put on the parking brake).
The woman and the girl yell something in their local language, and run to the
door and jump out onto the beautifully solid ground. Allison, Ryan, and I break
out into laughter (apparently forgetting to jump out ourselves, so it was lucky
the driver rushed over and stopped the van). For the first time on the trip, we
actually seem to be on the same humor-level as the other people. The girl, now
safe, realizes what she did was hilarious, so the four of us spend the next
five minutes laughing. Finally, we are able to continue our journey to Lome,
which is pretty uneventful. We get dinner at the same street food stand as
before. However, Ryan and Allison are feeling slightly sick, so we don’t drink
much, and instead just go back to the hotel and just relax. There are young
children yelling outside our windows for hours, but Allison and I manage to
fall asleep anyway, which Ryan says she admired.
Tuesday, 14 January 2014
In the morning we attempted to run the errands at which we
were unsuccessful the previous time. We had slightly more success, but not
entirely. Regardless, Allison and Ryan stopped at a shop selling West African
soccer jerseys, etc, and Ryan claimed they blacked out, and went into a
jersey-buying state. When they came to, they had bought some Togolese jersey
tops, Allison had bought soccer shorts, and Ryan a bright yellow jacket with
the “Togolese Sparrowhawks” on it. We laughed at the guy, who I think was
probably thrilled beyond belief to have some American girls buying jerseys from
his shop (and not just of teams like Arsenal or whatever, but the Togolese
team).
We take a taxi to the long-distance-taxis station. We only
see small sedans, and keep asking for tro-tros. I think the drivers though if
they just kept playing dumb long enough, they could get us to take the more
expensive, smaller taxis, but we were insistent. We wanted the big,
15-passeneger vans.
Guy: “Those do not exist here.”
Me: “Yes, I get that there are none right here, but that’s
what we want to take. Can you just point us in their direction?”
Me: “Yes, right here there are none. But are you telling me
in ALL of Lome, there are no tro-tros.”
Guy: “Well, there are some in Lome…”
Me: “Okay, well then take me to them!”
Finally, he gives in and leads us literally a block, to a
parallel street hidden inside the market (rather than on the main road, where
the smaller taxis are located), and lo and behold, there is a row of tro-tros. One
is almost ready to go to Cotonou (we are stopping at Ouidah, which is along the
way). So we grab a sandwich for lunch, and then pile in. Although we are mostly
ready, there seems to be some delay. It gets really hot in the van, because
there is very limited airflow, and a bunch of bodies. So I buy a plastic water
sachet (5 cents for a cold, .5 liters of water!) and immediately press it
against the back of Allison’s neck, since she is the one in the center with the
least airflow, and also, still feeling sick. She claims that she felt her body
temperature drop incredibly (probably from my trick of placing it where there
is supposedly a “pressure point”, which means anything cold applied right at
the hairline on the back of your neck will cool your whole body. Thanks high
school softball!) We passed around the sachet after a while, leading the other
people around us to believe that we were crazy, brilliant, or wimps, or all of
the above.
Finally we’re off, and after a bit we have another border
crossing. Although everyone else on the trip gets to simply walk by and hand
the guards a $4 bribe, we actually have to go into a series of offices, answer
questions, possibly fill out forms, and get stamped. So when we arrive at our
van on the other side of the border, everyone else is waiting for us. We
continue on, and finally reach Ouidah. “Ouidah!” shouts the driver. We
acknowledge that we heard, but we are stuck in the back. We have to wait for a
few rows of people to get out, and fold up their chairs so we, too, can pass.
The driver comes around to our window. “Ouidah, right, you’re getting out at
Ouidah?” he demands. “Yes,” I reply. He says, “Well, this is Ouidah, it’s
Ouidah, do you understand?” he stares at us. We don’t move (we physically
can’t. We are blocked in by people in front of this, only one of whom has
gotten out so far). “Aren’t you going to Ouidah?” he asks again. “This is
Ouidah, you can get out.”
I point to the people in front, and say, “YES WE KNOW! But
we have to wait for them to move, don’t we?” The guy finally looks at them,
mutters, “oh,” and continues to stand impatiently on the side of the road.
Finally we get out, and get our stuff. We ask a man standing there how much we
should pay to get to our hotel, giving him a nearby landmark. “200 francs,” he
replies.
We set off a little down the road, where a young man runs up
to help us. I explain where we are going, and ask him if he is a Zemidjan
driver (in Ouidah, they are unmarked, weirdly, unlike in all the other towns
I’ve been to in the rest of Benin). He replies that he is, and calls over other
Zems. As he calls over the third zem, however, I realize that he was lying to
us. We negotiate down to 200 francs. Then he informs us that Allison and I will
be riding double on a zem, and he will take the third. In my brain, I’m
thinking, “what the heck?” and Allison stares at him in disbelief. “Why are you
coming with us?” I demand, and he explains that he will help us. But we don’t
need his help. We just need to get to the hotel, which the ACTUAL zemi drivers
can do, and I’m pretty sure we can figure out things from there. He seems
pretty disappointed, and then my zemi driver suggests that I give him 500
francs for “helping” us, at which point I start yelling, saying that the guy
lied to us, claiming that he was a zem driver, and that was the only reason I
accepted his help in the first place I am perfectly capable of finding zems,
thank you very much, and definitely am not inclined to pay someone just because
they felt like they could lie to me. At this point the zem realizes that he
does not want to be in the middle of this anymore, and the guy realizes he will
never get any money, so Allison and I hop on our own zems, and go to our hotel
(which later we discover, despite the many roads that our zems took us down,
was actually a mere 100 yards from the site on which this argument broke out.
Any decent person would have said, “actually you can literally walk for two
minutes that way, and you’ll be there,” but, well, this is Benin. And it was
taxi drivers, who, with a few exceptions, I believe are the worst people in
existence in every single country in the world. “Well, Benin has lived up to
exactly what you told us,” said Allison when we arrived at the hotel. I had
told her a similar story about my last time in Ouidah, when a guy basically did
the same thing: “helped” us, and then demanded money. Though that time, I gave
him 50 francs, which I think he decided was insulting, but the taxi driver he
“helped” me find (I could have stood on the street 5 minutes longer without him
and had the same result) I think paid him a bit.
The hotel we arrived at, however, was pretty cool. It had a
nice courtyard with a restaurant/bar, and all of the walls were covered in
various Beninese art. The ground was gravel, and everything made of red bricks.
Our room was slightly bizarre, because there was only one small window. We
ended up just leaving our door open most of the time. I thought it was a quaint
little set up. Its main downfall, however was that night when the electricity
went out. There was no air flow, and I was very, very hot. Oh well.
Anyway, we still had some time that evening, so Allison
stayed at the hotel and rested her body and tried to get over this cold she’d
contracted, while Ryan and I went to the Zinzou museum. It was really cool! The
Zinzou foundation has an art museum in Cotonou which exhibits contemporary
African artists on a rotating basis. This museum in Ouidah houses the various
art that the foundation actually purchased, from exhibits/artists that passed
through their original museum. This museum is located inside what used to be a
private house. Each room belongs to a different artist, from all over Africa.
We got a free, and very, very thorough tour. My favorite ones were those
relating mostly to Benin, because I can relate to it a little more. On was some
work by the same artists who designed many of the statues that we would see
around Ouidah. The depictions in this room were ones telling stories of the
various rulers of the kingdom of Abomey. An interesting story was that there
was a queen who became ruler after her twin brother died. She was the one that
actually began the tradition of women-fighters (Amazons) in Dahomey, which
later became quite famous. However, being ruled by a woman was not a favorite
among the people and important figures of Dahomey, so only a few months into
her rule, she abdicated, and gave her throne to her younger brother. He then
subsequently claimed to be the one that started the Amazon fighters, and that
was the narrative for many years.
We also saw really incredible photographs, one set being
entirely of old men who were going out for the “hunt”, some were staged
photographs from the 1950s or so. There were also paintings and statues.
My favorite display was one by an artist making masks for a
“gelede” festival (or however you spell it). Apparently, it is a celebration in
the “Collines” region (a hilly region separating the north and south of Benin)
which celebrates women. It takes place in a non-regular timing, often for
celebrating births, or if there is an act of violence to advocate for women and
remind everyone of the importance of women in society. Men do the dancing and
wear masks, which seem to be more like hats actually, with various things
sitting on top of the head. Anyway, this particular artist (in conjunction with
another society, possibly Zinzou, I wasn’t really clear on that) did a survey
of the population of Benin, asking what they wanted from their politicians.
Then he carved masks based on these top requests. So each mask has a scene on
top of its head of things like the need for electricity, more schools, safer
roads, etc. There is one of all women involving the need for better water
sources, as women primarily the ones responsible for obtaining and using water.
The cool thing about these masks also, was that each one was carved from one
piece of wood. No gluing of various pieces. So that was cool.
 |
| Outside the Zinzou foundation |
After seeing the
whole museum, and buying a few momentos, Ryan and I headed back to the hotel.
We had decided to eat lunch there, as some reviews said it was very good. Our dinner
was, in fact tasty. Afterwards, we were approached by this guy who invited us
to come see where he was making “apertifs”. He said this group of older
women—who were also staying at the hotel—were going, and when we saw them
follow him, we went to. About 20 feet from the hotel, there was a little shack,
where the guy was indeed making I guess what one might call a wine based on
various fruits. He showed us the simple process, which involved sitting the
drinks in various containers for various amounts of time. The end result was
quite tasty, although, unfortunately a very low quantity of alcohol. I would
have much rather had a distilled version of what he was selling, especially for
the price at which he was selling it.
The older ladies were quite fun, though. They were all
wearing various tye-dye dresses that they had bought here. Allison, Ryan, and I
had been admiring them during dinner, and now got to converse with them some,
and talked with them more at breakfast the next morning. They are all four from
France, and are all retired. One of them works with an NGO in Benin, which is
how they ended up here, on vacation. They said that they aim to travel as much
as they can before their health no longer allows this. They had been in Benin
since the New Year, so about two weeks now, traveling about. After they left,
Allison, Ryan and I essentially made a pact to be just like them one day. The
three of us will continue going to different places around the globe, even (and
perhaps even more frequently) in our retired years. We will adopt the “just
don’t care attitude” and wear whatever clothes we stumble upon in these parts
of the world that suit our fancy. I know there are plenty of older people who
do travel, but to see them in Africa; well that’s completely different.
Allison, Ryan, and I love the more “non-traditional” destinations, aka NOT
Europe, not spots along cruise lines, etc, and we hope that we can still be
seeing these more distant places even when we’re older. Especially having a
cool story, like my friend works at an NGO here… (Allison and Ryan jokes that
some day they will be talking to the younger versions of ourselves, saying,
“well, actually we have a friend who lives here with her Beninese husband, and
opened a little restaurant…”)
Wednesday, 15 January 2014
Today, we went on a tour of the Museum of History in Ouidah.
I had actually been on this tour with my parents when they were here. It was a
different tour guide, one whom I liked distinctly less, perhaps because he was
a chauvinist, and an overall jerk. He gets to one painting, which is of the
king and his wives. He was explaining how the king had many wives (minimum of
15), and apparently every night was given 10 of them. He chose one to have sex
with, and then the other nine dance around the bed and play music, which I
think is wholly uncomfortable. Talk about performance anxiety!
Then the guide says: “I would just love to go back to a time
when a guy could have 15 wives. Wouldn’t you?”
(Blank stares from the mostly female audience)
Ryan: “Yeah, I would love to have 15 husbands!”
Guide (breaking out into hysterical laughter) “15 husbands!
You can’t do that. That would never happen! Never! How would that work?
Hahahahah. You wouldn’t want that, would you?” (turning to me)
Me: “Well, maybe I would.”
Guide: “It could never happen! What would your husband say?
He would never allow it!”
Me: “Well maybe if my husband wanted 15 wives, but wouldn’t
let me have 15 husbands, I would leave him!”
Guide (still laughing hysterically) “And where would you
go!? Huh? Where would you go?”
The guide laughs to himself for quite sometime, while Ryan
and I offer up some uncomfortable giggles, and we all move on. Later, I told
Ryan and Allison a story about how I was once at a beekeeping operation,
surrounded by Americans as well as their Beninese counterparts. The guy is
explaining how the bee colony works, and there is a dialogue as follows:
Beninese man: “Wait, THE Queen? You mean there’s only one?
You’re sure there’s not a lot?”
Beninese man: “Are you sure? Well, what if another queen
comes along?”
Guide: “Then one of them will get chased away.”
Another Beninese man: “But there’s a king, right?”
Guide: “Well, actually there are bees that don’t work or do anything.
They exist solely to pleasure the queen. And there are LOTS of them.”
So apparently this is just a really hard concept for the men
of Benin to understand. I mean, they understand, apparently, that women have
“needs”, in so far as they themselves are very willing to fulfill those needs.
But the idea of that extending to the concept of women having needs which they,
one single man, cannot fulfill (though they of course need tons of women lying
around) is just simply mind-blowing, or something which their mind cannot
entertain at all.
So, back to Ouidah, our guide seemed very set on the “good
ole days”, even complaining about how they can’t have proper voodoo festivals
anymore, because nowadays, kids aren’t restrained, and they just run around
touching the spirits that aren’t supposed to be touched, and they just have NO
RESPECT (I think I visibly rolled my eyes at him).
Regardless, the tour was still cool. Plus there was a new
section, full of photographs of Beninese life, and mostly revolving around
voodoo. Ironically, display was in the old Portuguese chapel; I guess just
another example of the way religions overlap in Benin.
Afterwards, we took the tour of the “Route des Esclaves”
(again, I did this with Mom and Bob).
This, if you forgot from my previous entry, was a path down which slaves
were forced to march on the way from their holding cells in the forts to the
boats. There were symbolic gestures they performed to forget their homeland, as
well as a later one to ensure the return of their spirits.
 |
Along the route, there is a house being converted into a museum celebrating the African diaspora
Here we are with the bust of Aimé César
He was a poet who started (with Senghor, 1st pres. of Senegal) the Négritude literary movement |
At the end, after the monument of the Door of No Return,
there was a new display on the beach. It was a bunch of human figures, tied
together as though they were slaves, with a small boat at the head of the
column, ready to take them away. The sign on the boat said, “The Beginning and
End of History”. The figures were all made from pieces of trash: old jeans and
shirts, sticks to hold them up, rusty tins for their eyes. But this only served
to make them more haunting. They were the beautiful in their tragedy. I never
thought I’d be moved by a collection of trash, but looking on them, the
representation of these long lost men and women on their last march to the sea,
the eeriness of their disfigured appearance, but still this feeling that they
were looking at me, haunting me. Not in a scary way, but in a way to make me
feel empathy, to feel the personal part of the tragedy. I was no longer just
standing in a room with the idea of people on their road to death or slavery,
but staring at distorted figures representing these souls. Ryan, Allison, and I
observed these figures in silence, as though we were at a graveyard or war
memorial.
 |
| "The Beginning and End of History |
Finally, we turned away, and went to the voodoo python
temple, where my Mom and Bob had declined to go on their visit. Allison and
Ryan had no intention of touching a snake or letting one touch them. I,
however, was all for it. I think my mom will recall once when I found a garter
snake, me carrying it around the yard for hours and begging my mom to let me
keep it (she said no). Or the time my uncle’s travel-mate had a python, which
my sisters and I played with in our front yard. This almost caused a passing
car to crash as the driver did a double-take. So the point is, I did let the
guy sling a python around my neck. I took pictures with it, pet it, and the
only truly scary time was when it brought its head up to the level of my head.
They guy kept trying to adjust it, I guess for the best photo-value, but I kept
telling him just to let the snake do what it wanted to do. He claims that they
let the pythons out every week or so to go search for food. Then they magically
come back, or people in town collect them and bring them back to the temple as
well. I’m not entirely sure I believe this, because in general Beninese people
are terrified of snakes. Another volunteer was showing kids “The Jungle Book”
on his computer, and a child threw his shoe at the screen when the snake came
on. The idea of pythons running amuck in Ouidah is, well, terrifying and rather
implausible.
 |
| Me with a python |
After this, we were done with our tours of Ouidah, so we get
lunch, then go back to the hotel and grab our stuff, then jump in a taxi for
our trip to Cotonou. Luckily, it’s only an hour or so, but over an absolutely
miserable road. The road I believe is under construction (hypothetically), and
kicked up tons of dust. This, of course, was super-helpful for the colds we
were all coming down with. Oh yeah, I forgot to mention that we were all sick.
Ryan had been the first, but her cold was very mild. Allison started getting
sick second, and even had a slight fever. I had started feeling a little
throat-sore. So you can imagine, we all sounded lovely when talking, laughing,
and hacking up a storm.
Arriving in Cotonou, we decided to go to a beach. Allison,
hoping to nap her way into recovery, declined. The moto ride was kind of long,
but it gave Ryan a chance to see the city. She said that it reminded her very
strongly of Dakar, unlike Lome, which is a little too run-down, and Accra,
which is a little too built-up. The beach is one I recently discovered. It is a
private beach, but very nice, as it is blocked by huge rock barriers. There are
barely any waves, and you can just go out and float around. I’ve even done
“laps” there. It’s very relaxing, but it still feels great to be in the water.
Since it is a private beach, Ryan and I could both leave our stuff on the beach
and go in. We floated around and talked a lot. After a while, we went in, dried
off, and headed back to the hotel. The zem ride is typically $1 (and even that
is possibly a little over-priced, but I’m not too worried). However, the driver
sitting outside the beach club quoted us the price at $4. I laughed at him, and
then stormed off. I didn’t even bother arguing. Even if I started at $0, and we
met in the middle, I would be paying more than double of what I should. They
zems call out after me to stop, but I don’t saying to Ryan, that if they really
want to take me, I’m going to make them come get me. And they do. Two of them
zoom up to us. The first one asks us what we want to say, and I tell him that
we came here for 500F, and that’s what we’re paying. He just shrugs
disappointedly, but accepts the price. The second one pulls up, and here’s the
price. He says it’s okay, but also “I have to give him a gift.” In addition to
that. Maybe just 100 francs. At this point I go ballistic, yelling at him,
saying how dare he ask for a gift when he was such a jerk in the first place,
asking an outrageous price, just because he thinks he can rip off a white
person, an now he has the audacity… Meanwhile, the first zem thinks this is
hilarious, and the second zem is just like, “okay, okay I get it.” I try to get
on the second zem (the one I was yelling at), but he refuses saying that he
wants to take Ryan. Although, Ryan informed me at the end of the ride that this
was simply an excuse for him to ogle me every time my zem rode by them. When we
arrived at the hotel, the second zem points out that he drove really well
(which Ryan said was not true as he was too busy looking at me and other women,
and not the road), and I really should give him a gift. I roll my eyes and walk
away. I did realize, however, that it was weirdly satisfying yelling at this
guy to set him straight, and Ryan hypothesized that maybe even the guys kind of
get off on it. Benin is weird.
Across from the hotel is this fabulous lady who sells
earring wrapped in African fabric. I visited her when my mom was here. My mom
bought some earrings for herself, as well as for gifts, and bought me some as
well. I had been wearing some of these on our trip, which Ryan and Allison had
seen. So basically they’ve been waiting the whole time to buy these earrings.
We go over, and the lady remembers me, and is absolutely delighted that I
bought friends, and even more delighted when they buy tons of earrings. She
gives me a discount, and tells me to say hi to my mom.
After this Allison, Ryan, and I make our way to a Senegalese
restaurant. This is exciting to us because we get to reminisce some more about
our time there, over delicious food. When we try to get zems, however, they
want to charge us 600 francs for a ride that should be, at most, 300. But three
white girls standing in an expat-heavy area is just to good NOT to rip off,
apparently. A Fon woman standing nearby, however, takes us under her wing, and
tells the zemi drivers that we will go to our destination for 250 francs. There
are a few that drive off, but ultimately we find three willing to accept her
price. I thank her and we are off.
In reflection, I think this makes it abundantly clear that I
should only ever rely on women when traveling, especially in developing
countries. In new places I try to ask locals what prices should be, especially
for taxis. When I have asked women, I’ve found later the prices to be very
accurate. Men, not so much. In Cape Coast, we asked a guy, and he told us a
price that ended up being more than double than what we should have paid. Then
he tried to get in the cab with us, but the driver kicked him out, saying that
he might attempt to rob us or whatever. In Ouidah, I asked a guy (not the one
that told me he was a zem, but before that), who told me the price should be 200F,
even though the hotel was within walking distance. I don’t know if the men of
this region have some sort of conspiracy together. Or, more likely, women are
the ones usually taking zems (men have their own motos) more frequently, and
regarding other items; women are the ones going to market, etc. They know the
real prices, and I think feel more of a solidarity with me the tourist, simply
because I am a woman.
On our properly-priced zems, we made it to the Senegalese
restaurant. Then, because we want every meal, what we end up doing is ordering
all three main meals: Ceeb u Jen (Rice and fish, with vegetables), Yassa (Rice
with chicken and onions in a lemon sauce), and Mafe (Rice, with a Peanut Sauce
and meat). The food takes a long time to arrive, and we are all starving. We
promptly inhale every particle of food (except, of course for the rice that
dropped in our haste to bring it to our mouths. Once we are done we sit back in
our chair and laugh at our path of destruction. Ryan comments that this is why
she loves being friends with us. We love good food, and are not ashamed of it.
We don’t pick through food, or say we’ve eaten too much and will promptly gain
weight (even if it might be true). Nope, we order good food and imbibe it, and
in the end don’t care because it was delicious. Sometimes, apparently, this can
be hard to find in girls.
We finished our meals there, and start to feel really tired,
probably from the huge meal. “No, we have got to rally!” says Allison. So we
pulled ourselves together, then headed back to this outdoor drinking spot in
Haie Vive, near our hotel. It is the parking lot of a church, but most nights
is filled with people sitting around drinking, possibly watching a soccer game
or boxing match. Allison had decided to buy champagne to mark the end of a
splendid time in West Africa. Ryan and I aren’t really paying attention as she
unwraps the top, but then all of the sudden there is a loud *POP* and everyone
in the vicinity is staring at us. We giggle and put our heads down, hoping they
will just turn away. “Well, I wasn’t even planning on that. I hadn’t even got
to make a toast yet,” pouted Allison, explaining that she was going to make a little
speech before uncorking the champagne, but it got away from her, shooting right
into the sky. We pour the champagne, and probably 5 minutes later a guy comes
up to us, holding the cork. “Is this yours?” he demands. We stare at him
apprehensively. “It could have hit somebody!”
“Yes, I’m sorry,” Allison responds, lacking the inclination
and ability to pull the French together to explain it was an accident.
“You think this is funny?” he says, turning to me. “It is
really dangerous and rude. There are other people around.”
“Yes, I’m sorry,” says Allison, and the guy storms off, back
to his table.
Yes, it was rude of us, but sometimes things happen. I guess
we really didn’t think ahead, but the cork didn’t actually hit anyone. So, yes,
the whole situation was funny. I think we laughed about it for the next ten
minutes or so. We finish the champagne, and start in on the wine. But we’re
feeling tired of sitting out in this area, so we opt to go back to our rooms
and chat there. This hotel is really nice, because it has a communal kitchen,
with plates and cups and what not. So we can just mix our own drinks, and sit
on our beds, and have one final night of chatting and laughing. Of course, we
all sound awesome, because our voices are hoarse, and after every round of
laughter, there is also a round of coughing from the three of us. At one point,
I remember that Ryan brought a copy of her newly-published book A Native of
Nowhere, which isn’t even available on Amazon until February 10. She hasn’t
signed it for me, so I insist that in this drunk state, she do so. In many
years, I will be able to sell her book for loads of money as the first-edition
only-drunkenly-signed book.
Thursday, 16 January 2014
Today is our last day together. I am staying here in Benin,
while Allison and Ryan head back to Lome, and then to Accra for their flights
home. We start off by getting some nice pastries from a bakery across the
street, then making coffee back in our hotel. Later, we go to the Peace Corps
office, where I had left my computer, and I get the photos, etc off Ryan and
Allison’s devices so that I might actually be able to have them; my internet is
not quite good enough to use a photo-sharing device on the internet.
We have a final meal together at what volunteers call “Plate
of Food”, because literally you pay for a plate of food, with whatever you
want. (It’s really called Rein N’est Tard, or Nothing is Late). I usually get
simply salad, fried plantains, and fish. Then we walk down to another bar, set
on the ocean, where we consume our meal and have a soda. After this, we head
off to the taxi station, where I hug Allison and Ryan goodbye. Our voices catch
in our throats (or maybe that’s just our colds), and we separate. They made it
back safe and sound.
After…
I headed back to Peace Corps office to do some work, some
writing about this trip, and of course, organizing photos. By this point I have
lost my voice entirely; it is only coming out in very forced rasps. Many of the
Beninese working in Peace Corps laugh at me when I try to talk, and teach me
that they say “you gave your tongue to a cat” or “a cat stole your tongue” when
you have laryngitis. Over the next two days, in devolves into an ongoing joke.
I am accused of partying to much, and try to defend myself, saying my friends
brought the virus from “là-bas” (over there). That becomes a joke about how my
friends stuffed a cat into their suitcases and brought it here. Then, upon
arrival, it leaped out of aforementioned suitcase, and grabbed my tongue. And now
my friends have taken the cat with them, so I cannot get my voice back until
they ship back the tongue (I’m not sure if the cat has to be shipped as well.)
So there’s that.
Anyway, I did some work at the workstations, headed back to
post. I am now in Kérou, but I’ll leave you there, and save my work-related
posts for another time.
