Thursday, March 3, 2011
Table of Contents
If you read this blog from starting at the top of the page, you will be travelling back in time. Although it might be charming, you might want to travel to some specific moments. So, here's an index, like a map, sort of.
December 26-January 3: Brussels, Belgium.
January 4, 5: Accra, Ghana
January 8- 11: Togo (Kpalime and Lome)
January 13- 17: Ghana (Mole, Wechiau, Busua)
January 20- 24: Abidjan, Cote d'Ivoire
January 26: Ghana
January 31- February 4: Bratislava, Slovakia
February 6- 11: Berlin, Germany
February 13: The last letter
December 26-January 3: Brussels, Belgium.
January 4, 5: Accra, Ghana
January 8- 11: Togo (Kpalime and Lome)
January 13- 17: Ghana (Mole, Wechiau, Busua)
January 20- 24: Abidjan, Cote d'Ivoire
January 26: Ghana
January 31- February 4: Bratislava, Slovakia
February 6- 11: Berlin, Germany
February 13: The last letter
Tuesday, February 15, 2011
February 13, 2011: The Last Little Letter
We illuminated tiny Austrian towns with our headlights this morning, speeding through the country side on the way to the airport.
I sat next to the gray haired man with kind eyes on the flight to Toronto. His name was Jobran. Shortly after take-off he turned to me and said, "I prayed to God that I would sit next to a blonde woman on the plane today." We got to talking after the fasten seat belt sign had been switched off. He was returning from business in Cameroon, he said. Finding some common ground in African travel, I asked his impressions and business. He told me how he had once owned diamond mines, but that he'd lost them in a bad business deal and now brokered fine African wood for furniture manufacturing. He told me all about the best way to make money in Africa: buy construction equipment in Canada, ship it over and rent it out. Very lucrative, apparently. I told him to invest in coltan. We compared emigrant experiences: he said Canada was a fine country, "But, it is like a dish made with good ingredients, but lacking in salt." I convinced him to watch The Town on his movie screen, but he turned it off 10 minutes in, claiming it was boring. He reminisced about the days when you could smoke on planes and repeatedly turned to me throughout the course of the flight, bringing his hand to his mouth, pretending to inhale and then leaning back in his seat and exhaling with a look of satisfaction on his face.
We talked more business. I asked him to take me under his wing and give me an 'in' into the cocoa industry, but he refused, saying he could tell I didn't have a head for business. When I asked him how he could tell, he said that he had looked at my hands. Since the tip of my baby finger does not reach up to the second joint on my ring finger, I am lost cause in the business-head department.
In the customs line, Jobran asked the man managing the cordons if he could bribe him to get to the front of the line. "It works in Africa", he said. I laughed.
We claimed our respective baggage and said goodbye at the carrousel.
And that was that.
And here I am, home at last.
And so, this is the last letter. I hardly know how to end! Really, I'd just like to say thanks for being my constant companion and confidant, I hope these letters have given you a little window into, a miniature painting of, these glorious past weeks.
I sat next to the gray haired man with kind eyes on the flight to Toronto. His name was Jobran. Shortly after take-off he turned to me and said, "I prayed to God that I would sit next to a blonde woman on the plane today." We got to talking after the fasten seat belt sign had been switched off. He was returning from business in Cameroon, he said. Finding some common ground in African travel, I asked his impressions and business. He told me how he had once owned diamond mines, but that he'd lost them in a bad business deal and now brokered fine African wood for furniture manufacturing. He told me all about the best way to make money in Africa: buy construction equipment in Canada, ship it over and rent it out. Very lucrative, apparently. I told him to invest in coltan. We compared emigrant experiences: he said Canada was a fine country, "But, it is like a dish made with good ingredients, but lacking in salt." I convinced him to watch The Town on his movie screen, but he turned it off 10 minutes in, claiming it was boring. He reminisced about the days when you could smoke on planes and repeatedly turned to me throughout the course of the flight, bringing his hand to his mouth, pretending to inhale and then leaning back in his seat and exhaling with a look of satisfaction on his face.
We talked more business. I asked him to take me under his wing and give me an 'in' into the cocoa industry, but he refused, saying he could tell I didn't have a head for business. When I asked him how he could tell, he said that he had looked at my hands. Since the tip of my baby finger does not reach up to the second joint on my ring finger, I am lost cause in the business-head department.
In the customs line, Jobran asked the man managing the cordons if he could bribe him to get to the front of the line. "It works in Africa", he said. I laughed.
We claimed our respective baggage and said goodbye at the carrousel.
And that was that.
And here I am, home at last.
And so, this is the last letter. I hardly know how to end! Really, I'd just like to say thanks for being my constant companion and confidant, I hope these letters have given you a little window into, a miniature painting of, these glorious past weeks.
Yours,
Dominika
Monday, February 14, 2011
February 12, 2011: Back in the Brat
A few more days and I'm home again.
Last night, we watched a film my grandfather made in the 1960's called Kym sa Skonci Tato Noc (Which translates roughly into Until This Night is Over). It takes place at a resort town in the mountains and is a little social study of the guests at a hotel, the staff and the locals. Really sweet, funny and interesting, the dialogue is mostly improvised. I think it would have been part of what is considered the Czech/Slovak New Wave. It was neat watching it with Grandpa, as he recounted shooting it, and all of the pleasure and stress that goes along with that.
After the movie my grandmother brought out some glasses and a bottle of champagne and my grandfather opened the bottle with flair and a pop and poured us each a glass. We watched celebration and elation in the streets of Egypt and we all thought aloud and wondered at it, what a world!
The next day, my cousin Janko and I went to my maternal grandmother's for lunch, after which Janko drove her to the supermarket so she could stock up on milk and get the fish that was on special. His car had been making some strange noises for the past few days and as we drove down the street we heard the sudden and persistent scrape of metal against concrete. After stopping the car and investigating, Janko discovered part of the exhaust system had rusted and broken and was scraping against the road. We pulled over and called his dad's girlfriend who so graciously lent us her car instead. We managed to get the grandmother and the fish home, too.
Did I tell you that Janko plays guitar and sings in a punk rock band? More technically, it's a metalcore band with a screamer singer and some seriously dirty guitar and very heart-shaking bass and drum combination. Though I'm usually not very interested in this kind of music, when it's live, it's a different story. Janko took me to Drama Queen's practice space, for a little jam session between drummer and guitarist. They rocked out for a good while.
After practice we went on to Pezinok, where my cousin Kajo and his wife Sona and their two little children live. When we arrived, the kids were drawing dinosaurs and kittens on the kitchen wall, which was going to be repainted the following week. Both darlings were flushed with excitement and also spotted with the last vestiges of a recent battle with chicken pox. Turns out that Janko had never had chicken pox and was in danger of contracting the dreaded virus. Apparently, this is the sort of thing that is much easier to have in childhood, but is important to have at some point in your life because it's harder to deal with as you age. In a vain attempt to lessen the chances of Janko contracting the pox, he borrowed a handkerchief from Kajo, folded it into a blue triangle and tied it around his face. Though I have my doubts as to its effectiveness, his mask was certainly very humorous for adults and children alike, especially when he had to lift the flap to eat and drink and also when he played an expressionless game of table tennis, without the table.
Tomorrow, I fly back to Toronto. Back to loving arms and cold streets, bicycles and urban wilderness and the politics and prose of On-tar-i-o. I'll miss it here, for sure.
Last night, we watched a film my grandfather made in the 1960's called Kym sa Skonci Tato Noc (Which translates roughly into Until This Night is Over). It takes place at a resort town in the mountains and is a little social study of the guests at a hotel, the staff and the locals. Really sweet, funny and interesting, the dialogue is mostly improvised. I think it would have been part of what is considered the Czech/Slovak New Wave. It was neat watching it with Grandpa, as he recounted shooting it, and all of the pleasure and stress that goes along with that.
After the movie my grandmother brought out some glasses and a bottle of champagne and my grandfather opened the bottle with flair and a pop and poured us each a glass. We watched celebration and elation in the streets of Egypt and we all thought aloud and wondered at it, what a world!
The next day, my cousin Janko and I went to my maternal grandmother's for lunch, after which Janko drove her to the supermarket so she could stock up on milk and get the fish that was on special. His car had been making some strange noises for the past few days and as we drove down the street we heard the sudden and persistent scrape of metal against concrete. After stopping the car and investigating, Janko discovered part of the exhaust system had rusted and broken and was scraping against the road. We pulled over and called his dad's girlfriend who so graciously lent us her car instead. We managed to get the grandmother and the fish home, too.
Did I tell you that Janko plays guitar and sings in a punk rock band? More technically, it's a metalcore band with a screamer singer and some seriously dirty guitar and very heart-shaking bass and drum combination. Though I'm usually not very interested in this kind of music, when it's live, it's a different story. Janko took me to Drama Queen's practice space, for a little jam session between drummer and guitarist. They rocked out for a good while.
After practice we went on to Pezinok, where my cousin Kajo and his wife Sona and their two little children live. When we arrived, the kids were drawing dinosaurs and kittens on the kitchen wall, which was going to be repainted the following week. Both darlings were flushed with excitement and also spotted with the last vestiges of a recent battle with chicken pox. Turns out that Janko had never had chicken pox and was in danger of contracting the dreaded virus. Apparently, this is the sort of thing that is much easier to have in childhood, but is important to have at some point in your life because it's harder to deal with as you age. In a vain attempt to lessen the chances of Janko contracting the pox, he borrowed a handkerchief from Kajo, folded it into a blue triangle and tied it around his face. Though I have my doubts as to its effectiveness, his mask was certainly very humorous for adults and children alike, especially when he had to lift the flap to eat and drink and also when he played an expressionless game of table tennis, without the table.
Tomorrow, I fly back to Toronto. Back to loving arms and cold streets, bicycles and urban wilderness and the politics and prose of On-tar-i-o. I'll miss it here, for sure.
February 11, 2011: Berlin, Bitte!
It was busy in Berlin! I have so much to tell you. Ok, I won't tell you everything, but here are some excerpts from my field notes.
First, let me say Hilda was a most gracious, fiercely funny and resourceful hostess, a fine semi-colon of a girl; I <3 hh.
On Monday afternoon, I went swimming at the public pool. Did you know that one of my favourite things to do when I visit a city is to take a swim in a public pool? The pool I visited in Berlin was a gorgeous complex built between the two World Wars. The grand staircase was tiled in jade tiles, with a dark wood floor and benches of the same colour. The pool itself was oblong, rounded at one end, with massive columns, jade tiles and large mosaics showing people engaging in water themed activities. There was a mezzanine that looked down on to the main pool. At one end of the pool there was a curved staircase flanked by two brass sculptures of babies mounted on giant walruses that spouted water from their mouths.
Are public pools a reflection of the collective consciousness of a city? I tend to think so. In France, the lanes are very narrow and the water very cold, in Toronto the lanes are very wide and the water is piss warm. In Berlin, there are no lanes and the water is just right. I felt like Goldilocks. Admittedly, it was somewhat chaotic in the pool. People were swimming back and forth willy nilly.
I had a nice long swim and only bumped into a few people, most of whom were quite gracious and understanding about the whole thing. Interestingly, there was also a tanning station at the pool where you could drop in a few Euros and get a little UV.
We went for a fine dinner along the canal at a place called Cafe Jaques (We tried to go to Henne, a famous chicken house, but alas, it was closed). Had a delicious meal with Hilda and her fine nostriled and fluttery-handed girlfriend Meeshell. They regaled me with stories of life in Berlin over dinner and we continued on to a nightclub for an evening of dancing, which we didn't end up doing that much of. They projected the movie Dirty Dancing behind the dance floor. All I can say is that Patrick Swayze was a handsome man, that is for sure. We got home rather late.
On Tuesday we went to the Turkish Market in Kreuzberg. It was festive and charming, with people selling all kind of things: food and fabric and nuts and flowers, et cetera. We took a long walk along the canal and exchanged various factoids and ideas (of which we are both great fans) and generally conversed in an agreeable manner.
We ate dinner at a Vietnamese place (so interesting to have German Pho, not so delicious as our Toronto Pho, you know). We tried to make it to a Sophia Coppola movie in the evening, but we were late and got the time all wrong and so went home instead and ate black liquorice. Earlier in the day, we had been to a store that sold solely this and little else. Sweet black liquorice, salty, with chocolate, pastilles... What an amazing place. Check it here
On Wednesday, I spent the morning doing a bit of a wander around the city, retracing some walks I'd liked. After a Turkish lunch (I discovered Turkish is one of my favorite cuisines in the world, I do believe), I went to the Medical History museum. It's a neat little place on the grounds of an old hospital called the Charite. The second floor of the museum was really macabre. Disembodied human parts were displayed in large glass cabinets, manifesting various unfortunate malformations or conditions. There were cancers, bladder stones the size of golf balls, giant hairballs retrieved from stomachs, hands with nubs instead of fingers, feet with elephantiasis, and unborn babies with missing parts or extra parts. There was quite an assortment of babies; two babies fused into one being and one baby with a quite, serene expression whose torso tapered off into a sort of point, not unlike 'Slimer' in the animated television serial 'Ghostbusters'. Weird.
Hilda met me at the train station to say goodbye and after a coffee and a run to the supermarket to get some more liquorice, we parted ways. Goodbye, dear friend!
Homeward bound! I got on the train and sat down in the couchette and read the last pages of "Freedom". My couchette mate boarded the train in Dresden, a charming Hungarian biochemist (the mate, not the city). The train stopped at Breclav in the early morning hours and I suppose the train's arrival coincided roughly with the closing of the local drinking establishments because the two parties of people who boarded our sleepy car were a little drunk and evidently a little sad to be leaving their friends behind. They kept calling out their farewells from the corridor. Following this, there was uncoupling and recouping of cars, some of which were going to Budapest and some of which were not. The announcement had to be made in three languages and the whole thing was rather disruptful. Anyway, I arrived in Bratislava and was so tired that I slept for basically a whole day and a night and woke the following morning feeling more refreshed than I had in a long time.
First, let me say Hilda was a most gracious, fiercely funny and resourceful hostess, a fine semi-colon of a girl; I <3 hh.
On Monday afternoon, I went swimming at the public pool. Did you know that one of my favourite things to do when I visit a city is to take a swim in a public pool? The pool I visited in Berlin was a gorgeous complex built between the two World Wars. The grand staircase was tiled in jade tiles, with a dark wood floor and benches of the same colour. The pool itself was oblong, rounded at one end, with massive columns, jade tiles and large mosaics showing people engaging in water themed activities. There was a mezzanine that looked down on to the main pool. At one end of the pool there was a curved staircase flanked by two brass sculptures of babies mounted on giant walruses that spouted water from their mouths.
Are public pools a reflection of the collective consciousness of a city? I tend to think so. In France, the lanes are very narrow and the water very cold, in Toronto the lanes are very wide and the water is piss warm. In Berlin, there are no lanes and the water is just right. I felt like Goldilocks. Admittedly, it was somewhat chaotic in the pool. People were swimming back and forth willy nilly.
I had a nice long swim and only bumped into a few people, most of whom were quite gracious and understanding about the whole thing. Interestingly, there was also a tanning station at the pool where you could drop in a few Euros and get a little UV.
We went for a fine dinner along the canal at a place called Cafe Jaques (We tried to go to Henne, a famous chicken house, but alas, it was closed). Had a delicious meal with Hilda and her fine nostriled and fluttery-handed girlfriend Meeshell. They regaled me with stories of life in Berlin over dinner and we continued on to a nightclub for an evening of dancing, which we didn't end up doing that much of. They projected the movie Dirty Dancing behind the dance floor. All I can say is that Patrick Swayze was a handsome man, that is for sure. We got home rather late.
On Tuesday we went to the Turkish Market in Kreuzberg. It was festive and charming, with people selling all kind of things: food and fabric and nuts and flowers, et cetera. We took a long walk along the canal and exchanged various factoids and ideas (of which we are both great fans) and generally conversed in an agreeable manner.
We ate dinner at a Vietnamese place (so interesting to have German Pho, not so delicious as our Toronto Pho, you know). We tried to make it to a Sophia Coppola movie in the evening, but we were late and got the time all wrong and so went home instead and ate black liquorice. Earlier in the day, we had been to a store that sold solely this and little else. Sweet black liquorice, salty, with chocolate, pastilles... What an amazing place. Check it here
On Wednesday, I spent the morning doing a bit of a wander around the city, retracing some walks I'd liked. After a Turkish lunch (I discovered Turkish is one of my favorite cuisines in the world, I do believe), I went to the Medical History museum. It's a neat little place on the grounds of an old hospital called the Charite. The second floor of the museum was really macabre. Disembodied human parts were displayed in large glass cabinets, manifesting various unfortunate malformations or conditions. There were cancers, bladder stones the size of golf balls, giant hairballs retrieved from stomachs, hands with nubs instead of fingers, feet with elephantiasis, and unborn babies with missing parts or extra parts. There was quite an assortment of babies; two babies fused into one being and one baby with a quite, serene expression whose torso tapered off into a sort of point, not unlike 'Slimer' in the animated television serial 'Ghostbusters'. Weird.
Hilda met me at the train station to say goodbye and after a coffee and a run to the supermarket to get some more liquorice, we parted ways. Goodbye, dear friend!
Homeward bound! I got on the train and sat down in the couchette and read the last pages of "Freedom". My couchette mate boarded the train in Dresden, a charming Hungarian biochemist (the mate, not the city). The train stopped at Breclav in the early morning hours and I suppose the train's arrival coincided roughly with the closing of the local drinking establishments because the two parties of people who boarded our sleepy car were a little drunk and evidently a little sad to be leaving their friends behind. They kept calling out their farewells from the corridor. Following this, there was uncoupling and recouping of cars, some of which were going to Budapest and some of which were not. The announcement had to be made in three languages and the whole thing was rather disruptful. Anyway, I arrived in Bratislava and was so tired that I slept for basically a whole day and a night and woke the following morning feeling more refreshed than I had in a long time.
February 6, 2011: The Night Train, Things in Berlin, Reunion
Waiting in Bratislava for the train last night, I decided to get a cup of tea from the Nescafe vending machine. I put in a Euro and chose my drink, adjusting the appropriate amount of sugar. The machine display then prompted me to select my drink again. Then, it asked me to adjust my sugar level again. Then, it prompted me to select my drink again. Suddenly, I realized I was caught in a seemingly endless cycle of selecting beverages and adjusting sugar levels. Behind me, a v. small man was cleaning the floors with a buffing machine, the cord of which was now snug against the back of my feet. I had failed to notice this since I was so involved with the selecting and adjusting. This man noted that my feet were interfering with his job, then noticed my visible agitation and came to help. After more selecting (to no avail), we both started hitting the machine, both in the front and at the sides, until the whole thing became absurd and it became apparent that I was not going to get my Euro back. Tea-less, but in high spirits, I got on the train and settled into my little couchette for the night.
This morning I woke up in Berlin. This is the best way to travel!
Berlin!
The Museum of Things was my Sunday destination. This little museum is actually an archive of the Deutsche Werkbund, which was an institution that was focused on "life reform" through control of the aesthetic practices and preferences of the German population (Ok, so maybe it was not quite as powerful as I'm suggesting). The museum displayed German industrial design in all its glory!
The Deutsche Werkbund worked to, among other things, establish guidelines that dictated good and bad taste. What should be deemed aesthetically pleasing and what should be deemed less so? They even went so far as to have a kind of 'kit' that was brought into schools to demonstrate what sort of manufactured products were in line with the national consciousness. So German, no? The whole point of the institution was to provide a sort of aesthetic ideology that was in line with the politics and social agenda of the time. Efficiency, good, functional design was promoted, and ornament and embellishment for its own sake was abhorred. Brilliant, I think.
Let me tell you, it was a spectacularily arranged history of Germany told through mass manufactured objects. I mean, we're used to telling our stories through objects, right? In a conventional 'museum' the uniqueness, rarity and age of the objects makes us see them as meaningful and valuable in themselves. Here, the selection and thematic arrangement of not so rare, everyday objects was a fascinating window into history and German consciousness.
As a collector of things, I was also very interested in the curation and organization of the collection. Perhaps because I've been struggling with deciding what to discard in my own personal collections, I fond myself thinking about whether there was someone still collecting contemporary objects that would be displayed in those very same cases some years down the road. What if I was throwing away our very history?! Should I hold on to my old matchboxes? I felt a twinge of regret for using all the napkins in my napkin collection one winter when I had that cold that would just not go away.
Anyway, the collection itself was organized both chronologically and thematically, with objects taking their places in large glass cabinets arranged in rows. Along one wall, in the thematic mode, there were groupings of amazing things, like old cell phones, tiny chairs (!), Mona Lisa Souveniers, plastic hamburgers, soap, adhesives, shaving brushes and things made of tin.
If you are in Berlin soon, I'd recommend it. A fun diversion.
Afterward, I went to a coffee shop to await Hilda, who was returning to from the countryside. We met and rejoiced over tasty kebabs. With glasses of tea, we started to start catching up after many years apart. A reunion as sweet as our beverages!
This morning I woke up in Berlin. This is the best way to travel!
Berlin!
The Museum of Things was my Sunday destination. This little museum is actually an archive of the Deutsche Werkbund, which was an institution that was focused on "life reform" through control of the aesthetic practices and preferences of the German population (Ok, so maybe it was not quite as powerful as I'm suggesting). The museum displayed German industrial design in all its glory!
The Deutsche Werkbund worked to, among other things, establish guidelines that dictated good and bad taste. What should be deemed aesthetically pleasing and what should be deemed less so? They even went so far as to have a kind of 'kit' that was brought into schools to demonstrate what sort of manufactured products were in line with the national consciousness. So German, no? The whole point of the institution was to provide a sort of aesthetic ideology that was in line with the politics and social agenda of the time. Efficiency, good, functional design was promoted, and ornament and embellishment for its own sake was abhorred. Brilliant, I think.
Let me tell you, it was a spectacularily arranged history of Germany told through mass manufactured objects. I mean, we're used to telling our stories through objects, right? In a conventional 'museum' the uniqueness, rarity and age of the objects makes us see them as meaningful and valuable in themselves. Here, the selection and thematic arrangement of not so rare, everyday objects was a fascinating window into history and German consciousness.
As a collector of things, I was also very interested in the curation and organization of the collection. Perhaps because I've been struggling with deciding what to discard in my own personal collections, I fond myself thinking about whether there was someone still collecting contemporary objects that would be displayed in those very same cases some years down the road. What if I was throwing away our very history?! Should I hold on to my old matchboxes? I felt a twinge of regret for using all the napkins in my napkin collection one winter when I had that cold that would just not go away.
Anyway, the collection itself was organized both chronologically and thematically, with objects taking their places in large glass cabinets arranged in rows. Along one wall, in the thematic mode, there were groupings of amazing things, like old cell phones, tiny chairs (!), Mona Lisa Souveniers, plastic hamburgers, soap, adhesives, shaving brushes and things made of tin.
If you are in Berlin soon, I'd recommend it. A fun diversion.
Afterward, I went to a coffee shop to await Hilda, who was returning to from the countryside. We met and rejoiced over tasty kebabs. With glasses of tea, we started to start catching up after many years apart. A reunion as sweet as our beverages!
February 4, 2011: Dancing, Constellations, Memories, Ice
I'm learning a little routine here in Bratislava. There's a morning dance we do, in my grandparents' kitchen, and I've memorized almost all the parts. They have a small kitchen and a big kitchen table and there are certain steps and dodges we perform to set the table, make the tea and break our fast. We've pared it down to something functional and elegant, accommodating each others styles and preferences.
***
Yesterday night, just after the first stars had come out, I was outside in the courtyard. I looked up to see Orion's Belt moving across the sky! What magic is this, I thought? Then, I realized it was a flock of geese that had arranged itself into familiar constellations.
***
My grandparents' washing machine has several cycles. Along with knits and delicates, there is the memories setting. This is a fantastic machine, I think. Not only does it wash away mustard and red wine, but the very circumstances that put those stains there in the first place. Remember when you spilled that drink on the picnic blanket and the stain looked like Kamchatka? I'd rather not put that one in the laundry.
I heard a program on the radio about memory a while back. The program is called Radiolab, and it's one of my favorites. They were examining the nature of memory and cited a study which found that the more we remember a memory, the more that we think about it, the farther it strays from the reality it originally reflected. We don't access memories like we access files on a hard drive, but actively reconstruct them every time we think of them. The memories we seldom call up are closer to "truth" than those we think about a lot. I think that explains a lot.
***
Last night Janko and I went skating. There's a skating rink in the main square in Bratislava where you can rent skates. We borrowed a pair each and set off on a circuit. Just after putting on the skates, I felt this sinking feeling. Why do I always forget that I truly dislike skating until the very moment I put my formerly warm foot into a vice-like shell of frozen leather? There's something about the feel of rough ice under my feet, something about the discomfort of ice skates that I can't bring myself to overcome. We circled around and around, colored lights, Madonna songs and amazingly coordinated children swirled about us. We were arm in arm, my cousin leaning in, shouting into my ear about the breakthrough he'd had that day with his hardcore punk rock band, how they'd really jammed at practice. It should have been so nice to be there and I very much wanted to be glad with the world, but all I could think about was how much I hated skating and so I finally said so and we returned the skates and went to drink some wine instead. I'm never skating again, I swear.
***
I am taking the night train to Berlin to visit Hilda on Saturday!
Thursday, February 3, 2011
Directions for the Use of the Elevator
DIRECTIONS
FOR USING THE ELEVATOR WHICH IS OPERATED IN A SELF-SERVE MANNER
1. INDEPENDENTLY, THE ELEVATOR SHOULD BE USED AND OPERATED ONLY BY INDIVIDUALS OLDER THAN 10 YEARS. YOUNGER INDIVIDUALS ARE ALLOWED ONLY IF ACCOMPANIED BY AN ADULT.
2. CONVEYING IN THE ELEVATOR pieces of furniture, children's strollers and similar, CAN ONLY BE DONE BY ADULT INDIVIDUALS.
3. The elevator goes after the closing of the cabin door and the pressing of the button of the desired floor.
4. The elevator can, in unavoidable circumstances, be stopped if a person presses the red button STOP.
5. In case of malfunction, call by pressing the button BELL.
6. The cabin needs to be weighted evenly and filled to ensure against shifting.
7. Don't smoke in the cabin !
Wednesday, February 2, 2011
February 2, 2011: Bathing, Socialist Gloom III
Yesterday, after having lunch at Starka's (That's what we call my other grandmother. Rough translation: "old one"), my cousin Janko and I went to Hungary to take a bath. It's a short drive, really, to get to the border and then a little drive along rural roads through towns with names like Rajka (something like "paradise", in Slovak). Bathing has something of a cult following here in the former Eastern Bloc. People of all ages, but usually those with various skin conditions or degrees of arthritis, enjoy the therapeutic waters of the numerous thermal springs.
The water comes out of the ground at a steaming 73 degrees celcius, but is cooled for your bathing pleasure to a comfortable 38 or so. We sauna-ed and bathed and plunged into cooling pools for a good while. We floated in the warm salty water like halushky (tiny little Slovak dumplings) until we were warm and tender. Then we rolled ourselves in creamy sheep cheese and sprinkled ourselves with bacon bits. It was in this way that we prepared for Slovak Halloween (February 3rd). We went as Brinzove Halushky, the national dish of our homeland. Just kidding about that last part.
We stopped at the drinking fountain on the way out and filled our bellies, and a bottle, full of the warm salty spring water. It was like drinking the milk of the earth!
When I told my mom that we had gone to Hungary, she recalled her own jaunts there, some fondly and some less so. She was there in 1968, the year of the Russian invasion. My mom was 9 years old when the Russians invaded. On the way back from a Mediterranean vacation, the family spent the night in a Hungarian bed and breakfast, near the border with Slovakia. On the morning of the invasion, at a memorable breakfast of bread and apricot jam, she watched the tanks roll in to Bratislava on television. The images were surreal, she said. She felt surprised, more than anything else.
Just after breakfast, her father decided they had to leave for the border. They arrived to discover that it was impassable and all the cars were being sent back.
She writes:
"My father stopped right at the border crossing, got out of his car and walked towards the Russian soldiers at the checkpoint. Being half Russian, he spoke their language fluently and proceeded to yell them angrily. I became really scared. The soldiers pointed their machine guns at my father's chest at which point he realized it was better to shut up. I honestly thought one of them would pull the trigger at any moment. Then my mother got out of the car, crying, and begged the soldiers (in Slovak) to spare my father's life. She pulled at their sleeves to divert their focus from the guns pointed at my father's chest to her anguished, pleading face."
The soldiers lowered their weapons and everyone got back in to the car, where they sat in silence and shock.
They returned to the Hungarian village and spent the next few days watching the news. Her father left one day, much to her alarm. She had no idea that he'd gone to find a border crossing that would let them get through the border and home. He returned a few days later and took them to a rural checkpoint where they crossed successfully. She writes:
"The next day we arrived in Bratislava only to find a Russian tank aimed at our apartment building. It was completely unintentional, but scared the hell out of me every time I had to go out. I remember the day shortly after our return when the Czechoslovakian president went on TV and read a prepared statement asking people to restrain from violence. Resistance was futile, he said in a trembling voice. Then, he lifted his face and I could see the streams of tears on his face. It was extremely sad. The people went out into the streets, not to protest but to share their defeat; strangers hugged each other and cried. It seemed to me that the years that followed were just a continuation of that sad day."
The water comes out of the ground at a steaming 73 degrees celcius, but is cooled for your bathing pleasure to a comfortable 38 or so. We sauna-ed and bathed and plunged into cooling pools for a good while. We floated in the warm salty water like halushky (tiny little Slovak dumplings) until we were warm and tender. Then we rolled ourselves in creamy sheep cheese and sprinkled ourselves with bacon bits. It was in this way that we prepared for Slovak Halloween (February 3rd). We went as Brinzove Halushky, the national dish of our homeland. Just kidding about that last part.
We stopped at the drinking fountain on the way out and filled our bellies, and a bottle, full of the warm salty spring water. It was like drinking the milk of the earth!
When I told my mom that we had gone to Hungary, she recalled her own jaunts there, some fondly and some less so. She was there in 1968, the year of the Russian invasion. My mom was 9 years old when the Russians invaded. On the way back from a Mediterranean vacation, the family spent the night in a Hungarian bed and breakfast, near the border with Slovakia. On the morning of the invasion, at a memorable breakfast of bread and apricot jam, she watched the tanks roll in to Bratislava on television. The images were surreal, she said. She felt surprised, more than anything else.
Just after breakfast, her father decided they had to leave for the border. They arrived to discover that it was impassable and all the cars were being sent back.
She writes:
"My father stopped right at the border crossing, got out of his car and walked towards the Russian soldiers at the checkpoint. Being half Russian, he spoke their language fluently and proceeded to yell them angrily. I became really scared. The soldiers pointed their machine guns at my father's chest at which point he realized it was better to shut up. I honestly thought one of them would pull the trigger at any moment. Then my mother got out of the car, crying, and begged the soldiers (in Slovak) to spare my father's life. She pulled at their sleeves to divert their focus from the guns pointed at my father's chest to her anguished, pleading face."
The soldiers lowered their weapons and everyone got back in to the car, where they sat in silence and shock.
They returned to the Hungarian village and spent the next few days watching the news. Her father left one day, much to her alarm. She had no idea that he'd gone to find a border crossing that would let them get through the border and home. He returned a few days later and took them to a rural checkpoint where they crossed successfully. She writes:
"The next day we arrived in Bratislava only to find a Russian tank aimed at our apartment building. It was completely unintentional, but scared the hell out of me every time I had to go out. I remember the day shortly after our return when the Czechoslovakian president went on TV and read a prepared statement asking people to restrain from violence. Resistance was futile, he said in a trembling voice. Then, he lifted his face and I could see the streams of tears on his face. It was extremely sad. The people went out into the streets, not to protest but to share their defeat; strangers hugged each other and cried. It seemed to me that the years that followed were just a continuation of that sad day."
More Socialist Gloom
I've a little more to add to my last letter, if you'll indulge me. So yes, they did settle into socialist gloom, but did not go so freely into that twilight. My Grandmother was fired from state television for her participation in the pirate broadcasts, as were a few of her colleagues.
She was going through some old papers yesterday and came across her termination letter. She read it to me, standing by my dad's tank-view window. The letter was to inform her that she was to be terminated immediately for uncritically portraying a political vision not in harmony with the new socialist reality. She had presented and encouraged other generally contemptible thoughts and that were simply not in line with the new mandate of state television and politics, which therefore rendered her an unsuitable member of TV team CSSR (Ceskoslovenska Socialisticka Republicka).
She was going through some old papers yesterday and came across her termination letter. She read it to me, standing by my dad's tank-view window. The letter was to inform her that she was to be terminated immediately for uncritically portraying a political vision not in harmony with the new socialist reality. She had presented and encouraged other generally contemptible thoughts and that were simply not in line with the new mandate of state television and politics, which therefore rendered her an unsuitable member of TV team CSSR (Ceskoslovenska Socialisticka Republicka).
Monday, January 31, 2011
January 31, 2011: From Bratislava, with Laska
I've been in my hometown for about a week, reveling in bright air, poppyseeds and filial love.
My Grandparent's elevator is, and always has been, baby blue on the inside. Just above the panel where you press the buttons, there is a small enameled plate that provides instructions on how to use the elevator. I have read that panel a million times, but only ever gotten to the third or fourth line since the ride is so short.
In my Grandparent's apartment some things change, but some things always stay the same. For instance, they have two small dishes on the sideboard in the living room. They are both porcelain. One blue and gold, and the other white and oval, with a little landscape painted on the lid. Every time I come to visit, I lift up the lids of both dishes and invariably find chocolate covered almonds in one and jelly candies in the shape of various fruits in the other.
The room I usually sleep in has a window that faces the street. In 1968, when the Russians invaded Czechoslovakia, my father sat in that very window and watched the tanks roll down the street. He says that people ran out into the street and took down all the street signs, so the soldiers wouldn't know where they were.
Last night my Grandmother and I went to a play, which was already well underway by the time we got there. We sat in the cafe and talked a little about the invasion. She had been a reporter before the invasion, and when the Russians occupied, they shut down the TV station. She, and several like-minded people felt it was important to keep the population informed. The writers would gather, sometimes at my Grandparent's apartment, where they kept right on writing the news. An actor friend kept watch for the police in the courtyard, and my great-grandmother stood by the window watching for his signal. The technicians would set up their equipment wherever they could; they broadcast the reports from garages, apartments and the fire station (apparently the firefighters were sympathetic).
Eventually, they stopped broadcasting and, I presume, settled into a sort of socialist gloom.
My heroes.
My Grandparent's elevator is, and always has been, baby blue on the inside. Just above the panel where you press the buttons, there is a small enameled plate that provides instructions on how to use the elevator. I have read that panel a million times, but only ever gotten to the third or fourth line since the ride is so short.
In my Grandparent's apartment some things change, but some things always stay the same. For instance, they have two small dishes on the sideboard in the living room. They are both porcelain. One blue and gold, and the other white and oval, with a little landscape painted on the lid. Every time I come to visit, I lift up the lids of both dishes and invariably find chocolate covered almonds in one and jelly candies in the shape of various fruits in the other.
The room I usually sleep in has a window that faces the street. In 1968, when the Russians invaded Czechoslovakia, my father sat in that very window and watched the tanks roll down the street. He says that people ran out into the street and took down all the street signs, so the soldiers wouldn't know where they were.
Last night my Grandmother and I went to a play, which was already well underway by the time we got there. We sat in the cafe and talked a little about the invasion. She had been a reporter before the invasion, and when the Russians occupied, they shut down the TV station. She, and several like-minded people felt it was important to keep the population informed. The writers would gather, sometimes at my Grandparent's apartment, where they kept right on writing the news. An actor friend kept watch for the police in the courtyard, and my great-grandmother stood by the window watching for his signal. The technicians would set up their equipment wherever they could; they broadcast the reports from garages, apartments and the fire station (apparently the firefighters were sympathetic).
Eventually, they stopped broadcasting and, I presume, settled into a sort of socialist gloom.
My heroes.
Sunday, January 30, 2011
Stories from Ambrose
While driving to Ho, on our way to Kpalime, Ambrose and I sat beside each other. He told me children's stories. I promised you some time ago that I'd share them with you. Here are two, retold by yours truly.
Grandmother's Garden
Grandmother had many treasures buried in her garden. She was old and weak and believed herself to be on death's door, so she called her grandson to her bedside. Grandson, she said, go to the garden and gather some yams. Cook them for me before I die and I will tell you where all my treasures are hidden. But, grandson, when you go to the garden, don't harvest the yams that call out to you. Harvest the yams that are harder to get, but which are ripe and good. Cook them for me and I will tell you where to find my treasures.
The boy went out into the garden and heard some yams calling to him, pick me, pick me, they said. Against his grandmothers advice, he picked the yams that called to him; it was so easy to harvest them. He put them in the pot and boiled them and boiled them. His grandmother called to him from her sickbed, are the yams finished? I am so hungry! But alas, the yams would not cook.
The boy went out into the garden again and picked different yams and set them in the pot over the fire to boil. When they had finally finished cooking, he went to tell his grandmother they were ready. He rushed to her bedside, but found his grandmother departed, having taken the secret of her treasure to her grave.
Frog girl
There once was a family living in a small village. Their youngest was a girl, bright and curious. The family was very poor and struggled to feed all of their children. One day, a woman came to the village looking for a maidservant to help her with chores. The family was pleased to offer her their daughter, who they assured her was a hard worker.
The woman bought the young girl for a small sum, and took her home to her own village. In fact, the woman had no need for a maidservant, her greedy heart craved only money. Instead of taking the girl home, she took her to a priest who transformed her into a frog, a frog that vomited money. The woman kept the girl in a small room, and she lived there in her transformed state, throwing up cash, which the woman grew rich on. The woman grew richer and richer.
After some time, the woman's neighbors began to grow suspicious of her wealth. One day, they came to her house and broke down the door of the room where the frog girl was kept. They were horrified to discover the frog girl and immediately killed the woman who had been keeping her.
They cursed her wicked ways and set the frog girl free. The good people took the frog girl back to the priest, who transformed her from a frog back into a girl.
Grandmother's Garden
Grandmother had many treasures buried in her garden. She was old and weak and believed herself to be on death's door, so she called her grandson to her bedside. Grandson, she said, go to the garden and gather some yams. Cook them for me before I die and I will tell you where all my treasures are hidden. But, grandson, when you go to the garden, don't harvest the yams that call out to you. Harvest the yams that are harder to get, but which are ripe and good. Cook them for me and I will tell you where to find my treasures.
The boy went out into the garden and heard some yams calling to him, pick me, pick me, they said. Against his grandmothers advice, he picked the yams that called to him; it was so easy to harvest them. He put them in the pot and boiled them and boiled them. His grandmother called to him from her sickbed, are the yams finished? I am so hungry! But alas, the yams would not cook.
The boy went out into the garden again and picked different yams and set them in the pot over the fire to boil. When they had finally finished cooking, he went to tell his grandmother they were ready. He rushed to her bedside, but found his grandmother departed, having taken the secret of her treasure to her grave.
Frog girl
There once was a family living in a small village. Their youngest was a girl, bright and curious. The family was very poor and struggled to feed all of their children. One day, a woman came to the village looking for a maidservant to help her with chores. The family was pleased to offer her their daughter, who they assured her was a hard worker.
The woman bought the young girl for a small sum, and took her home to her own village. In fact, the woman had no need for a maidservant, her greedy heart craved only money. Instead of taking the girl home, she took her to a priest who transformed her into a frog, a frog that vomited money. The woman kept the girl in a small room, and she lived there in her transformed state, throwing up cash, which the woman grew rich on. The woman grew richer and richer.
After some time, the woman's neighbors began to grow suspicious of her wealth. One day, they came to her house and broke down the door of the room where the frog girl was kept. They were horrified to discover the frog girl and immediately killed the woman who had been keeping her.
They cursed her wicked ways and set the frog girl free. The good people took the frog girl back to the priest, who transformed her from a frog back into a girl.
Saturday, January 29, 2011
January 26, 2011
Bela Mohammed drove us to Accra. Bela is a large man, both in physique and heart. His sleek black Volkswagen was far more appealing than an STC bus playing terrible African movies. We drove along the coast toward Accra, Bela talking all the while, waving at friends and checkpoint guards. We talked about many things, education, healthcare, the oil industry and the prospects for a bright African future. Incidentally, he was unconvinced of the latter. After a lapse in our conversation, I asked him if prostitution was a big issue in Ghana. After a bit of a pause, he said, "Well, some of those girls are good". I took this to mean that they were good hearted lasses lead astray. He continued, "Good in bed, you know. Good at what they do". I nodded and said "Hm".
Bela drove us to a hotel we'd stayed at last time we came through Accra so we could pick up David's paddles (did I tell you he bought the same kind of paddle we used to paddle the boat on the Black Volta?). They look like spades or hearts with really long shafts.
At the airport, David wrapped the paddles in a scavenged piece of cardboard (formerly a BonAqua box) much to the amusement of others in the terminal building. You know how loud packing tape can be. Though I thought the packing job was splendid, the ground staff made David get the paddles wrapped in that luggage saran wrap anyway.
At the airport, David wrapped the paddles in a scavenged piece of cardboard (formerly a BonAqua box) much to the amusement of others in the terminal building. You know how loud packing tape can be. Though I thought the packing job was splendid, the ground staff made David get the paddles wrapped in that luggage saran wrap anyway.
We flew over the Sahara at night and I imagined the tiny lights as great cities in the sand.
Goodbye Africa!
Landed in Brussels in the dark. The sun rose as I flew toward Vienna.
My kind cousin Janko and my kind uncle came to get me at the airport.
Landed in Brussels in the dark. The sun rose as I flew toward Vienna.
My kind cousin Janko and my kind uncle came to get me at the airport.
So, I've driven along the road to Bratislava countless times, but this time I saw things I'd never seen before. You know, I've never been to my homeland in the winter months. The leaves obscure a lovely landscape. In their absence, I saw snow capped mountains and castles on hills and astronomical observatories. Everything was blue, white and grey, quite the opposite of an African spectrum.
I arrived at my grandparent's house and fell straight into the warm embraces and soft comforts of home. I luxuriated in feeling cold and stared at the bright white snow in the courtyard until my eyes watered.
So, there end my African adventures. I'm more than certain the sultry sun and the hot hearts of Africa will not fade quite as fast from my mind as they will from my complexion. There is still so much I haven't told you! There are still pictures I promised to show you!
Thursday, January 27, 2011
January 25, 2011
A Cape coast morning and the first day of sunshine blue sky we've had since our arrival.
The Cape Coast slave castle is right by the ocean, built on an outcropping of red rock with a long beach on either side. It's a white washed castle with blue shutters, the main tower is a crenellated octagon. I just learned the word crenellated.
The Cape Coast slave castle is right by the ocean, built on an outcropping of red rock with a long beach on either side. It's a white washed castle with blue shutters, the main tower is a crenellated octagon. I just learned the word crenellated.
The tour started in the male slave dungeon. After descending a steep, dark passage, the dungeon opened up into five small rooms that held 200 people each, for three months. The arched ceilings were rough brick but the floors were worn smooth. The room farthest from the entrance had three small holes on one end for ventilation and through which rain water was allowed to run. The rainwater trickled down into a small, shallow channel that served as a the sewer. At the opposite end of the room there was a larger hole through which the guards kept watch. The guards threw food and water to the prisoners from this hole too. It was unspeakably cruel.
We toured the rest of the castle and its many rooms. There was a women's cell where the women who had resisted rape were imprisoned. There was a square of the floor that had been left unexcavated when the castle was restored. It was about 3 inches thick; hard packed dirt and food and blood and flesh and waste.
Quite a moving experience.
Later, in the museum, we learned about Henry "Box" Brown, a slave who mailed himself to freedom.
Oh yeah, and, in one of the dungeons there was a shrine. It had been there before the fort was built and had been forced to move. After the fort was restored, the shrine was rebuilt. As we stood outside later, blinking in the blinding sun, a priest and two attendants came to take care of the shrine. They beat a small drum as they walked. The priest was elaborately dressed in a white robe, with small white dots painted on his face and white and blue paint on this arms. The attendants were also robed in white. One had a tattoo of a smoking skull wearing an Uncle Sam hat, underneath which was tattooed the word "Dollars". Hm.
Currently, David and I are sitting on the beach, the sun is slowly setting in the west and shining off the surf just so. It's quite anachronistic that such unspeakable things happened in a place so beautiful.
Last night in Africa.
Currently, David and I are sitting on the beach, the sun is slowly setting in the west and shining off the surf just so. It's quite anachronistic that such unspeakable things happened in a place so beautiful.
Last night in Africa.
January 24, 2011
We left Abidjan this morning. David and I are going to visit the old slave forts in Cape Coast before returning to Accra, to catch a flight off the continent.
We were driven to the Ivory Coast/Ghanian border by chatty Conan, who drives for AP journalists and tourists, too. Conan dropped us off at the depot on the Ghana side, a covered area with some food stalls and rows of wooden benches. We got to know it pretty well. We waited literally forever for a bus.
We were driven to the Ivory Coast/Ghanian border by chatty Conan, who drives for AP journalists and tourists, too. Conan dropped us off at the depot on the Ghana side, a covered area with some food stalls and rows of wooden benches. We got to know it pretty well. We waited literally forever for a bus.
While we were waiting, two men got into a fist fight in the dusty square in front. Several times, we almost lost heart, but my personal saving grace was a puppy named Mimi, owned by a young man named Christ Emmanuel. Christ had just bought the little ragamuffin in Abidjan and was taking him home to Accra.
I also ate some boiled peanuts.
We finally got on the bus, which was, thankfully, air-conditioned. The driver screened several entertainments, including music videos and the zaniest Nigerian movie. I was never really sure about the plot, but it did involve a small man or boy who spoke in various accents, and a shunned woman in love with a man named Moses. The dialogue was in a mish mash of English and some African tongues I couldn't identify.
The ride was otherwise quite uneventful. The usual scenery, including a few coffin makers by the side of the road, their coffins lined up in a neat row outside the shop. Did I tell you you can buy bottles of liquor at the gas stations?
At the Cape Coast end, we got a ride with Belo Mohammed to the Mighty Victory hotel, and though David asked we never did find out quite what the Mighty Victory was. Had Red Red (black eyed peas in tomato sauce and fried plantain) and chicken Palaver for dinner and slipped into sheets embossed with the logo of the hotel, a mighty blue circle with the letters M and V inside.
We finally got on the bus, which was, thankfully, air-conditioned. The driver screened several entertainments, including music videos and the zaniest Nigerian movie. I was never really sure about the plot, but it did involve a small man or boy who spoke in various accents, and a shunned woman in love with a man named Moses. The dialogue was in a mish mash of English and some African tongues I couldn't identify.
The ride was otherwise quite uneventful. The usual scenery, including a few coffin makers by the side of the road, their coffins lined up in a neat row outside the shop. Did I tell you you can buy bottles of liquor at the gas stations?
At the Cape Coast end, we got a ride with Belo Mohammed to the Mighty Victory hotel, and though David asked we never did find out quite what the Mighty Victory was. Had Red Red (black eyed peas in tomato sauce and fried plantain) and chicken Palaver for dinner and slipped into sheets embossed with the logo of the hotel, a mighty blue circle with the letters M and V inside.
January 23, 2011
I have almost no pictures of Abidjan to show you, and I'm sorry. Not that there wasn't a lot to photograph. Too much, really.
This morning, I had my hair styled by Fernandez, a lady hairdresser who sometimes stays at Jen and Marco's. She also taught me to tie Pagne around my waist, the way that many women wear it here. Wrap, tuck, fold.
For breakfast Marco made pancakes, which we ate with maple syrup made by Jen's uncle.
Later in the day, we took a drive to feed the chimps in Grande Larou. There was a grand rain storm as we were getting out of town, rare for the dry season.
To feed the chimps, we took a canoe over to a small island where they all live. The four of them saw us coming a mile away and eagerly met us and our bananas. They were amazing beings. I guess I need not say that they were so so human. Well, did anyway.
I tried some palm wine, which Marco said was just what the child soldiers who manned the barricades into Blokosso drank and got drunk on.
We passed massive plantations of palm and rubber.
Oh, I forgot to tell you, on the way to the park we got stopped by a police man who was pleased to tell us our visas were only valid for 7 days and had expired. Marco pointed out that he was looking at our Togolese visas. He was deflated, and let us pass.
We drove back in the dark, getting some air on a few bumps. Trucks signaled not to change lanes, but to let oncoming drivers know how closely they could pass on the side.
This morning, I had my hair styled by Fernandez, a lady hairdresser who sometimes stays at Jen and Marco's. She also taught me to tie Pagne around my waist, the way that many women wear it here. Wrap, tuck, fold.
For breakfast Marco made pancakes, which we ate with maple syrup made by Jen's uncle.
Later in the day, we took a drive to feed the chimps in Grande Larou. There was a grand rain storm as we were getting out of town, rare for the dry season.
To feed the chimps, we took a canoe over to a small island where they all live. The four of them saw us coming a mile away and eagerly met us and our bananas. They were amazing beings. I guess I need not say that they were so so human. Well, did anyway.
I tried some palm wine, which Marco said was just what the child soldiers who manned the barricades into Blokosso drank and got drunk on.
We passed massive plantations of palm and rubber.
Oh, I forgot to tell you, on the way to the park we got stopped by a police man who was pleased to tell us our visas were only valid for 7 days and had expired. Marco pointed out that he was looking at our Togolese visas. He was deflated, and let us pass.
We drove back in the dark, getting some air on a few bumps. Trucks signaled not to change lanes, but to let oncoming drivers know how closely they could pass on the side.
January 22, 2011
Ca va? Ca va.
That's the standard greeting in French speaking West Africa. I appreciate its sincerity and simplicity. I appreciate the way the question is delivered with a hint of fatigue and replied to with a touch of relief.
Ca va. Today we went to Adjame market, a bustling, chaotic place where vendors and shoppers jam the boulevard, competing with trucks and carts for road space. Everything is sold in Adjame; housewares, fabric, jaguar teeth, colanders, lacy underpants and even the elusive tiger nut (like a mix between a peanut and a fig). We climbed up to open sided building and watched the colorful parade of humanity below.
After the market, we set off for Youpugon, another Abidjan neighborhood. Nico and Marco wanted to visit a football academy there, to do some interviews and take some photos for their project. Jen assisted in rounding up students and getting them ready for photos, and Nico got some great shots of kids.
We came home to Blokosso. Back at the apartment, we met a man crouching in the lobby, burning the hair off a fresh white rabbit. By the time we came down for dinner, he had begun roasting it over a small fire.
That night we ate at Alocodrome, a thrumming outdoor food market place. Ben, Reine (Marco and Jen's old sort-of-housemates)and their daughter Grace joined us for dinner. We sat across the street from the courtyard complex at a set of tables and chairs amidst a hundred other tables and chairs and kids selling kleenex and screwdriver sets. Several women approached our table and encouraged us to visit their personal stalls inside the Alocodrome. Eventually, we made our way into the complex to order.
The place was booming. The concrete food stalls, or blocks, all had grills manned by glossy lassies. There were dozens! They were grilling up all manner of things and shouting out their grilled offerings. We chose a fine fat fish and a few chickens over the roar of the Coupé Décalé music, an Ivorian style of dance hall.
Shortly thereafter, we retreated to our slightly less hectic seats and toasted to the sweet Abidjan night. Amazing!
Thursday, January 20, 2011
January 20, 2011
Our first day in Abidjan I woke up to the sound of people singing. Six AM choir practice at the school across the street. The song came in clear as a bell through the open balcony doors.
Later there was band practice, with trumpets and drums.
Now, just after sunset, they are
singing hallelujah.
Today we took the boat across the lagoon the Plateau. As we were waiting in line to get on the ferry I stood next to a man reading the newspaper. On the front page, under the fold, was a picture of Ouattara (the other president) and it had a large ballpoint pen x across it. As I stood there, he pulled out his pen and traced over the x a few more times. Eeep.
We walked around the city today, doing touristy things. Since we are the only tourists, we did not have to contend with crowds, gaudy souvenirs or disgruntled washroom attendants. We browsed the shops for Pagne, a wax block fabric made locally, and made a pilgrimage to the Cathedral of St. Paul.
The cathedral was built in the 1980's by an Italian architect. It's a very interesting building that one of the attendants told us was inspired by the majestic elephant. There were amazing modern stained glass panels depicting the history of CI, filled with animals and missionaries.
On the way to the cathedral, as we were walking up the hill, we passed a tree that was alive with what I thought were birds. There was a strange smell in the air and the sounds they were making were like no bird I'd heard before. Suddenly, a group of them took to the air, translucent wings spread. They were bats! Hundreds and hundreds of bats!
Later, Marco and Jen's roommate Ba told me that Plateau was a refuge for the bats. Until recently, people used to hunt them. Apparently, they are quite tasty.
Opted for Lebanese food for dinner instead.
Later there was band practice, with trumpets and drums.
Now, just after sunset, they are
singing hallelujah.
Today we took the boat across the lagoon the Plateau. As we were waiting in line to get on the ferry I stood next to a man reading the newspaper. On the front page, under the fold, was a picture of Ouattara (the other president) and it had a large ballpoint pen x across it. As I stood there, he pulled out his pen and traced over the x a few more times. Eeep.
We walked around the city today, doing touristy things. Since we are the only tourists, we did not have to contend with crowds, gaudy souvenirs or disgruntled washroom attendants. We browsed the shops for Pagne, a wax block fabric made locally, and made a pilgrimage to the Cathedral of St. Paul.
The cathedral was built in the 1980's by an Italian architect. It's a very interesting building that one of the attendants told us was inspired by the majestic elephant. There were amazing modern stained glass panels depicting the history of CI, filled with animals and missionaries.
On the way to the cathedral, as we were walking up the hill, we passed a tree that was alive with what I thought were birds. There was a strange smell in the air and the sounds they were making were like no bird I'd heard before. Suddenly, a group of them took to the air, translucent wings spread. They were bats! Hundreds and hundreds of bats!
Later, Marco and Jen's roommate Ba told me that Plateau was a refuge for the bats. Until recently, people used to hunt them. Apparently, they are quite tasty.
Opted for Lebanese food for dinner instead.
Wednesday, January 19, 2011
January 19, 2011
We knew that getting into Ivory Coast could prove to be something of an ordeal, so we fortified ourselves with pancakes. We took a cab to Takoradi to catch a tro-tro to Abidjan. We were dropped off in the market place and there, we found our ride in a little courtyard and negotiated our seats for a direct connection to Abidjan that would include a 'police escort' across the border. The big bellied driver packed us, the other passengers, and all of their luggage into the van. We were almost ready to begin, but had to stop off and install more seats for the additional passengers we were going to take. We (and by we I mean the driver and his assistants) drove a bit, unpacked a million bags, some construction material, bags of bread and so forth, installed two more rows of seats in the back, built a sort of platform to handle the rest of the baggage, packed it in, tied it down, and had us all embark. Although we had paid for more seats than we were actaully taking up, the driver had, of course, sold our seats and more, so that we were all preposterously and monstrously mashed together. David, Jen, Nico and I shared the third row, Jen's poor surf bruised knees mashed up against the seat in front, Nico on a tiny slanted seat with a woman basically sitting on his lap, David by the window, uncomplaining and calm as chamomile reading what I imagine must be the most engrossing and transporting mystery novel ever. Marco negotiated his way out of the terrible rumble seat, but ended up next to a glossy. chubby lady with a baby boy on her lap and sharp resentful elbows. Suffice to say it was ridiculous.
We drove along the coast for a while and then turned north to Elubo, where the border crossing was. We exited Ghana without incident, unless you count the border official who thought it would be a good idea to come and visit my snowy homeland and could he have my contact information, please?
When we reached the Ivorian border, our vehicle was approached by a large man in denim, wearing a baby blue baseball cap that said 'Dragons' in cursive script. Mr. Denim Dragon took our passports and had us follow him into a building. We walked down poorly lit hallways and into his blessedly air-conditioned office. There, he invited us to sit down, asked us (and by 'us', I mean mostly Marco) questions, questioned the validity of our visas (since the issuing offices are now all closed). Eventually, he slipped into a diatribe about the goodness and rightness of Gbagbo (one of the two presidents), and we all nodded and smiled and soon he was shaking our hands and delivering us to other border personnel who stamped our passports and sent us on our way.
Funny thing: Above his window, right under the air-conditioner, the man had several framed portraits. One in particular was very interesting. It was a portrait of a woman in traditional dress in front of a fountain. The funny thing about the picture was that while the background was sharp and crisp, her face and figure were totally out of focus.
We walked across the border and met the van in front of the Port Authority building, where the driver was arranging our 'escort'. He arranged for a piece of paper that read 'Humanitarian Convoy' that he put on the windshield and a man to follow us in an official looking truck to the first border checkpoint.
We got pulled over at that checkpoint, just a few hundred meters from the border. The young, uniformed, armed Gendarmerie officer immediately saw the bullshit and was not at all chuffed. After a roll call and a little intimidation, the driver got out and slipped him a little something which made him immediately more affable. All smiles, he waved us through.
Our little humanitarian convoy made a lot of people smile that day. Sometimes it took a few words, or some veiled threats to get to the heart of the matter and sometimes it was a simple matter of a handshake from the passengers side window. Some members of the convoy contributed grudgingly to the bribe fund with small bills and in this way, we made our way ever so slowly toward Abidjan.
For the first time in West Africa, we saw large scale agriculture. Sprawling palm oil plantations and endless banana fields with long blue bags over the banana hands lined the side of the road.
The van lurched and trembled and strained up steep hills. I shifted ever so slightly in my cramped seat and practiced transcending my physical reality. Then, suddenly, the neon sunrise of Abidjan appeared on the horizon.
Abidjan: Something familiar about it. She has all the sights, sounds and smells of an West African capital city, but with a certain 'je ne sais quoi'.
We arrived in Treichville and caught a cab to Marco and Jen's neighborhood of Blokosso. We detoured a bit to avoid a known roadblock and passed one of the city squares closed by Gbagbo to prevent demonstrations. Marco's plan was to enter the neighborhood though the 'back door' thereby avoiding a roadblock manned by youth, whose enthusiasm was enhanced by drink after dark.
If all went according to plan, we would be waved through the roadblocks and be home safe and sound within the hour. We approached the first roadblock and were directed to pull over by men in fatigues. They approached the car and started talking with Marco, asking him questions about who he was, where he lived, what was this luggage, etc. We were asked to produce passports. Marco spoke for all of us, and explained that we were tourists returning from a trip, just trying to make our way home. The officer asked him to open the trunk and Marco opened one of his bags and showed the officer some wooden sculpture he'd bought in Lome. The officer was not buying it. He made Marco take out all of our baggage and lay it out along the roadside. He was especially interested in Nico's large black duffle bag, which Marco opened and showed that lo, here were some innocent toiletries, and here were some underpants. Eventually, they found the hard plastic box where Nico's camera was, and after explaining that Nico was an amateur with a penchant for hi-tech equipment, the man allowed Marco to load all our stuff back into the car.
Though I didn't feel that we were ever in any real danger, I felt somewhat disembodied during the experience. I sat in the back of the car, on the drivers side, looking straight down the empty road ahead or to the side at the armed men lounging in plastic chairs under a blue tent. I could hear Marco explaining and turned back only once to see him with hands out, palms up, pointing at the luggage and the guard's face illuminated by the red tail lights, suspicious.
They finally let us through, and we made our way towards home, though getting there was not quite straightforward. But I'll tell you the rest tomorrow.
We drove along the coast for a while and then turned north to Elubo, where the border crossing was. We exited Ghana without incident, unless you count the border official who thought it would be a good idea to come and visit my snowy homeland and could he have my contact information, please?
When we reached the Ivorian border, our vehicle was approached by a large man in denim, wearing a baby blue baseball cap that said 'Dragons' in cursive script. Mr. Denim Dragon took our passports and had us follow him into a building. We walked down poorly lit hallways and into his blessedly air-conditioned office. There, he invited us to sit down, asked us (and by 'us', I mean mostly Marco) questions, questioned the validity of our visas (since the issuing offices are now all closed). Eventually, he slipped into a diatribe about the goodness and rightness of Gbagbo (one of the two presidents), and we all nodded and smiled and soon he was shaking our hands and delivering us to other border personnel who stamped our passports and sent us on our way.
Funny thing: Above his window, right under the air-conditioner, the man had several framed portraits. One in particular was very interesting. It was a portrait of a woman in traditional dress in front of a fountain. The funny thing about the picture was that while the background was sharp and crisp, her face and figure were totally out of focus.
We walked across the border and met the van in front of the Port Authority building, where the driver was arranging our 'escort'. He arranged for a piece of paper that read 'Humanitarian Convoy' that he put on the windshield and a man to follow us in an official looking truck to the first border checkpoint.
We got pulled over at that checkpoint, just a few hundred meters from the border. The young, uniformed, armed Gendarmerie officer immediately saw the bullshit and was not at all chuffed. After a roll call and a little intimidation, the driver got out and slipped him a little something which made him immediately more affable. All smiles, he waved us through.
Our little humanitarian convoy made a lot of people smile that day. Sometimes it took a few words, or some veiled threats to get to the heart of the matter and sometimes it was a simple matter of a handshake from the passengers side window. Some members of the convoy contributed grudgingly to the bribe fund with small bills and in this way, we made our way ever so slowly toward Abidjan.
For the first time in West Africa, we saw large scale agriculture. Sprawling palm oil plantations and endless banana fields with long blue bags over the banana hands lined the side of the road.
The van lurched and trembled and strained up steep hills. I shifted ever so slightly in my cramped seat and practiced transcending my physical reality. Then, suddenly, the neon sunrise of Abidjan appeared on the horizon.
Abidjan: Something familiar about it. She has all the sights, sounds and smells of an West African capital city, but with a certain 'je ne sais quoi'.
We arrived in Treichville and caught a cab to Marco and Jen's neighborhood of Blokosso. We detoured a bit to avoid a known roadblock and passed one of the city squares closed by Gbagbo to prevent demonstrations. Marco's plan was to enter the neighborhood though the 'back door' thereby avoiding a roadblock manned by youth, whose enthusiasm was enhanced by drink after dark.
If all went according to plan, we would be waved through the roadblocks and be home safe and sound within the hour. We approached the first roadblock and were directed to pull over by men in fatigues. They approached the car and started talking with Marco, asking him questions about who he was, where he lived, what was this luggage, etc. We were asked to produce passports. Marco spoke for all of us, and explained that we were tourists returning from a trip, just trying to make our way home. The officer asked him to open the trunk and Marco opened one of his bags and showed the officer some wooden sculpture he'd bought in Lome. The officer was not buying it. He made Marco take out all of our baggage and lay it out along the roadside. He was especially interested in Nico's large black duffle bag, which Marco opened and showed that lo, here were some innocent toiletries, and here were some underpants. Eventually, they found the hard plastic box where Nico's camera was, and after explaining that Nico was an amateur with a penchant for hi-tech equipment, the man allowed Marco to load all our stuff back into the car.
Though I didn't feel that we were ever in any real danger, I felt somewhat disembodied during the experience. I sat in the back of the car, on the drivers side, looking straight down the empty road ahead or to the side at the armed men lounging in plastic chairs under a blue tent. I could hear Marco explaining and turned back only once to see him with hands out, palms up, pointing at the luggage and the guard's face illuminated by the red tail lights, suspicious.
They finally let us through, and we made our way towards home, though getting there was not quite straightforward. But I'll tell you the rest tomorrow.
January 17, 2011
Spent the morning on the beach. Scratch that, spent the whole live long day on the beach. David, Jen and I took a surfing lesson in the morning. We learned how to stand on the board and how to get up on top of it. These things are all easier said than done, you realize, and once we were in the water getting up on the board became rather challenging. The waves here are remarkable, there are some friendly waves suitable for beginners and then there are some big ones farther out that only the very skilled ride.
Waves: I remember being a little kid and being fascinated with the waves, standing on the beach in North Carolina pretending that I was conducting the tide, raising my arms and then lowering them when the waves came crashing down.
Anyway, we spent an hour or so on our boards, and I think we got the hang of it. There were certainly some memorable tumbles and I was hit repeatedly with my own board as I tried in vain to clamber up on top of it in the middle of a wave. I caught some really big ones. Being propelled forward atop one of those was exhilarating to the point of paralysis, in the sense that it seeemed totally absurd to try and actually get up on the board in the middle of all that. Still, very very fun.
Marco and Nico arrived just after noon and we all had lunch on the beach. Then, an intense beach day commenced in which we surfed, sat and watched the waves, built a sandcastle and generally took in the Busua scene.
Made a decision about our next destination today. Jen and Marco have to get back to Cote d'Ivoire as soon as possible, they have to get back to work and life. In light of that, we've decided to make the journey to Abidjan tomorrow. Things seem calm enough for us to go and according to Jen and Marco's contacts, things are going to remain 'ca va' for the next little while at least.
Waves: I remember being a little kid and being fascinated with the waves, standing on the beach in North Carolina pretending that I was conducting the tide, raising my arms and then lowering them when the waves came crashing down.
Anyway, we spent an hour or so on our boards, and I think we got the hang of it. There were certainly some memorable tumbles and I was hit repeatedly with my own board as I tried in vain to clamber up on top of it in the middle of a wave. I caught some really big ones. Being propelled forward atop one of those was exhilarating to the point of paralysis, in the sense that it seeemed totally absurd to try and actually get up on the board in the middle of all that. Still, very very fun.
Marco and Nico arrived just after noon and we all had lunch on the beach. Then, an intense beach day commenced in which we surfed, sat and watched the waves, built a sandcastle and generally took in the Busua scene.
Made a decision about our next destination today. Jen and Marco have to get back to Cote d'Ivoire as soon as possible, they have to get back to work and life. In light of that, we've decided to make the journey to Abidjan tomorrow. Things seem calm enough for us to go and according to Jen and Marco's contacts, things are going to remain 'ca va' for the next little while at least.
January 16, 2011
Last night I lay in bed and heard the roar of the waves. They crashed one after another onto the sandy beach and slowly retreated again and again, as I lay listening. When I first awoke I thought the constant noise was the air conditioning, but then I realized that we didn't have any and I certainly was not cold. I got up and turned the switch on the fan to "low" and it sparked in the dark. Then I realized it was the mighty Atlantic making that noise. Morning brought coffee and some sweet goodbyes for the boys who continued on to Accra to take photos of footballers and return the car and Richard to his home. It's now coming on sunset and Jen, David and I are sitting by the beach. They're reading as I write, David is engrossed in "Murder on Safari" while Jen reads Freedom by Franzen and occasionally quotes highlights. The scene is bucolic, I wish you were here. Just now, three eagles are swooping above the waves and earlier, a set of puppies cute as buttons were tumbling head over tail in their glorious beach game. We have a resident monkey. He's a little fellow with a long tail, a tawny coat and a petite black face with a patch of fur in the shape of a heart. He's a rascal. I say so because although he was quite shy to begin with (just sucking on bougainvillea flowers), he quickly became emboldened when he detected the biscuits in our room. David and I were inside and I had my back to the door when he noticed a tiny hand quickly followed by a little head peeking in at the bottom of the door. "Look out, the monkey is about to get in!", David exclaimed, at which point I had one of those fits of laughter that make one feel euphoric and absurd. We did some internetting and walked around town in search of shampoo, which we ended up finding at a tiny beauty salon. We frolicked in the waves and jumped and floated in the warm and swelling ocean for a while, trying to keep out of the way of the surfers.
Right now, we're hanging out at the corner of soda pop and beer. Sometimes, after a particularly refreshing first sip of something, David opens his mouth and squints his eyes and makes this sound "ahhh", which is the sound of rightness and refreshment. I have found myself making this sound also, especially after a cola. I feel my relationship to cola has been recontextualized in Africa. Did I tell you that Souleyman showed us the kola tree on one of our walks in Kpalime? They nuts grow inside pods about the size of your hand and they are bitter when bitten, but leave a sweet and pleasant aftertaste. I ate one standing on a jungle path and after chewing and swallowing felt ready to climb like I never have before. Stimulating! Souleyman was saying they are an important part of culture as well, when a man asks for a lady's hand in marriage, he presents her father with 200 kola nuts in a bowl covered by banknotes. Anyway, I don't think I can I have aver been so consistently refreshed by a product of multinational corporate manufacturing as I have been by dear sweet coca cola. Just sayin'.
Right now, we're hanging out at the corner of soda pop and beer. Sometimes, after a particularly refreshing first sip of something, David opens his mouth and squints his eyes and makes this sound "ahhh", which is the sound of rightness and refreshment. I have found myself making this sound also, especially after a cola. I feel my relationship to cola has been recontextualized in Africa. Did I tell you that Souleyman showed us the kola tree on one of our walks in Kpalime? They nuts grow inside pods about the size of your hand and they are bitter when bitten, but leave a sweet and pleasant aftertaste. I ate one standing on a jungle path and after chewing and swallowing felt ready to climb like I never have before. Stimulating! Souleyman was saying they are an important part of culture as well, when a man asks for a lady's hand in marriage, he presents her father with 200 kola nuts in a bowl covered by banknotes. Anyway, I don't think I can I have aver been so consistently refreshed by a product of multinational corporate manufacturing as I have been by dear sweet coca cola. Just sayin'.
Sunday, January 16, 2011
January 13, 2011
The rooms in the Mole Motel share something in common with socialist dormitories, austere and functional with traces of previous tenants, like a name engraved in a bed post and a little hole in a curtain. Last night Richard the driver navigated the most treacherous roads to get us here, to Mole national park. The hazards included giant potholes and a truck named "golden boy" that lay angled in the ditch, abandoned and cargo-less. We got up for safari so early and met a big man who told us the history of the park- apparently the area was cursed with sleeping sickness and the tsetse fly was a terror and so they made the whole area a quarantine zone and the animals florished and thrived there and eventually the tsetse was managed.
We walked in the cool morning through brushland savannah and heard the song of many a wild bird. We saw some animals. Warthogs and their babies, kob and bush Bok and hornbills and crocodiles and glorious fast flitting red and green birds that emerged like arrows from tiny holes in a dry mud embankment. Monkeys were curious and Nico tried to entice one with a carrot, but to no avail. The fellow had no idea what he was missing. Saw just the back of a really big elephant as it tramped through the bush. We tried to follow it but even our intrepid guide, Andrew, lost it's trail. It started to get stinking hot so we headed for the pool and listened to the last part of The Short, Happy Life of Francis Macomber read aloud again (started in the car last night, but most of the audience fell asleep before the conclusion). Saw our elephant from the ridge on which the motel was as it emerged from the watering hole all black and glossy and watched it feed from a distance. Took another safari in the afternoon and though the tree trunks were plentiful the other kind of trunk eluded us yet again. The sun set in classic African fashion, as a huge yellow disk in the west. We sat by the pool, drinking until bed beckoned.
We walked in the cool morning through brushland savannah and heard the song of many a wild bird. We saw some animals. Warthogs and their babies, kob and bush Bok and hornbills and crocodiles and glorious fast flitting red and green birds that emerged like arrows from tiny holes in a dry mud embankment. Monkeys were curious and Nico tried to entice one with a carrot, but to no avail. The fellow had no idea what he was missing. Saw just the back of a really big elephant as it tramped through the bush. We tried to follow it but even our intrepid guide, Andrew, lost it's trail. It started to get stinking hot so we headed for the pool and listened to the last part of The Short, Happy Life of Francis Macomber read aloud again (started in the car last night, but most of the audience fell asleep before the conclusion). Saw our elephant from the ridge on which the motel was as it emerged from the watering hole all black and glossy and watched it feed from a distance. Took another safari in the afternoon and though the tree trunks were plentiful the other kind of trunk eluded us yet again. The sun set in classic African fashion, as a huge yellow disk in the west. We sat by the pool, drinking until bed beckoned.
January 15, 2011
Last night under the mosquito net I slept dreamlessly. I woke to the bleating of goats and a sunrise that matched the sunset. Stepped outside the room onto the savannah with mud huts in front of me and two women with huge bundles of sticks on their heads. Used the water we heated on last nights fire for coffee this morning and set off to see the hippos. Drove there in the car and climbed up to the hippo hide on the bank of the black Volta and saw Burkina Faso on the opposite bank. Paddled for a bit and came upon the hippos wallowing in the river with little birds sitting on them and more birds flying by and there was a fish that leaped out of the water and the hippos made grunting noises and flicked their little ears about and poked their little eyes out of the water. The guide and the man who was paddling the boat were nervous about the hippos being too close. The boat had a leak in it and Nico and Marco were bailing and then Marco asked to paddle and the two guides were really nervous. And Josef, one of the guides, asked us repeatedly if we could go now, please. We did go eventually and I recounted to Josef, whom I was sitting behind, some canoe trip adventures. I was surprised to learn that he has just recently learned to swim.
After lunch we agreed that the hippos were fine and well and we had made our intended pilgrimage but now it was time to go, so after a lunch of sorts we got back into that car and valorous Richard started the engine and pointed the car south and off we sped. We drove through fire on the road again, this time so close and hot I was convinced the windshield would shatter. As we lapsed into a sort of travelers stupor the savannah sped by and the mud huts and mobile phone credit vendors and school kids and jollof rice ladies and salt merchants and goats and kids holding bush meat out at arms length at the side of the road became one and the same small town.
We drove.
We drove.
12 hours later we arrived at Busua, my face swollen from deranged car sleep, feeling like I had just emerged from a sticky cocoon. I had woken with a start several times on the road when the pitching of the car (as it traversed potholes) shifted the luggage, which pressed on me insistently. I was also quite convinced that we were going to perish in a horrible midnight carwreck because the road was dark and the headlights of the oncoming cars were awfully close and bright and us speeding toward them compelled me to shut my eyes tight again.
We arrived safely, despite my premonitions.
After lunch we agreed that the hippos were fine and well and we had made our intended pilgrimage but now it was time to go, so after a lunch of sorts we got back into that car and valorous Richard started the engine and pointed the car south and off we sped. We drove through fire on the road again, this time so close and hot I was convinced the windshield would shatter. As we lapsed into a sort of travelers stupor the savannah sped by and the mud huts and mobile phone credit vendors and school kids and jollof rice ladies and salt merchants and goats and kids holding bush meat out at arms length at the side of the road became one and the same small town.
We drove.
We drove.
12 hours later we arrived at Busua, my face swollen from deranged car sleep, feeling like I had just emerged from a sticky cocoon. I had woken with a start several times on the road when the pitching of the car (as it traversed potholes) shifted the luggage, which pressed on me insistently. I was also quite convinced that we were going to perish in a horrible midnight carwreck because the road was dark and the headlights of the oncoming cars were awfully close and bright and us speeding toward them compelled me to shut my eyes tight again.
We arrived safely, despite my premonitions.
January 14, 2011
(Note: See January 13, 2011, for yesterday's letter before you read this one)
We woke for our second safari early this morning and for the first time since I can remember the sun shone bright in the sky and the world did not look as though it were enveloped in a foggy haze. I went down to the pool early enough to get a coffee and watched the mist rise up over the valley. Warthogs wandered around the restaurant grounds and snorted with contentment. I saw Jen walking across the parking lot with some coconut biscuits in hand, when she was accosted by a band of baboon bandits who grabbed the cookies and tried to steal her shoulder bag. She fended them off, escaping with her bag and a few scratches. They kept the cookies.
Safari started with a long drive into the park in search of the elusive elephant. We drove and drove, stopping every once in a while when Andrew the safari man spotted an animal. Today, there were lots of baboons and more Bark Bok. We drove a bit and then walked for a while through the cracked earth savannah near the watering hole where we saw the elephant from the ridge yesterday. Nico and I were a little behind when I saw Marco and Andrew beconing. They'd spotted our elephant! What majesty and grace! What an incredible size and shape for a being! Our elepant had a tear in his ear and a briken tusk and Nico named him Bandit. We crossed the stream to get a little closer and were not more than 15 meters away at one point. He let us know that we had got a little too close by walking a few meters towards us, his loping gait and swinging tail was sufficient to compel us to jump back across the stream to the relative safety of the other side. It's colossal to see such a beast moving toward you and coming to the realization that this being is a real live wild animal. I kept wondering just what the elephant was thinking, and I guess this is a thing I will never know. I do know that I'll never forget him and I am certain he will never forget us since elephants never forget, do they? We walked back up to the lodge and after lunch started our drive to Wa, to the hippo sanctuary. We drove through more fire and listened to the hi life tape Nico had bought at a gas station. Did I tell you we have a driver? His name is Richard and he's a very good driver, though he's always smiling I have a feeling he'd rather be driving than talking, eating or sleeping. In Wa, we went to the market and bought some food for the next few days. We will be cooking for ourselves at the hippo sanctuary. We got to the hippo sanctuary and after a little talk, we went to the camp and made dinner and sat around the table under the stars.
We woke for our second safari early this morning and for the first time since I can remember the sun shone bright in the sky and the world did not look as though it were enveloped in a foggy haze. I went down to the pool early enough to get a coffee and watched the mist rise up over the valley. Warthogs wandered around the restaurant grounds and snorted with contentment. I saw Jen walking across the parking lot with some coconut biscuits in hand, when she was accosted by a band of baboon bandits who grabbed the cookies and tried to steal her shoulder bag. She fended them off, escaping with her bag and a few scratches. They kept the cookies.
Safari started with a long drive into the park in search of the elusive elephant. We drove and drove, stopping every once in a while when Andrew the safari man spotted an animal. Today, there were lots of baboons and more Bark Bok. We drove a bit and then walked for a while through the cracked earth savannah near the watering hole where we saw the elephant from the ridge yesterday. Nico and I were a little behind when I saw Marco and Andrew beconing. They'd spotted our elephant! What majesty and grace! What an incredible size and shape for a being! Our elepant had a tear in his ear and a briken tusk and Nico named him Bandit. We crossed the stream to get a little closer and were not more than 15 meters away at one point. He let us know that we had got a little too close by walking a few meters towards us, his loping gait and swinging tail was sufficient to compel us to jump back across the stream to the relative safety of the other side. It's colossal to see such a beast moving toward you and coming to the realization that this being is a real live wild animal. I kept wondering just what the elephant was thinking, and I guess this is a thing I will never know. I do know that I'll never forget him and I am certain he will never forget us since elephants never forget, do they? We walked back up to the lodge and after lunch started our drive to Wa, to the hippo sanctuary. We drove through more fire and listened to the hi life tape Nico had bought at a gas station. Did I tell you we have a driver? His name is Richard and he's a very good driver, though he's always smiling I have a feeling he'd rather be driving than talking, eating or sleeping. In Wa, we went to the market and bought some food for the next few days. We will be cooking for ourselves at the hippo sanctuary. We got to the hippo sanctuary and after a little talk, we went to the camp and made dinner and sat around the table under the stars.
January 11, 2011
The light through the window this morning was orange and sickly like the lights of a deserted supermarket parking lot at midnight. Something like red sky in the morning (sailor take warning!) but we were not going sailing, thank goodness. After breakfast a rub behind the ears for Cookie, the dalmation who had been keeping us company for the past day, we hopped onto a taxi and made our way once again into the the pit of Lome. Marco described Lome as looking like a city that was in the process of rebuilding after a nuclear holocaust. I would put that as not far off the mark. Nevertheless, I have been consistently amazed at the functional chaos that we've experienced here, in the sense that it seems preposterous that things go and yet they always go and somehow everyone ekes out a living and the laundry gets done.
Squeezing into a taxi and yet again negotiating a price, we fearlessly navigated out way to the fetish market. You could see the horned and antlered heads of animals before you even got through the gates of the compound. Stacked high on tables are the feet of piglets, hedgehog skins, shriveled fetal chameleons, porcipine quills, the skulls of small monkeys, elephant jaws and brushes made of the hair of various animals. Eagles and hummingbirds and birds of all sizes in between are laid out in rows and sparkle with salt that is sprinkled on them to dry them out, their insides exposed and sweet rottom smelling, but not like death, like magic. Our guide took us up right away and brought us to see the Man to see, we entered his hut and he showed us the little charms and fetishes for good luck, good love, good memory and dreams and safe travel. The charm for good travel was my favorite. It was called a telephone fetish (I'll show you a picture shortly). The idea is that you speak to your fetish and whisper your travel plans into a tiny hole, then you seal the hole with the attached stick and then carry it with you in you pocket for the duration of your journey. Jen and Marco were also accidentaly united in marriage during a beautiful ceremony performed right before our eyes and much to everyone's surprise. We all selected the charms we were consisting taking with us and they were blessed appropriately and the proper benedictions were said. After this, we were each taken aside to visit the big fetish who had great wisdom and insight into what the proper price for them would be. When my turn came, the guide escorted me into another room where the big fetish lived. The Man selected four cowrie shells and threw them into the dirt at my feet. The configuration of the shells suggested to him that I should pay ten thousand CFA for each of the three charms I had selected. I furrowwd my brow a little and suggested that the fetish consider that I only had four thousand in my pocket. The fetish was not impressed and though she offered to let take one charm for myself for the four thousand, I thought that would be selfish so I politely declined and left the plastic bag and the three charms wrapped in brown paper on the floor of the hut. When I emerged into the light I knew I'd done the right thing, even though I must admit, I was concerned that if I left the place without my charms some ill omen would befall me. But, I figure I've got enough charms, thank you very much. So, I took pictures of kids and bought something else so fantastic (to mitigate any bad luck) that I can barely wait to show it to you.
We left that dusty city in the late afternoon, in a taxi that took us to the border where we bid au revoir to Togo and hello again Ghana. The passage across was a little hectic, people pouring across along narrow passageways, bottle-necking at passport controls and customs . We got to the other side fine and a blue arch topped with a black star blessed our entrance. Now we're on the road to Accra after boarding a bus from the market square, ourselves and our baggage being a point of interest for many vendors of things like undershirts, screwdriver sets, sodas, biscuits and the like. We got some coconut biscuit snacks for the road, passing the money through the window and into Rosemary's waiting hand. The first half of the ride was thought the dustiest red road, the traffic scaring up the dust and setting on everything. The trees and vehicles looked forlorn and oxidized by the roadside. We have been stopped at several check points so far and for some reason the police are very interested in a white sack stashed in the back, yet show no interest whatsoever into the big black box under Marco's feet that could very well hold guns or grenades but is just Nico's camera. The road to Ghana is smooth and I can see the gently bobbing and nodding heads of the fifteen passengers in front of me and the tail lights of John 3:16, the name of the car in front of us. I can't remember if I told you but religious references are ubiquitous here and often bless businesses and vehicles. More about that later.
Squeezing into a taxi and yet again negotiating a price, we fearlessly navigated out way to the fetish market. You could see the horned and antlered heads of animals before you even got through the gates of the compound. Stacked high on tables are the feet of piglets, hedgehog skins, shriveled fetal chameleons, porcipine quills, the skulls of small monkeys, elephant jaws and brushes made of the hair of various animals. Eagles and hummingbirds and birds of all sizes in between are laid out in rows and sparkle with salt that is sprinkled on them to dry them out, their insides exposed and sweet rottom smelling, but not like death, like magic. Our guide took us up right away and brought us to see the Man to see, we entered his hut and he showed us the little charms and fetishes for good luck, good love, good memory and dreams and safe travel. The charm for good travel was my favorite. It was called a telephone fetish (I'll show you a picture shortly). The idea is that you speak to your fetish and whisper your travel plans into a tiny hole, then you seal the hole with the attached stick and then carry it with you in you pocket for the duration of your journey. Jen and Marco were also accidentaly united in marriage during a beautiful ceremony performed right before our eyes and much to everyone's surprise. We all selected the charms we were consisting taking with us and they were blessed appropriately and the proper benedictions were said. After this, we were each taken aside to visit the big fetish who had great wisdom and insight into what the proper price for them would be. When my turn came, the guide escorted me into another room where the big fetish lived. The Man selected four cowrie shells and threw them into the dirt at my feet. The configuration of the shells suggested to him that I should pay ten thousand CFA for each of the three charms I had selected. I furrowwd my brow a little and suggested that the fetish consider that I only had four thousand in my pocket. The fetish was not impressed and though she offered to let take one charm for myself for the four thousand, I thought that would be selfish so I politely declined and left the plastic bag and the three charms wrapped in brown paper on the floor of the hut. When I emerged into the light I knew I'd done the right thing, even though I must admit, I was concerned that if I left the place without my charms some ill omen would befall me. But, I figure I've got enough charms, thank you very much. So, I took pictures of kids and bought something else so fantastic (to mitigate any bad luck) that I can barely wait to show it to you.
We left that dusty city in the late afternoon, in a taxi that took us to the border where we bid au revoir to Togo and hello again Ghana. The passage across was a little hectic, people pouring across along narrow passageways, bottle-necking at passport controls and customs . We got to the other side fine and a blue arch topped with a black star blessed our entrance. Now we're on the road to Accra after boarding a bus from the market square, ourselves and our baggage being a point of interest for many vendors of things like undershirts, screwdriver sets, sodas, biscuits and the like. We got some coconut biscuit snacks for the road, passing the money through the window and into Rosemary's waiting hand. The first half of the ride was thought the dustiest red road, the traffic scaring up the dust and setting on everything. The trees and vehicles looked forlorn and oxidized by the roadside. We have been stopped at several check points so far and for some reason the police are very interested in a white sack stashed in the back, yet show no interest whatsoever into the big black box under Marco's feet that could very well hold guns or grenades but is just Nico's camera. The road to Ghana is smooth and I can see the gently bobbing and nodding heads of the fifteen passengers in front of me and the tail lights of John 3:16, the name of the car in front of us. I can't remember if I told you but religious references are ubiquitous here and often bless businesses and vehicles. More about that later.
Monday, January 10, 2011
January 10, evening edition
In Africa, the coasters don't go under the drinks, they go on to to keep out the flies. Seriously. The boys had a great day shooting football players ( with a camera, just to be clear here), but I'll let them tell you that story. Jen, David and I spent the day on the beach gazing out at the mighty atlantic and watching the frothy waves wash over the breakwater. Some men spent the whole afternoon pulling something out of the water, though no one paid quite enough attention to figure out just what it was. We had ontensed to go to the Fetish market today ( not that kind, silly) but after driving through town , a tide that was both surreal and mad maxian we pooped out. Tomorrow we travel to Accra as our visas expire, bye bye lome!
January 10, 2011
Theres a parrot in the lobby of the hotel and his name is Cocot. He's and African grey, a little on the small side, with a red tail feather and a little voice that says bonjour. Yesterday I was hovering around his cage and when he noticed my attentions, he put his head up against the aide of the cage. I stuck my fingers through the bars and petted his prehistoric head, getting his parrot dust all over my fingers. The petting went on for quite some time and as I moved my fingers around his white eye patch he turned his head and closed his strong sharp beak over the first joint in my index finger. I waited a moment for him to let go, but then had to use my other hand to pry open his jaw. Do you know what Cocot means in Slovak?
We decided to move to another hotel. Just to be clear, it had nothing to do with the parrot, but with the itchy sheets and hefty price of our rooms. Jen, David and I went to check out a nearby guesthouse. Many of the streets in lome are paved with sand, and as David observed, this gives the town a beach resort like feel. It was Sunday too so there was something quiet and grave about the place. We came across a group of people singing and dancing in the road and then later, walked by a choral mass at church.
After meeting up again with te boys, we went for a giant lunch and sampled a few interesting African dishes, whose names I have of course forgotten. One of them was a sort of manioc CPUs cous and the other was a silken dumplings type thing. We returned to our house to get settled in and discovered that the water was not running, much to my disappointment. Johnothan fetched us water from the well and Marie cut up our watermelon.
In the evening we saw some amazing live music at a very cool club called le "54" blues reggae and so forth. There was pizza. Sunday pizza.
This morning the sun is more obscured than usual, there's a thick haze in the sky. The other day, nico pointed at the sky in the early evening and asked "is that the sun or the moon"? it's really hard to tell sometimes.
We decided to move to another hotel. Just to be clear, it had nothing to do with the parrot, but with the itchy sheets and hefty price of our rooms. Jen, David and I went to check out a nearby guesthouse. Many of the streets in lome are paved with sand, and as David observed, this gives the town a beach resort like feel. It was Sunday too so there was something quiet and grave about the place. We came across a group of people singing and dancing in the road and then later, walked by a choral mass at church.
After meeting up again with te boys, we went for a giant lunch and sampled a few interesting African dishes, whose names I have of course forgotten. One of them was a sort of manioc CPUs cous and the other was a silken dumplings type thing. We returned to our house to get settled in and discovered that the water was not running, much to my disappointment. Johnothan fetched us water from the well and Marie cut up our watermelon.
In the evening we saw some amazing live music at a very cool club called le "54" blues reggae and so forth. There was pizza. Sunday pizza.
This morning the sun is more obscured than usual, there's a thick haze in the sky. The other day, nico pointed at the sky in the early evening and asked "is that the sun or the moon"? it's really hard to tell sometimes.
Saturday, January 8, 2011
January 8, evening edition, 2011
This morning the road was humming with motos on their wu to market. We went too, to see what we could see md to arrange a taxi to take is to Lome. the market stalls sold hunks of deep red meat, piles of salt, smoked fish skewered and smoked, fruit, soap and textiles as well as oil and products made of wood were sold in tiny stalls. Marco, whose skill in navigating the delicate rituals of ride negotiation found our ride to lome md qfte a detour to the hotel to pick ip the rest of the group and a farewell to our trusty and charming guide Souleyman ( a.k.a Acha)we were on route to lome.
I smelled it before I saw it. We stopes by the aide of the road and etched the pillars of smoke rise from either aide of t up ahead. Someone ran ahead to take a look and I lens as far as I could out the window and saw the landscape red and glowing in the daylight. The driver started the engine and we accelerated. As we drove though the fire the heat poured in through the own windows and the dry heat burned my nostrils and made the hair in my arms curl. The flames licked the side of the van, I'm sure , but we drove through unscathed.
Tomorrow Nico and Marco are going to take photographs of football players.
Tout alors...
I smelled it before I saw it. We stopes by the aide of the road and etched the pillars of smoke rise from either aide of t up ahead. Someone ran ahead to take a look and I lens as far as I could out the window and saw the landscape red and glowing in the daylight. The driver started the engine and we accelerated. As we drove though the fire the heat poured in through the own windows and the dry heat burned my nostrils and made the hair in my arms curl. The flames licked the side of the van, I'm sure , but we drove through unscathed.
Tomorrow Nico and Marco are going to take photographs of football players.
Tout alors...
January 8 ,2010
When a fruit tree refuses to bear fruit it is common practice to speak with it sternly and then give it a few cuts with a machete, the next year it will surely bear fruit. We've been spending time under lush canopies, filling our lungs with small town air and letting the sun bake us as pink as the dusty streets. Spent the pay few days in Kpalime, a little town in Togo north. Yesterday we started our hike up Mt Agou and wound, or more like scrambled, our way up steep mountain paths to a tiny village whose houses were build of bricks made of the surrounding earth, red red red. The goats and kids, the human ones I mean, were curious about us. They'd just been let out of school and were descending the rocky steps just as we were coming up.
We had lunch just above the village; sardines and eggs and bread and the BBC world service on macros radio. Souleyman showed us the avocado tree and it famous Dior and we had a tiny one of those to eat too. We reaches the weak of the mountain and we could have seen all the wu to forever of it jd not been for the mist and fog that made the sun a hazy disk suspended in the sky. After reaching the summit we made our way down, first on moto and then in a taxi. Ive taken a rel liking to riding motorcycles, o must admit. In the afternoon, which is really more like the evening in African time (that's the time zone here: every hour is like two hours with the world moving in a sort of accelerated slow motion...), we took another taxi to a local nature reserve. The road was quite bad and our taxi driver was quite brave. I sat in the back part of our shaky shakey hatchback breathing in diesel. We ran out of gas twice, which was no big deal as the driver had some jugs of fuel stashes in the back. We've been mastering the quiet art of squeezing 7 into a cab. Today Souleyman and I were in the back and it was so dusty by the end of the ride that was able to use his finger to draw a perfect circle in the dirt that had settled on his shin. We reached our destination and after a short hike through banana trees and hanging vines we reached a most beautiful waterfall that flowers Delma rocket crevice and dropped into a pool flames by sheer walls of mossy rock. We swam on the pool and let the water fall on our tired selves like a shiatsu massage. I'll post some pictures for you when we get back.
We went dancing in the evening at Alokpa ( it was alkopa one, not Alokpa two: there are two in kpalime). Souleyman'a friends, the ones from his dance troupe, were there and we stomped md shook and had too much fun until exactly midnight when the power went off ( as it had every night for the past three nights). We said our goodbyes and made our way through the dark, thick night on motos, and delivered ourselves into the sweet arms of sleep, with dramlqnd just beyond the horizon.
Af
We had lunch just above the village; sardines and eggs and bread and the BBC world service on macros radio. Souleyman showed us the avocado tree and it famous Dior and we had a tiny one of those to eat too. We reaches the weak of the mountain and we could have seen all the wu to forever of it jd not been for the mist and fog that made the sun a hazy disk suspended in the sky. After reaching the summit we made our way down, first on moto and then in a taxi. Ive taken a rel liking to riding motorcycles, o must admit. In the afternoon, which is really more like the evening in African time (that's the time zone here: every hour is like two hours with the world moving in a sort of accelerated slow motion...), we took another taxi to a local nature reserve. The road was quite bad and our taxi driver was quite brave. I sat in the back part of our shaky shakey hatchback breathing in diesel. We ran out of gas twice, which was no big deal as the driver had some jugs of fuel stashes in the back. We've been mastering the quiet art of squeezing 7 into a cab. Today Souleyman and I were in the back and it was so dusty by the end of the ride that was able to use his finger to draw a perfect circle in the dirt that had settled on his shin. We reached our destination and after a short hike through banana trees and hanging vines we reached a most beautiful waterfall that flowers Delma rocket crevice and dropped into a pool flames by sheer walls of mossy rock. We swam on the pool and let the water fall on our tired selves like a shiatsu massage. I'll post some pictures for you when we get back.
We went dancing in the evening at Alokpa ( it was alkopa one, not Alokpa two: there are two in kpalime). Souleyman'a friends, the ones from his dance troupe, were there and we stomped md shook and had too much fun until exactly midnight when the power went off ( as it had every night for the past three nights). We said our goodbyes and made our way through the dark, thick night on motos, and delivered ourselves into the sweet arms of sleep, with dramlqnd just beyond the horizon.
Af
Thursday, January 6, 2011
January 5, 2011
Accra is a city of sea haze and diesel fumes. Yesterday before lunch, after changing our lodgings to the upscale icecream parlour/burger joint/hotel FRANKIE'S, we met up with a friend of a friend, a local man named Ambrose, to whom we conveyed our desire to travel to Togo and specifically to a smallish town named Kpalime. In Kpalime we wanted to do some hiking and generlly get out of town for a while. After our meeting we went for lunch and then took a walk down to the beach, passing through neighborhoods and soccer fields and burning piles of rubbish and smiling kids and baby goats and women frying chicken and taro in huge pans fanning the cooking fires with grass fans.
We ate dinner in the street at Duncans, serenaded by hi-life and dancehall from the club next door. Had a round with Douglas, who made us laugh with his exuberance and good nature.
This morning we got up rather early to meet the van that was to take us to Ho, the tozn from which we would meet a connecting car to Kpalime.
Ambrose acco;panied us on the van ride and he shared some fairy tales with me. Don't let me forget to tell you, they were really incredible didactic, allegorical stories that had a certain flavour of brutality.
At Ho, we hired an old land rover to take us across the Togolese border to Kpalime. We were 6 in the back and two in the front. Two of our travelling companions were from NIger and were on their way back there. They had with them a mysterious oblong wooden box, that they kept rather close. We speculated wildly as to the contents.
The border crossing was smooth and friendly. Although the smiling, joking guard insisted that we leave him some pens. We left denuded of pens, but with stamps in our passports. On the Togo side we were greeted courteously and immediately embraced by French bureaucracy. It took some time and a little money to produce some of the most beautifully crafted border documents I have ever seen.
The rest of the ride was a little bumpy and a little dusty. After our arrival in Kpalime, after a haggle in the market square over the price and possibility of sqeezing 5 passengers plus luggage into a tiny hatchback, while we waited for the bank to exchange some money, we compared our impressive dust tans.
We refueled at a roadside stand where gas was sold in an open glass bottles our driver simply poured into the gas tank.
We arrived at our hotel 'chez fanny', which was so charming, verdant, spacious and friendly....
We met Souleyman, an incredible young man and friend of Esther's who graciously agreed to be our guide and arranger for our days in his home town. We agreed to begin our hike up the mountain early which made the ensueing evenings revelry all the sweeter.
Feeling embraced.
We ate dinner in the street at Duncans, serenaded by hi-life and dancehall from the club next door. Had a round with Douglas, who made us laugh with his exuberance and good nature.
This morning we got up rather early to meet the van that was to take us to Ho, the tozn from which we would meet a connecting car to Kpalime.
Ambrose acco;panied us on the van ride and he shared some fairy tales with me. Don't let me forget to tell you, they were really incredible didactic, allegorical stories that had a certain flavour of brutality.
At Ho, we hired an old land rover to take us across the Togolese border to Kpalime. We were 6 in the back and two in the front. Two of our travelling companions were from NIger and were on their way back there. They had with them a mysterious oblong wooden box, that they kept rather close. We speculated wildly as to the contents.
The border crossing was smooth and friendly. Although the smiling, joking guard insisted that we leave him some pens. We left denuded of pens, but with stamps in our passports. On the Togo side we were greeted courteously and immediately embraced by French bureaucracy. It took some time and a little money to produce some of the most beautifully crafted border documents I have ever seen.
The rest of the ride was a little bumpy and a little dusty. After our arrival in Kpalime, after a haggle in the market square over the price and possibility of sqeezing 5 passengers plus luggage into a tiny hatchback, while we waited for the bank to exchange some money, we compared our impressive dust tans.
We refueled at a roadside stand where gas was sold in an open glass bottles our driver simply poured into the gas tank.
We arrived at our hotel 'chez fanny', which was so charming, verdant, spacious and friendly....
We met Souleyman, an incredible young man and friend of Esther's who graciously agreed to be our guide and arranger for our days in his home town. We agreed to begin our hike up the mountain early which made the ensueing evenings revelry all the sweeter.
Feeling embraced.
Tuesday, January 4, 2011
January 4, 2011
It seems a bit surreal to write the the date since January in associated in my mind with snow and cold. David and I are sitting down to breakfast amongst palm trees and sea breeze. Two lizards just walked by... David just told me he is considering adding a mesh shirt to his wardrobe.
Yesterday morning I moved through cool Belgian air in a taxi cab, feeling acutely sentimental thanks to some excellent EZ rock. The plane ride was long, but relatively comfortable. Have you ever seen Con Air? The start of the flight was kind of like that. There was a gentleman sitting at the back of the plane who was being deported from Belgium. Apparently he was refused entry in Brussels and was being returned to Liberia. Unfortunately, he was refused entry into Liberia as well, so the poor fellow was sent right back to Brussels. When we first got on the plane this gentleman was irate and screaming about the injustice of it all. I guess it wasn't really that much like con air.
We got into Accra in the evening and found a cab to take us to our hotel, we tried to use our bargaining saavvy to get a 'good price' but that totally back fired and we, sweaty and tired, just agreed to pay whatever. We moved through the hot Accra air, that smelled like fire and the sea.
We had a joyful reunion wiu marco and jen and sat down to a meal . I had peanut soup, which was like a thick sauce! Delicious. We sat around listening to stories that I'll recount in another post. Breakfast beckons presently!
Yesterday morning I moved through cool Belgian air in a taxi cab, feeling acutely sentimental thanks to some excellent EZ rock. The plane ride was long, but relatively comfortable. Have you ever seen Con Air? The start of the flight was kind of like that. There was a gentleman sitting at the back of the plane who was being deported from Belgium. Apparently he was refused entry in Brussels and was being returned to Liberia. Unfortunately, he was refused entry into Liberia as well, so the poor fellow was sent right back to Brussels. When we first got on the plane this gentleman was irate and screaming about the injustice of it all. I guess it wasn't really that much like con air.
We got into Accra in the evening and found a cab to take us to our hotel, we tried to use our bargaining saavvy to get a 'good price' but that totally back fired and we, sweaty and tired, just agreed to pay whatever. We moved through the hot Accra air, that smelled like fire and the sea.
We had a joyful reunion wiu marco and jen and sat down to a meal . I had peanut soup, which was like a thick sauce! Delicious. We sat around listening to stories that I'll recount in another post. Breakfast beckons presently!
Sunday, January 2, 2011
January 2, 2011
I remember once you told me that you liked going to the airport. Me too, but I think I am overdoing it. In the morning my aunt and I went to the airport again, second time in as many days, this time to see my maman off. We sat watching the departures board again in the very same coffee shop and imagined where all the passers by were travelling. I found myself horrified by the way people were eating muffins. Myself, I have certain elaborate muffin ritual that involves detaching the bottom from the top, peeling off the paper and eating the bottom half in smallish pinches. Then, I gently ease the top half into my waiting mouth, nibbling off small sections until no more remains. Let me tell you, these people were eating muffins like they were cupcakes! You know, haphazard biting into the top, peeling only when their teeth were gnashing on the paper. A whole other paradigm! Brutes!
Anyway, after saying goodbye to my mom we took the subway into town and had a nice cup of tea to set things right. We walked to my favorite part of BXL, an area called Flagey. There is lovely square in that part of town and since it was Sunday, there was a market in the square. The best part about the market was this giant rotiserrie truck that had enormous quantities of roasting chicken and sausage and a lineup about 2 miles long. I took a picture, which I will show you later, ok?
We walked to the subway and on the way my aunt got a haircut at a Morroccan barber. Incidentally, that neighborhood has the highest concentration of barbers in BXL, but few ladies hair salons, none of which are open Sunday. Anyway, it was a really nice haircut. I looked at fashion magazines while I waited. Have you seen those recently? Wow.
We ended up taking a cab to the spa, as we were running seriously short on time. FYI: My aunt and I thought it would be fun to have a spa day today! Oh it was fun fun fun. The place we went to is out on the outskirts of town, but what it lacks in proximity to the core it makes up for in naked Belgians!!
We had a lovely time entering and exiting saunas and plunging into various pools of various temperatures. We ate lunch in our bathrobes by this big aquarium in the middle of the spa restaurant. Before the waiter took our order, he informed us that there had been a fatality in the aquarium and if possible, we should just ignore it. What a great way to spend the afternoon.
We are off to the airport again tomorrow, I guess the third time is a charm. Cannot wait to get to Mother Africa, as Nico put it. I just took my first dose of Malerone, which may cause dizziness, nausea, loss of appetite, thinking that you are Johnny Depp in the early 2000s movie Blow, etc. I told you about that young lady who contracted Malaria in India, and while she was in treatment she watched Blow and became totally convinced she was him in real life? If I ever get Malaria I would rather watch Pirates of the Carribean.
Anyway, after saying goodbye to my mom we took the subway into town and had a nice cup of tea to set things right. We walked to my favorite part of BXL, an area called Flagey. There is lovely square in that part of town and since it was Sunday, there was a market in the square. The best part about the market was this giant rotiserrie truck that had enormous quantities of roasting chicken and sausage and a lineup about 2 miles long. I took a picture, which I will show you later, ok?
We walked to the subway and on the way my aunt got a haircut at a Morroccan barber. Incidentally, that neighborhood has the highest concentration of barbers in BXL, but few ladies hair salons, none of which are open Sunday. Anyway, it was a really nice haircut. I looked at fashion magazines while I waited. Have you seen those recently? Wow.
We ended up taking a cab to the spa, as we were running seriously short on time. FYI: My aunt and I thought it would be fun to have a spa day today! Oh it was fun fun fun. The place we went to is out on the outskirts of town, but what it lacks in proximity to the core it makes up for in naked Belgians!!
We had a lovely time entering and exiting saunas and plunging into various pools of various temperatures. We ate lunch in our bathrobes by this big aquarium in the middle of the spa restaurant. Before the waiter took our order, he informed us that there had been a fatality in the aquarium and if possible, we should just ignore it. What a great way to spend the afternoon.
We are off to the airport again tomorrow, I guess the third time is a charm. Cannot wait to get to Mother Africa, as Nico put it. I just took my first dose of Malerone, which may cause dizziness, nausea, loss of appetite, thinking that you are Johnny Depp in the early 2000s movie Blow, etc. I told you about that young lady who contracted Malaria in India, and while she was in treatment she watched Blow and became totally convinced she was him in real life? If I ever get Malaria I would rather watch Pirates of the Carribean.
Avast! Shiver me timbers! Next time I write, it will be from Africa.
P.S. Thanks to all of you who commented and wrote emails to let me know you are reading. Means alot... xo
P.P.S. Also, I just wanted to let you know that I have embraced the contraction, but I am having trouble finding the apostrophe key on this keyboard. You are lucky that I found the exclamation mark an hour ago or this would be the most boring post ever.
January 1, 2011
You know, last night we were a little confused about the time, I mean, no one was really sure exactly when midnight was. I think someone checked their mobile and discovered that we were just 30 seconds away from midnight! My cousin fumbled with the champagne cork and heroically poured us some glasses, then we hugged and kissed and wished each other a Happy New Year. A couple of minutes later we heard a cheer coming from the street, bursts of fireworks and general revelry. That was the REAL midnight. I it was so foggy out, all the fireworks looked like mortars and the sound of them firing echoed off the buildings. It was more like a warzone than a party zone!
New Years Day. We took my cousin to the airport, had a cup of coffee and watched the big departure board. Its my last day in BXL tomorrow. The Joyeax Noel is all melted and the fog has cleared. Amen.
Saturday, January 1, 2011
December 31, 2010
I just got back from a long, snowy walk in the park near my aunt's house. There were several adorable dogs, some charming children sledding on their wooden toboggan and giant dirty snowballs recently rolled by the locals.
Since my aunt lives on the seventh floor, we have a great view of the surrounding neighborhood. Her balcony is just at the level where the birds fly and there are a couple of resident flocks of seagulls and pigeons. The other day, I was outside and I heard a sharp birdcall that couldn't have come from either of the above- mentioned species. There was a bright green bird being hotly pursued by a crow. I was pretty sure it was a parrot! I told my cousin about it and he said that indeed, there was a flock of parrots (or parakeets or lorikeets or whatever) living in the park nearby. Apparently there had been an incident in which a truck full of parrots had gotten into an accident and the cargo doors had burst open and all the parrots had escaped. Did you ever see the movie "The Parrots of Telegraph Hill"? It's a documentary about the wild parrots of San Francisco and the man who takes care of them. Anyway, people tell the same origin story for the San Franciscan parrots. I dunno, I mean when do you ever see giant shipments of parrots? Maybe in the olden days people bought parrots in bulk.
Regardless of where they came from, they settled in the park we went for a walk in today. We caught a glimpse of them high up in a tree and heard their birdcalls all over the place. Cute.
It was my last day of class today. I had a lesson with Manu in the morning. We chatted about this and that and hung out in the courtyard drinking more beverages out of those plastic cups. Janice and Po Suan were in fine form today, though they were stumped when it came to conjugating Avoir. Manu tried again, in vain, to explain the pronunciation of e-s-t, by saying, "you know, the way the Italians say it 'eh'!" (he made that universal hand gesture that conveys that you are doing or saying something Italian - you know what I mean?). To no avail.
I said au revoir and happy new year to the crew and went home for lunch. My aunt had prepared the traditional New Year's dish of my kinsman for lunch, Kapustnica. It's a sour cabbage stew with tomato and sausage and paprika. Delicious! It's customary to put in a small object such as a stone or coin and who ever finds it has either good luck or a broken tooth. Just kidding about that last part.
After lunch we sat around a bit and then set off for our walk. We searched in vain for sparklers to sparkle in the New Year, but came home empty handed. I did buy some playing cards though, for hot African nights under the mosquito net.
Things in CI don't seem to be getting any better. Marco has been filing a lot of stories. Here's his latest http://www.theglobeandmail.com/news/world/africa-mideast/ivory-coast-in-a-state-of-civil-war/article1853978/
I've been thinking about New Year's resolutions. Mine are as follows:
1. I resolve to really see the present and live live live now, in the moment
2. I resolve to assume the best
3. I resolve not to throw stones in my glass house
4. I resolve to not to pave a road to hell
Just kidding about those last two.
December 30, 2010
Have I ever told you of my love for foreign cities in the morning? The way the light comes softly out of the east, the purposeful but reluctant movement of people fulfilling their morning obligations: going to work, buying bread, walking their pups. The hush and silence of people bracing for a new day, so full of promise! Ladies heel lifts on the sidewalks, the hydraulic sighs of garbage trucks, the sweet melody of a tiny spoon stirring a tiny coffee.
I was out on the balcony tonight thinking about Brussels and I realized that 6:30pm bears a striking resemblance to 6:30 am. It feels like its always morning in Brussels! Quiet, foggy and semi-deserted. Now that I've realized it, I'm getting this eerie feeling, like people just sort of forgot to wake up here and they're always getting ready for their day but never actually starting it. I think this feeling is amplified by the fact that I just woke up from a nap.
I had class again this morning, but first I went to the pharmacy to pick up some Dukoral (that's a cholera vaccine my dad finally convinced me to take). I wandered around a bit before school and found a fois gras phenomenon, three shops specializing in delicious meat in one city block! It was too early for meat, so I bought some chewing gum instead.
Class was a little silly. We have another teacher, Manu, who was more than a little puzzled by the difference in our language skills. After an hour of talking about countries and cities (Is the Little Mermaid in Copenhagen?) and listening to the ladies, Janice and Po Suan, try to pronounce Norvege, I suggested we learn some restaurant related vocabulary. Manu and the ladies were enthusiastic. So we learned about eating and hunger and asking for a table. Then it came to light that Janice and Po Suan didn't know how to say 'a table for four' because they did not know their French numbers. Then Manu, who was by this point a little exhausted, handed me the white board marker and I taught the numbers 1-10. What fun! During the break Manu told me the condensed story of his career move into teaching in basic French, which as far as I could understand was that he used to work for Caterpillar and had had a nice girlfriend and on the day he turned 40 his girlfriend dumped him and he got fired from his job. He kept saying 'ground zero, ground zero..."
I arrived home to a very fragrant house; my aunt had just taken a freshly baked loaf of bread out of the oven. We ate it up like starving pidgins. After lunch I tried to do a little homework, but I spaced out right away. I partially blame the 2 glasses of wine I had with lunch. I suddenly became so unbearably tired that I excused myself from the afternoon's social activities and lay down for a nap.
Alors, hère I am now, with a warm computer on my lap listening to the fridge purr sweetly.
I listened to an interview Marco gave on 'As it Happens' earlier talking about the situation for journalist in CI, which is quite grave. Here’s the link: http://www.cbc.ca/asithappens/episode/2010/12/22/wednesday-december-22-2010/
I’ve also been listening Nancy Sinatra http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=T5Xl0Qry-hA
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