Almost. . .

I now know that I got sick in Mali (or even before in Burkina Faso), but the symptoms didn't show until I arrived in Dakar.

My flight arrived around 1am on Wednesday and by 10am I was on my first tour of Dakar, lead by Karim Abdul. We walked and walked and walked from the University of Dakar to the beach to the president's palace and through all the major markets. It was hot and we were walking fast. By 3pm I suddenly felt very tired and we headed home. The next two afternoons I walked around the city escorted by two Gabonese students.

Friday night I stood in the kitchen, eating and talking to my hostess. As I ate, I began to sweat and I felt like I was going to faint. I went to my room to lay down. In the middle of the night I woke up to turn off the fan because I was cold. I thought, this is amazing, the first cool night since I've been in Africa. When I thought about it again, it seemed too strange. I looked at the temperature on my travel clock. It was 85 degrees. Oh boy! I'm sick!

There was nothing I could do so I lay there until morning. By then I was freezing and shivering in spite of the rising morning temperature. I told my hostess I thought I was sick. By mid morning she and the housekeeper, Cora decided I had the symptoms of malaria and should go to the hospital. At this point I was feeling delirious and could barely stand. I was sweating profusely and felt very weak. With Cora and the house guard flanked on each side, we slowly made our way to the hospital four blocks away.

It was a nightmare at the hospital. I was miserable and could not sit up. People in far worse condition than me were coming in. It was a depressing scene. (I had visited one other hospital and an AIDS hospice in Ghana. We have it made in the U.S.) I was dreading the wait, but at the same time too delirious to really worry about it. Five hours later, I was finally seen by a what I assume was a doctor. I was prepared to use my limited french to describe how I was feeling. But Cora did all the talking, in wolof. So I couldn't understand what she and the doctor were discussing. After noting my profuse sweating and taking my blood pressure, I was diagnosed with malaria and given a prescription for several shots. No exam. My temperature wasn't taken. No blood tests.

In Senegal, the patient is required to go to a pharmacy to get their own medication and bring it back for the nurse to inject. By the time Cora came back with my prescription, adrenaline kicked in and my head was mometarily clear. I was trying not to panic. I had no idea what they were treating me for, nor what medication they were giving me. I could only assume, it was for malaria, since Cora was certain that that is what I had. I pulled out my french phrasebook and put together a question about the medication they were going to give me and if it would have a contra-indication with the malaria pills I had already been taking. When I was called in, Cora went with me. In french, I tried to explain to the nurse that I was taking this medication (I showed it to her) and I wanted to make sure it would not have a bad reaction. She shoved the pills out of my hand and said "Non" loudly and forcefully. She rambled off something in wolof. She tried to hold me down in the chair to give me the injection. I snatched away and again tried to explain. She and Cora both kept telling me no. After a big enough fuss, a man who spoke English came in and translated what I was trying to say. They decided not to give me the shot for malaria, but still gave me a shot, that I later found out was for pain. I was never able to find out exactly what it was.

We made it back to the house and I collapsed in the bed. By late evening, I was beginning to doubt that I had malaria. One of the main symptoms is that your whole body is racked with excrutiating pain. I was weak and dizzy, but not in pain. My hostess decided to call a private doctor she knows that speaks English. (I'm not sure why she didn't mention this before my horrific hospital experience.) We took a taxi and went to her home office. After explaining my symptoms she did a full exam and diagnosed me with a gastrointestinal infection. She prescribed an antibiotic and told me to come back if I wasn't feeling better in two days. Two days later I went back and she sent me to have lab tests and a chest x-ray because I was having trouble breathing. Because getting a taxi and going out took a lot of energy, I decided to wait two days to see if I felt any better. Two days passed with no improvement. I went to the lab and had tests done. Sparing all the gorey details, by the end of the day I had the results and returned to the doctor's for her analysis of the report, which was written in french. The diagnosis: amoebic dysentery. Sounds horrible. Well it was. With the proper diagnosis, she changed my prescription and added iron to the list of pills, since by then I was anemic.

With the change of medication, I felt even worse. Now on top of being weak, sweaty, dehydrated and unable to eat, I was double over in pain. Oh, and just as a safety measure, I was also given a 3-day malaria pill treatment. I was taking so many pills throughout the day that it became my occupation. Some pills required that I eat, which was impossible. I was hating food. It was a battle to keep up the pill regiment. But I knew that I wouldn't get better if I didn't.

By the time I got the proper diagnosis, a week had past. I did nothing all day but lie in bed and when I could focus, I would read. I read any and everything. Whatever was available just to keep from going crazy. By the middle of the second week, I was feeling better, but still too weak to do anything. I knew that I wouldn't have the energy to pack myself into a stiffling hot bus and trek to the next city. I decided it was best to go home. Feeling both disappointed and stircrazy, I knew it would be better to go home and finish recovering there. At least I wouldn't have to be paranoid about everything I ate and drank. After two and half weeks, I was well enough to make the long flight home.

My original plan was to stop in Paris for a few days on the way back. This would have broken up the long flight, but because I was sick, it was condensed into one day. Well, it would have been if I hadn't missed my connecting flight in Paris. I flew from Dakar to Lisbon to Paris to Amsterdam to San Francisco. The flight from Lisbon was two hours late so I just missed the connecting flight in Paris. I stayed the night. I guess I can claim to have been to Paris but I was too tired (and cold) to go out, so my total Parisian experience was a one hour train ride from one airport to the other and the shuttle ride to my hotel. I like what I saw. I'll have to return to both Paris and Senegal.

Sick in Dakar

I arrived in Dakar two weeks ago via plane from Mali and immediatetly became sick. (My new friend here, Angela, insists that I point out that more than likely I got sick in Mali. "Don't blame that on Senegal," she said) At first I was diagnosed with malaria. Seems that is always the first diagnosis for sickness with a fever. But it wasn't behaving like malaria, and lab tests show that I have dysentery.

Unfortunately I have not been able to see Senegal. I also have not been able to finish writing about Mali. But I will! As soon as I recover. Thanks to everyone who has been checking on me!

What is it with me and taxis?

I arrived in the capital city of Bamako after an eight hour ride on a bus that from the outside looked pretty decent. Displayed prominently on the back window was a decal listing all the amenities: TV/Video, A/C, shaded windows, reclining seats. But as you might guess, the only thing it really had to offer was no a/c and windows that did not open. It was by far the most grueling trek yet. It was so hot that everyone was lulled into a silent stupor and I was nearly comatose the whole way.

When I arrived, my Dogon guide's brother came to meet me at the bus station and take me back to the restaurant they owned. They had a few rooms there, but I decided I didn't like the arrangement. Tired and anxious to find a comfortable place, I got a taxi and tried to recall the little French I had not been using. With gestures and mangled French I asked him to take me to a hotel I'd found in my guide book. He didn't understand, but unlike the last taxi driver, he was determined to help me. He went inside a store and got directions.

As we drove across town, the traffic was so chaotic, that I couldn't recognize who had the right to drive where. All of this mixed with my frustration, that I'm sure the driver could sense, must have made him anxious as well. He seemed lost and confused and I just had to reassure myself that this is not worst situation I've been in.

The further we drove, the darker it became, there were less street lights and less people. I told myself there was no need to panic. The driver realizing he needed more directions, got out and walked back to a guard we had just passed. But in his hurry, he did not put the car in park or put on the brake. I felt the car rolling down the hill. I quickly reached across the back seat to grab the parking brake, but i didn't see one nor could I figure out how to put the car in park. At this point the car was picking up speed, heading down hill and crossing to the opposite side of the street. There was nothing else I could do. I flung open the door and jumped out. I yelled back at the taxi driver and pointed to the car. He ran downhill after the car, jumped in and stopped it before it hit anything. Whew! That was close.

I got back in and we reached the hotel which was just around the corner. I decided to treat myself to some A/C and a little bit of luxury. Instead of going into the hotel from my guide book, I walked across the street to the shiny and bright Le Grand Hotel! I stayed for 4 days, not doing much other than hiding from the heat.

Sevare, Mali

In Sevare, I stayed in a hotel run by a fifty something British woman and her twenty something Dogon husband. I ended up staying here for about a week, mostly trying to recooperate from my hike in Dogon country (and feeling the decline of what I now know was the beginning symptoms of dysentery.) It was so incredibly hot. Hotter even than Dogon country. I thought I had chosen the coolest time of the year. I was wrong. The coolest time is in January and February, when all the tourists converge in masses equal to a transient nation. I was thankful to miss the crowd of "outsiders", but wishing for cooler temperatures.

Sevare is a launching point for many tours, but when the season is slow, it is all but impossible to find a taxi. So I spent most days just lounging in the courtyard at Maison des arts. The British owner was glad to have an English speaker and we spent many hours (me mostly listening) swapping stories of travels and what her life is like here in Mali. She had taken a similar path through West Africa. She too had a disconcerting experience in Ghana and also fell in love with Burkina Faso. But it was Mali that drew her in. Or maybe it was the young man who is now her husband! She shared many intimate details of what it was like to be a British woman living in Mali. To share your husband with another wife. The Dogon family traditions she must learn. The extreme heat and illnesses she has endured.

A crew of two or three men made repairs to the hotel. Because I spent most of the day sprawled in the courtyard, I had a front row seat to the singing of the eldest man on the crew. He had an amazing voice. Mali is known for it's music and this man definitely solidified the acclaim. I think he is a griot. He sang in the traditional style that is a melodious and round chanting sound in a minor key. Some notes would sound to most Western ears to be "off" key. (It is a sound that is common in many Islamic and eastern religions, one to which I have always been drawn.) The exterior corridor where he worked repairing the walls, echoed with the sound of his voice. I tried several time to record him. But the sound of the repairs drowns out his voice. I could have asked him directly, he was very nice. I liked the idea of it being natural, candid, not performed. I'll have to listen again, maybe I can "digitally remaster" the recording to remove the noise.

Mopti taxi

Today I took a taxi from my hotel to the garre sation to catch a taxi brusse (like a tro-tro) to the next town. I walked from my hotel to the junction where taxis stop. I saw a few taxis pass and then decided just to take the next one. It was the typical banana yellow color of taxis here. I'm not sure the exact make and model, but it looked like an old rusted out 1970s era Datsun hatchback.

The passenger and I who were joining the others had to wait for the driver to open the door. The handle was rigged with a string. After letting us in, the driver climbed in and "hotwired" the ignition from two wires hanging below the steering wheel. (I know i've grown accustomed to transport here, because this didn't even phase me. Actually in recent weeks past, I would have passed this taxi all together for being too rusty.)

We started on our way slowly laboring through the narrow streets of old town Mopti. As we turned one corner, I heard a scraping noise from the back left tire where I was sitting. I paid little attention, assuming it was grinding brakes like that of so many other taxis. Just as I noticed everyone in the car turning to look in my direction, I felt the car drop and rock to the left. The wheel had come off! Unbelievable! For once I was glad that the traffic was slow. We all bailed out of the taxi in search of another, leaving the driver to the gawks and stares of all passing by. All I could do was laugh, thinking to myself, no one at home will believe this.

Dogon Villages

The first day we left Bankass early. Adding to my modes of transport, we climbed aboard a horse drawn 2-wheel cart which would take us to the first village. We plodded slowly along the long flat road. I wondered at times if the horse was going to make it. Mostly, I was just happy to be out in the open air. It was hot! So hot, like hot I have never felt. In the valleys and lowlands you can see for miles. During this, the rainy season, there is green everywhere. Millet, the main crop, is tall, green and nearly ready for harvest. There are patches of green brush and long wispy grasses dotted across the sandy landscape. Baobab, mango and bissap trees are green and leafy. Occasionally we would see children and woman walking along the road with bails of twigs on their head and cattle grazing in the grasses. But mostly there was no one in site. Quite a contrast from most of the place I had just visited.

Each day we hiked to two villages. In the morning, after a breakfast of limp french bread and instant coffee, we'd start hiking around 7am. By 11 am we'd stop for lunch and rest until 4 pm, waiting for the heat of the day to pass. From 4 to 6 pm we'd hike to the village where we would sleep for the night.

The first day was pretty slow and easy. The terrain was flat and sandy.
After getting off the horse cart, we walked into the first village to see a mud/rammed earth mosque that is typical for this region. We passed a group of elders sitting in the shade of a trellis. This would be my first opportunity to offer the tourist gift of kola nuts. The elder men and sometimes woman in these villages chew the reddish orange kola nut for its stimulant. As a gesture of respect and offering, visitors present one or two kola nuts to all elders they encounter. I carried a sack of nuts that was about the length of my arm from elbow to wrist. Though not particularly big, the space in my day pack was limited. It was already filled with my two cameras, mosquito net, sleep sheet and water. I left my large bag back at base camp.

As we walked into the first village, my guide tried to teach me a few simple Dogon greetings. I couldn't seem to remember anything. Was it the heat? It didn't seem to matter because my simple two word greeting was drowned out by the long greeting that unfolded like a syncopated call and response.

Seyoma?
-seyo
Gineh Seyom?
-seyo
Deh Seyom?
-seyo
Na Seyom?
-seyo
Ulumo Seyom?
-seyo
Awa
Popo

To me it sounded like a chorus of seyo seyo seyo seyo. . .bouncing back and forth between my guide and nearly everyone we passed. The greeting itself takes about 10-12 seconds, so if you are passing someone, both parties slow down or stop so that they are still within hearing distance when the greeting is complete. The greeting is asking "how are you? How's the family? How's your father? How's your mother? and so on. . .the person answers "seyo" which means "fine." This is said if your family is fine or even if your mother is sick. After the greeting is finished, then you discuss the real conditions. I couldn't help but think what life would be like if we at home engaged everyone we saw this way. Although the greeting is definitely a formula, people seem genuinely happy to see one another. You can see people's face light up when it is someone closer to their family. And often men would shake hands and/or hug. Children would stop and stare at me. If I smiled and waved, they would smile from ear to ear and wave "Ca ba!" Translated: ca va. They know to speak french when they see an outsider! Is she African? The old men would ask my guide. He would say "no, she's americaine noire."

My guide is from the village Ende. The second day we reached Ende as a magnificent storm was flashing in the distant sky. It was too hot to sleep inside, but the huge raindrops began to fall sporadically and there was no choice but to go inside. Because of the Harmattan winds, most campements are built with rooms that have no windows, only a door. My room was dark and hot and by the light of the lantern, I could barely make out the images painted on the wall. I sat with the door open and watched the storm. Every few minutes lightening would flash across the sky and give me a mometary glimpse of the room. Just outside the courtyard was a tree that was crammed full with bright white egrets. Everytime the lightening flashed, i could see the black silhouette of the baobab tree covered in little white creatures. It was a very strange sight, like blinking and staring at a strobe light. Am I dreaming? No I am awake. Eventually the rain came. It pelted and poured. But still I kept my door open. I couldn't imagine sleeping in this dark windowless sauna of a room. No, I'd rather deal with any creatures that might find their way into my room.

The next morning, we rose and made a short hike up into the cliffs to see the houses of the Tellem people who proceeded the Dogon.

Mali, Mali, magnificent Mali

What an amazing place this is. I arrived via bus from Burkina Faso one week ago. It was in Burkina Faso that I fell in love with Africa, but Mali. . . Mali is even better!

With a loose plan based on advice from my guide book, I headed to Koro, a town just across the Burkina-Mali border. I was planning to head to Dogon country. I knew I would need a guide and preferably an English speaking one. I had had a cryptic conversation with four French volunteers/tourists on my bus. I needed help translating some of the information in the paperwork at the border. (I must have been distracted by the sound of Eminem blaring from the little transister radio. For a second I was confused. Where am I? Oh that's right, at a little dusty border station in Mali.) At our next stop, they told me they had a guide waiting for them and that I could join them on their 8 day trek if they could negotiate it. By the time we arrived, we decided maybe it would be better if I found an English speaking guide. They said they'd ask their guide for a recommendation. When we unloaded from the bus (imagine a greyhound bus that looked like it had survived a fire and sat through several torrential rain storms, most of it's windows missing) the driver, who knew that I spoke English pointed me to his friend and English guide. The guide for the French group pointed to the same person.

We headed off to a nearby restaraunt and negotiated the arrangements for the trip. Dogon villages are impossible to navigate without a native guide. In addition, the villages are still very traditional, untouched by most modern influences including electricity and running water. Without a guide, no tourist could find their way through the unmarked terrain and through the complex social and caste system, likely offending the elders at every turn.

I had read that it's very easy to pick a guide who isn't qualified. There was a list of questions I was supposed to ask to make sure my guide was capable. But after the bus ride I wasn't too sharp witted, so I had to rely on intuition. We agreed upon 4 days and 3 nights, hiking for about 5 hours a day. The deal included 3 meals, accomodation, photo taxes, and of course the guide. We wrapped up our negotiations just before sunset and joined a taxi brusse {something like a tro-tro} to the next town, Bankass, where we'd stay the night and start out for the villages the next morning.

I was mezmerized by the sunset as we drove ever so slowly along the road, where potholes had long ago become craters so large, that there is no driving around them. You slowly descend into them and out again on the other side. Our trip of 50km or so took nearly 2 hours. Inside the taxi brusse we set a new record for how many people could fit on a seat. The young woman next to me was very fidgety, with her baby on her lap, she managed to find enough room to fling herself around {at the sacrifice of my knees and ribs} and start a music war with a teenage boy in the back. She insisted the driver play her cassette of traditional dogon dance music. But the speakers were shrill and nerve racking and eventually the driver turned off the music. This gave Mr. Youngblood in the back, the opportunity to blast from his full stereo boombox everything from 50 Cent to DMX. Of course I found this as absurd as hearing Eminem at the border and I couldn't suppress my laughter. I turned and asked my guide if they understand the words, he said "No. But they like it anyway."

At about 7 pm, we stopped at a small town along the road to let the muslim men in the taxi get out for their evening prayer. We all got out to stretch. Mr. Youngblood got out too, still blasting 50 Cent. I thought this is so surreal. I am in Mali, I just witnessed a dramatic sunset with long dark shadows and intense colors. I am standing on the side of some unknown road in the dark, there is no electricity. I hear the faint chants of the muslim men saying their evening prayer. I can barely see their light color robes rising and falling as they bow on their mats. And louder than all of this is the sound of DMX echoing through the night air. How very strange. I laughed to myself.

We arrived in Bankass where I spent the first of many nights sleeping on the roof of an adobe campement. Me, a bamboo mat, a mosquito net and all the stars. The first night I wasn't quite prepared for this. I asked my guide if I was sleeping up there alone. He said Dogon don't sleep on the roof, only tourists. When I asked why, he described what would be the first of many explanations about sorcerers and other Dogon beliefs. But I need not worry. Sorcerers won't bother tourists. I looked at him sideways to see if he was serious. He was. Hmmmmmmm, I thought. I've got a lot of questions for him.

More on Burkina. . .

Well I stand corrected on Ouagadougou, though it is most definitely a dusty town, it is not so small. One of the gift shop owners at my hotel who spoke English showed me around on his moped. The capital city is making moves to transform itself into a modern metropolis. We rode out to the edge of town where a "new city" is being developed and constructed. I asked Salam, my guide, who will live here? He said Burkinabes, officials and politicians, rich people.

While in Ouaga, I met a woman from Serbia, Kaja. She in turn introduced me to several other people who were in town for a UN Development conference. I met a Sudanese man and talked with him about the conflicts in Darfour. I met a Nicaraguan man, a woman living in Morroco, a man living in Tanzania and Kaja's boyfriend living in Tanzania. All very interesting conversations. I feel I know a little more about a lot of places.

I didn't do much else in Ouaga before I moved onto Ouahigouya, a small town before the border to Mali.

Ouagadougou, Burkina Faso

Ouagadougou! The capital city of Burkina Faso. I like this little dusty town. I arrived Sunday September 12th, after what should have been a 3 to 4 hour bus ride from Tamale, in northern Ghana. Crossing the border and random police baracades turned the bus ride into an 8 hour event.

There are two classes of transportation. Mopeds and bikes or shiny new Mercedes and SUVS. The streets are flat and dusty. Taxis are few and far between. All the taxis are 1980s Mercedes or Renaults painted the same 1970s kitchen appliance green. I've only taken two taxi rides and happened to have the same driver. The official language is French but most people speak the local language, a little bit of French and some speak a little English. So you can image what communicating is like. I have the French vocabulary of a two year old. Somehow, between a little English, a little French some hand gestures, sound effects and sometimes drawing, I've been able to communicate. Usually both of us end up laughing at the obsurdity of it all. But it hasn't stopped anyone from talking to me. (And typing on a French keyboard is no easy task. Today I found an English keyboard.)

The buildings here in the capital are a mix of islamic architecture and art deco detailing. The weather is dry hot and it often rains in the evening. The first storm I saw, started with whipping winds. The temperature instantly drops 10 to 15 degrees. Red dust fills the air like an old western movie (without the tumbleweed) and people disappear from the streets immediately.

The mosquitos are fierce and clever. They are no larger than a fruit fly and attack silently and quickly. You don't feel it when they bite, only after you start to swell. They work in partnership with the continous swarm of flies. While you are busy swatting all the flies away, the mosquitos are doing their damage. I have three types of skin repellant, mosquito net, spray and repellant to burn inside your room. They laugh at them all.

Although this is supposed to be the poorest country in the West African region, things are quite expensive (especially compared to Ghana.) I paid the equivalent of $5.00 for two eggs, bread and a cup of coffee. I haven't ventured out to try local foods yet. I got sick the first day I arrived and have just been taking it easy. There's not much to do here anyway. I'm a little behind schedule, so I will probably move on to Mali by the weekend. I'm just taking it slow and easy here in Ouagadougou.

Last day in Ghana

Ghana and i had a boxing match. The judges are still deciding who won. For now i'm calling it a draw. Maybe time will declare a winner. I experienced daily acts of extreme kindness by some, matched by others with a hatred so fierce i thought i'd be sold back into slavery. When i've traveled to other places in the world, i've always felt felt like an observer, for the most part invisible. When i came to africa, my desire, without knowing it beforehand, was to become immersed. On a daily basis i go back and forth between wanting to be invisible, to observe, and needing to be immersed, accepted. I certainly have not been invisible and at times it feels like i'm drowning in immersion. Sensory overload. Too much input to decipher. Culture shock.

For now I must move on to the next country. Here are some random observations on Ghana:

time passes slowly

i love the way women greet another woman they know well. . .a high pitched, Aaaayeeee!

men hold hands (or two fingers) with men. women hold hands with women. only once have i seen a man and woman hold hands.

there are no strollers or car seats. babies and toddlers are tied to their mother's backs with a wide piece of cloth. it was very rare that i saw one of these children cry.

foods i've tried:
gari foto, banku, red red, boiled yam, fried yam, pounded yam and more kinds of fish than i can remember

street goods are sold in plastic bags. to eat, tear a hole and squeeze. water and ice cream are also sold in plastic bags.

women rarely drive. i saw no women driving taxis, tro-tros or buses.

goat meat is a delicacy. bush meat, a wild rodent, is a common menu item.

to Ghanaians, Nigeria is a bad word. all things Nigerian are corrupt. except for "Nollywood", the exploding industry of low budget soap operatic movies from Nigeria that are flooding the West African market. i've seen a few. very funny.

everyone wears chaleywatahs (flip-flops) even chiefs.

typical business name:
"Almighty God Tyre Shop"
"El Shadaii Communication Center"
"Seek Ye Supermarket"

common question:
"Are you Christian or Muslim?"

AIDS awareness billboards and advertisements are everywhere.

a common taxi decal reads: "Drive protected. If it's not on, it's not in." there is an illustration of a bus driving into a condom.

music:
high life
hip life
Celine Dion
lot's of Beyonce and R Kelly

taxi language:
arm up in the air bent at the elbow
hend pressing down to the ground
twist the wrist with the hand pointing up
hand pointing back over the shoulder
honking, fast and short
flashing lights

mosquitos are small and sneaky

i will miss the beaches.

Taxis, tro-tros and buses

I estimate that over the duration of my stay in Ghana I rode in about 100 vehicles: taxis, tro-tros and buses.

I could write a book on what I witnessed. It would be something like HBO's "Taxicab Confessions" mixed with Spike Lee's "Get on the Bus."

Ghanaians drive on the right side of the road. The passenger in a "dropping" taxi (one that you ride in alone and takes you door to door) rides next to the driver. Passengers in a shared taxi pack as many as a compact car can fit. Sometimes two in the front passenger seat and four in the back.

Picture this . . .
After you have negotiated the rate through the window and confirmed that the hand signals the driver has made matches your destination, you join two other passengers already in the back seat. It's 2pm. The sun is bright and hot. The back windows don't roll down. Everyone is sweating. Your arm is sticking to the person's next to you. There is no point in repositioning yourself because there is no sense of personal space and eventually the person's limb will find it's way back to yours. The radio is blasting a shrill, trebble only, news broadcast with lot's of static and popping. You are sitting in bumper to bumper traffic. The ancient taxi in front of you is pumping out suffocating clouds of black smoke. There are four teenagers on each side of the car "hawking" their bags of water and rolls of toilet paper. A lively "debate" about the upcoming elections being discussed in the news broadcast ensues inside the car. A passenger gets a call on his mobile phone and proceeds to yell above all the other noise. All of this in a language you don't understand, punctuated now and then by a phrase in English. That's a typical shared taxi ride in Ghana. I've gotten out of a few taxis before reaching my destination, preferring to walk in the sweltering afternoon sun.

A dropping taxi has it's own characteristics. After walking away from a taxi or two for trying to take me for a fool, I agree on a price and sit in the front next to the driver. (Most are offended if you chose to sit in the back.) The driver is usually very talkative and has a standard set of questions. When they find out I live in America, the praises for President Bush flow. More than one driver has asked me to take him back with me so that he can shake Bush's hand. (In southern and coastal Ghana, most people are christian or traditional/animist. Northerners are mostly muslim or traditional/animist. All the christians that I've encountered have been very vocal about their dislike of muslims. This is why it seems that so many support President Bush.) Even more perplexing than these conversations is the music that is blasting from the radio. I had to record a few because no one would believe that a driver was "grooving" to a country western song, another to an early Backstreet Boys track. (Celine Dion is very popular with the ladies. A woman sitting across from me on the bus was studying sheet music for a Celine Dion song.)

Tro-tros strangely enough are very quiet. With the exception of a short outburst of conversation, say over the fact that the driver just passed my requested stop, they are silent. No radio, no loud debates. Silence. Just before my first tro-tro ride departed from the lorry station, I noticed the man sitting next to me ferverntly mouthing what i guessed to be a prayer. Tro-tros have a horrible track record of fatal accidents. Perhaps this is why everyone is silent. Quietly hoping to reach their destinations safely.

Buses . . . buses combine it all. Fear, loathing and laughter. I've heard very personal confessions. Watched as passengers protested the silence and insisted the driver play music. Listened as the whole bus erupts in laughter over a comment, I couldn't understand. Witnessed a verbal fight over a seat that became physical. A man attempted to snatch a women by her collar and pull her from "his" seat. Wrong thing to do when there are several other women around. A long and heated "discussion" followed about how men and women should act. How a woman who's educated would obey a man. I was priviledged enough to hear this one in English because the fight was between northerners and southerners who speak different languages. This particular bus ride was particularly animated and volatile. Others have been completed in near silence.

I think public transport may have been my most immersive experience into Ghanaian culture.

Kumasi, Central Ghana

Kumasi is the capital of the Ashanti (Asante) Region from where the kings of the Gold Coast hail. It was an important locale during the slave era as the Ashanti's were very active in slave trade. The terrain is hilly, the landscape very green. Sunsets are dramatic. The architecture is what remains from the colonial era. The buildings are uncharacteristic for this region. Most are shedding the last coats of red, orange and yellow paint. The rusting roofs are corrogated tin. From a hilltop you will see a vast density of earthtoned buildings surrounded by lush green.

Kumasi is known for it's Kejetia Market, one of the largest markets in Africa. It was like no other experience i've ever had. It gave new meaning to human traffic. Likewise, the streets of Kumasi are hopelessly deadlocked in bumper to bumper taxi traffic. Very few traffic lights, unbelievable traffic.

I visited the chief's palace and ran into a group of guys from California who'd I'd met a few days before in Cape Coast. We all took a tour together and learned about the intricacies of chieftancy and matrilineal inheritance. I asked about the glass cocoa pod in one of the display cases. This prompted the guide to show me the cocoa tree on the premises from which he gave me two cocoa pods.

I tried another Ghanaian chocolate bar. This one was being sold by a vendor out on the sidewalk. It was a very hot day, so much so that the vendor left their display of chocolates to sit in the nearby shade. But! The chocolate was not melting. It was a little soft, but still solid. This brand is called Golden Tree. The bar is called Portem Nut. It's a milk chocolate bar with nuts. No surprise, it was as bad as the Kingsbite bar and upon investigation of the label, I noticed that were made by the same manufacturer.

I stayed in Kumasi for about 5 days. I went to nearby villages to see how they weave kente cloth. Very intricate and amazing to watch. I could only afford to buy a small piece. The fabric is very expensive. I also visited the village where they carve the wooden stools that are significant to the chieftancy and queen mothers. Anyone can buy them and oh what an experience i had bargaining for one!

Kumasi, Kumasi, Kumasi. Equally beautiful and exhausting.

Identity Dilemma

american, oboruni, african-american, black american, jamaican, rastah!, half-caste, mulatto, mixed race? I've heard it all.

I'm most often referred to as oboruni, which means white person. After four weeks of constant sun, I have the darkest tan I've ever had in my life. But here, I'm white. I've seen Ghanaians of all complexions. Even before I speak, I'm still different. I feel like an alien as people stare at me everywhere I go. Men yell "Rastah!" Children yell "Oboruni" and women stare and look me up and down. Frustrated and confused by this, I asked other African Americans living here as well as Ghanaians what it all means.

In one taxi ride, my rib to rib mate asked my nationality. I said "African American" He asked "Who is African? Your mother?" I said "No, my family came from here long ago." I said this with the asumption that everyone here knows about the slave trade from West Africa to the Americas. He knodded, but then looked confused. "You are African American?" he repeated it twice. Since he had knodded, I didn't understand his question. Then I realized to him, unless my mother of father was born in Africa, I was just American.

It's becoming clearer that being oboruni or american is a muddy mixture of class, race and complexion. It means that I come from a place where "they" all want to go. The place from which most of their popular music and movies come. Where images that they aspire to are made. Where life is lovely and easy.

It's times like these that I wish I were a vocalist or musician. Music seems the only way to adquately express this confusing experience. The song would be a mixture of Nina Simone's moodiness and Miles Davis' formless meandering. It would be a blend of "Sometimes I feel like a motherless child/ a long way from home" and my all time favorite, "Summertime and the living is easy/ fish are jumping and the cotton is high/ your daddy's rich and your ma is good looking/ so hush little baby, don't you cry."

Bittersweet.

My second week in Ghana I met an amazing woman for whom I have much respect. Much respect! Seestah Imahkus Okofu is an African American who moved back to Africa 15 years ago with her husband Nana Okofu. Together they run One Africa, a guest lodge that includes six individual chalets located on beautiful oceanfront property, a restarurant and a small museum. I planned to stay for a couple of days but stayed for a week instead. I love the ocean! The warm Atlantic Ocean!

I had just arrived in Cape Coast and Elmina. After checking into a scary hotel, I walked down to the coast, sat crying in a restaurant, wishing I could go home. After eating red red (black eyed peas with a palm oil and tomato sauce and fried plantain) I pulled myself together and headed back to the hotel. I decided I couldn't stay there. Even if they didn't give my money back I was leaving. They refunded my money.

My friend Shiree, back in Oakland, had given me instructions to find friends of hers in Cape Coast. She said go to One Africa and they will help you find my friends. A taxi dropped me off at One Africa and we tried to reach them by phone. We couldn't reach them so I decided I was going to stay there no matter the price. It was the equivalent of $31 a night. My whole daily budget! At this point I didn't care. I would rather go without eating, just to feel safe.

This turned out to be the right decision. The whole One Africa family took good care of me while I was there. The first night I sat in my chalet vomiting red red. I heard a knock at the door and there was Seestah Imahkus to check on me and to bring me some tea and herbs to settle my stomach.

We would later have many conversations about her return to Africa and her extensive travels around the world, alone. She listened to my frustrations and told me about two books she has written, "Returning Home Ain't Easy, But it Sure is a Blessing" and "Points to Ponder."

After returning to the chalet each day, I'd go outside to the oceanside table and join the ever present group of people for dinner and discussion. They'd ask me about my day and offer interpretations and encouragement in response to my daily frustrations.

I met several great people during my stay. Some, traveller's like me, passing through. Others, permanent residents of Ghana. My week at One Africa kept me in Ghana. I felt much stronger as a result of my stay.

The day before I left to head back to Accra, I confronted an employee at an internet cafe. When I went to the counter to pay my bill, his coworker asked who the bill was for. He said "Aewekj kd kojklj oboruni alkalkjf" and pointed at me. I said in English "I'm not white." He said "You're not? You're Black?" I said "Yes. I am Black." He said "But your color is so different." He apologized and extended his hand in sincerity. I'm still confused by this exchange. Mostly because Black American culture is prevalent everywhere I've been so far. Music, music videos, fashion, movies, all things popular. Some of the good, but mostly the bad. (I would later make a complaint to an internet cafe manager about offensive unedited music they were blasting over the sound system. Does the meaning not translate? No one else seemed to care, women and other foreigners included.)

I see I have much more to learn about what it means to be seen as an oburoni african american something or other.

check out this commentary on oboruni:
click here

Eastern Region Ghana. Part 2

I arrived in Koforidua after dark. I had made a policy to avoid traveling to new places at night. But it's "winter" here and the sun sets at 6pm. This time I couldn't avoid it. On our way, I looked through my bag for the list of hotels in this area. Somehow I had left all the information. I looked in my West Africa guidebook and there was nothing! There was no point in panicking, and I couldn't let on that I didn't know where I was going.

As we approached the lorry station, I kept my eyes out for signs advertising hotels. I only saw one. The Capital View Hotel. Fortunately, the tro-tro stop was in front of a petrol station with a convenience store. I went inside, waited until there were no customers around and asked the woman at the counter for a phone directory. She seemed confused and loudly asked her co-worker to help me with the phone directory. He brought one out and within minutes, I was surrounded by men asking me the usual questions. They wanted to know what I was looking for. I couldn't say I didn't know, so I distracted them by asking them questions. Just as I located the phone number of the hotel, I looked up to see one young man with his mobile phone camera pointed at my face. I dropped my head and he insisted, not asked, that I lift my head and let him take the photo. I said no. Recent experience with village women trying to marry me to their sons and nephews made me wary about being "captured" in this man's phone, not to mention he had just met me 30 seconds before. I can only imagine the story he'd have to go with my photo . . .

I got the number, went outside to call the hotel and reserved a room. It was the equivalent of $25 dollars a night. More than my daily allotment for a hotel. I figured I had no other choice since I hadn't seen a listing or sign for any other hotel. It was a very nice hotel. Running water, hot water, air conditioning, tv and refrigerator. Best of all, I didn't need to hang my mosquito net!

I woke up the next morning refreshed and caught a taxi to the tourist board where I sought information about the Cocoa Research Institute of Ghana (CRIG). There was only one man working and he quickly volunteered to write a letter of introduction so that I could have better access. He gave me brochures on local sites to see and pointed me to the tro-tro that would take me.

My first stop was the Bunsu Arboretum. The arboretum is a planted forest of various species of trees and flowers. There is also a butterfly sanctuary. I met a forestor at the visitor center and we headed into the forest. He began his long introduction about the history of the arboretum. I interrupted to him to say that although I was interested in all the trees, I was especially interested in the cocoa trees. This was my reason for coming. He assured me that we'd see some. The tree that I found the most fascinating is the one that produces the monkey nut. The nut tastes like a combination of a coconut and a brazil nut. We meandered through until we reached the cocoa trees. The forestor then pointed out that these trees actually belonged to a farmer and not the arboretum and that he was not "into" cocoa. He stood at the entrance and waited while I walked in to take photos. After two photos he asked if I was done. I said "not quite." He said if I wanted to talk to the farmer I could hike two miles or so to the village "that way" and look for him. Feeling like I had been hussled out of my money and time, I declined and we headed back to the visitor center.

The arboretum, I was told, is run by the same organization that runs CRIG. So I asked the forestor how to get to CRIG. He said it was just a little ways down the road. We walked, in the blistering mid day sun, single file down the narrow rural road to a farm that is an outpost of CRIG, but not CRIG. No one was there. He suggested another place and I told hin, no, that I would find my way to the main site.

I caught a tro-tro in the opposite direction and arrived at the grand archway leading into the campus of CRIG. I went to the public relations office, showed my letter and asked if I could have a tour. The young woman there was not sure what to think of me and pointed out that usually you send the letter in advance and wait for an appointment. It was obvious that she wasn't busy and I could see she was considering giving me the tour anyway. She showed me the few cocoa products they had in the office and gave me a general overview of what they do. But she still had not agreed to the tour. I was pretty sure I could convince her. I asked if she was a scientist, this did the trick. She was flattered and explained that though she was not a scientist, she's required to know what all the departments do. She agreed to the tour and only charged me the student price.

On the tour, I saw the "museum", more like a nursery, where they study diseased plants. We walked on to where they ferment and dry seeds/beans that are harvested from the trees on their campus. Even though it is not high cocoa season, there are always pods to harvest. They ferment the beans in a large open pavillion with a concrete floor and corrugated tin roof. My guide broke opened some pods and we tasted the sweet fruit that surrounds the beans. We walked into the "forest" and looked at several species of cocoa trees.

After the tour I stopped in the shop to buy some cocoa products that they produce. Only cocoa soap was available. When it's high season they have a range of products such as cocoa gin, wine, brandy, etc.

Everyone I encountered in this region seemed genuinely interested in helping me. I hope this will continue to be my experience as I move north through Ghana. One man went as far to say that I was welcome and that Ghanaians are sorry for things that have happened in the U.S. in the past. I thought he was one of the rare people to mention slavery and to welcome me. But I soon understood he was referring to Sept 11. He paid for my tro-tro fare and showed me where to transfer. He never asked for my number or address. He didn't ask for anything. I am very grateful for the few people like this man who I have encountered.

Eastern Region Ghana. Part 1

This past Saturday I took my first real tro-tro ride to the eastern region of Ghana. Tro-tros are old minivans, in really bad condition, with extra seats added. These vans came equipped to seat 7 passengers. With the "modified" seating, most pack in 12 to 16 passengers. The driver and mate (who opens the door and takes your money) hang out the window and yell the destination and make hand gestures.

I had done my best to avoid using tro-tros, not ready to be packed rib to rib in a rusty minivan with live chickens laying on the floor. But in some regions it's the only way to travel. I had no other choice. After making my way through the lorry station, where you get on or transfer, I began to understand some of the madness. It wasn't so bad after all. If the windows aren't tinted or you aren't positioned directly behind someone's head, the view is nice and it's a good way to see many towns and villages.

My first stop was Akosombo. I planned to take the once weekly pleasure "cruise" on the Volta Lake, the world's largest man made lake. To the tune of a live high life band, I sat and discussed my experiences with two volunteers from Canada. They had been living in the Northern region for the last four months and were making their way south to Accra to fly home. They had advice for me, people to ask for in villages I'll visit, where to stay and the much discussed topic of how much taxis and tro-tros should cost.

The Dodi Princess, our cruise ferry, makes a stop and turnaround at Dodi Island. We "alighted" and were immediately met with outstretched hands. Each passenger was flanked on both sides by small children clinging to their arms and hands. At first it seemed like a welcoming gesture. As we were led along a path, two groups of dancers and drummers sang a welcome song.

The path was steep and when I reached into my bag for my camera, I couldn't free my hand! It soon became apparent that this welcoming gesture of children coming to hold our hands was nothing more than a plot to extract money. The path to the other side of the island was short and we found ourselves in a traffic jam. Their was no where to go and nothing to do. We all stood around looking confused.

We passed an angry Ghanaian man who ranted about what a hoax this was. He hadn't paid his 60,000 Cedis for this! "Why hasn't Ghana developed the island? I paid my money! What are they doing will all the money? Europeans would have developed this island. They would know what to do." We cringed and walked away. Even though Ghana was the first to defeat colonialism and claim it's independence, the evidence of colonialism is still apparent everywhere. So many Ghanaians still feel like "others" do it better. The "others" know what is best.

With nothing to do and no where to go, we decided to head back to the Dodi Princess. I had already shaken off my hangers on. My two new friends were trying their best to break free. At every step four sets of hands would reach up to grab our arms. We asked what they wanted, and now the truth came. . ."geeve mohney"

Everyone on the cruise rode back in near silence. Many people slept. When we arrived back at the dock, we said our goodbyes, exchanged contact information and I took a taxi back to the guesthouse to get my bag.

On to the next town, by tro-tro!

My next destination was Koforidua and New Tafo, home to the Cocoa Research Institute of Ghana (CRIG) and many cocoa farms and plantations.

First Cocoa Farm

Village near Brenu and Elmina (sometime in week 2. i've lost track of date and time)

My new found friend Japhiya (an African American living in Ghana with his family) agreed to take me to a cocoa farm not too far from where I was staying in Elmina along the coast. We took his apprentice carpenter along as our translator. Although English is the official language, most people speak Twi or Akan and don't understand our "American accents."

The three of us drove off the main road along a dirt packed road. We drove past corn fields, villagers walking by with loads on their heads and piles of harvested produce sitting along the road.

We reached a small village and our interpretor went to find the cocoa farmer. The two came back, the farmer with his machete and we continued down the dirt road. Not too far away we pulled to the side of the road where a dense and dark forest of trees stood to the right and a corn and yam field sat to the left. We got out and followed the cocoa farmer as he quickly went along and cut down ten or so cocoa pods. I tried my best to keep up and take photos and video. The pace was fast and the rain was starting to fall. I notice a pile of discarded and burnt cocoa shells. (After the pods are cut open and the seeds and fruit cut out, the outside is burnt and crushed and used to make other products.)

We hopped back in the tro-tro (like a mini-van) and headed back to the village. I told them I wanted to see how they fermented the beans/seeds. When we arrived at the village, we followed the cocoa farmer through his small village to his family's hut. Outside on a drying bed made from bamboo, a pile of seeds was laying out to dry. They have a strange smell while fermenting, something like vinegar. Japhiya asked if you can eat the fermenting beans. I was concerned about all the flies feeding on the beans. The farmer picked up a bean, peeled off the outside and popped the dark center into his mouth.

It was a very fast visit. The major cocoa harvest starts in late september, but you can find some ripe pods all through out the year.

As Japhiya and I drove back to Elmina, we discussed the challenges of the cocoa farmers and how they struggle to survive. The village we visited was typical for this region. The ground around all the huts is made of pounded dirt. There are a few businesses that sit along the road. Behind the businesses are the family houses or compounds. Most are constructed from hand made cement bricks and have a thatched roof. As we walked through a woman came and asked us for money. Two children stopped and stared at us as if we were aliens. When Japhiya said hello, they picked up their sticks and ran.

We stopped at a station to get petrol and Japhiya suggested that I try a chocolate made in Ghana. It's called Kingsbite. I tried the milk chocolate because it wall they had in the store. It was by far the worst chocolate I've ever put in my mouth! I had been warned, but I couldn't believe it. I had to spit it out. I was chalky, dry, gritty and barely tasted like chocolate. I held a piece in my hand for five minutes. It never melted.

It's really amazing that the world's number two producer of cocoa has the worst chocolate and that it imports decent chocolate from several European countries. Exporting raw goods and importing the same goods as a finished product is one of the many reason why cocoa farmers are so poor. I can't help but think that Ghana can make a much better chocolate for consumption here as well as for export. A business idea waiting to happen . . .

As I travel to the eastern region of Ghana over the next week, I hope to visit several more farms/forests as well as the site of the original cocoa farm in Mampong. Also in the same region is the Cocoa Research Institute of Ghana. Research here is aimed at increasing the amount of seeds in each pod as well as introducing a new species of cocoa trees that are resistant to disease.

I'm still on the look out for a better Ghanaian chocolate.

Cape Coast and Elmina Slave Castles

I visited both the slave dungeons in Cape Coast and Elmina. I've had a hard time writing about my experience. Maybe it will come later. Maybe it will come only in a visual form.

Homowo

(This excerpt is from a Ghanaian paper, "The Spectator, Your Weekend Companion")

PRAMPRAM CELEBRATES HOMOWO

"The chief and people of Prampram in the Greater Accra Region on Tuesday started activities marking their two-day annual Homowo festival. Homowo of the Ga-Adangbe people, which literally means "hooting for hunger," traditionally signifies a period of abundant harvest after a prolonged famine.

Paramount Chief Nene Tetteh Djan III accompanied by his elders enter the "La Luwe" shrine to perform rites and to seek the blessing of gods before starting the sprinkling of the kpokpoi (festival meal of maize meal and palm nut soup.)"

_____________________________________________

At the time I was happy I came across this article, because I spent the day in confusion. The procession of brightly dressed and high spirited dancers meandered through the main street of Prampram. I didn't understand what was being said and I was being pushed and pulled along by two journalists that I rode with from Accra. People in the procession would push me forward into the suffocating crowd so that I could be in prime position for photos and video. I think they assumed I was media and they wanted to be sure they were documented. It was searing hot and the crowd was rambunctious. We moved along stopping at several historically important sites to give offerings of thanks. Two teenagers at the front of the procession held carved objects that had been fashioned like guns. They stuffed gun powder inside and ignited it. More than once my ear drums felt like they were being shattered as they set off their guns at less than arms distance from where I stood. They took their role very seriously and I am sure I have some photos that without knowing the context you would swear they were hardcore gangsters.

After a couple of hours the group began to dissipate and people went back to their homes to begin the feast. I was in the company of Chief Linguist Attah Lartey. He wanted to be sure that I saw the whole of Prampram and escorted me from family compound to family compound. I was tired, hot and very hungry. He assured me that we would stop at his family's compound to eat the maize and palm nut soup. At first I did want to try it, but after sitting in one compound and understanding that all 12 people would be eating from the large bowl on the floor (where the flies had already begun to feast) I decided I had been in Africa less than a week and perhaps my stomach couldn't handle it. So I told him that I wanted to head back to Accra. But he had to stay because of the festival. So I was on my own. I would have find my way to Accra, alone. I assured him that I would be fine, though I was anything but fine. I figured, I came to Africa alone, so I better get used to the unexpected.

The trip back required that I transfer from one taxi to another at a town midway to Accra. I was nervous, but all went well and I made it safely back to Accra in an hour and a half.

I think only the video footage can show the true spirit of this Homowo festival. It was all about sound and motion.

Prampram. Nearby fishing village

Today I went to a small fishing village with a sub chief/linguist and met the paramount chief. Pretty amazing. They let me sit in a traditional tribal council. I felt awkward since I was the only woman and I was dressed "western". The sub chief was encouraging me to take photos, but I felt out of place. I stood in the doorway and tried not to impose. I'm supposed to go back on Tuesday when they have their annual celebration called Homowo.

Accra, Ghana

I got to see more of Accra today. On the way to an internet cafe, we passed a corner where they were selling gigantic "portraits" of people. The first six or so were some African politicians I didn't recognize. The last one in the series was President Bush!!! I laughed out loud in the car. The driver probably thinks I'm crazy. I'll have to try to get a picture of it. The weather here is nice. It's similar to San Francisco weather. Breezy, sunny. It's supposed to be rainy season/winter, but there is no rain. I was bit by a mosquito or something yesterday. I was tired when I got in and forgot to put on bug repellant. I did sleep with my net and I'm already missing water. How much bottled water can a person carry?

Africa. Day One!

The flight from Lagos to Accra was late of course, but fine. I fell asleep instantly so I can't tell you a darn thing about the flight. My arrival into Lagos from London was a little hairy. Fortunately the Jamaican Nigerian guy sitting next to me looked after me when we landed. In Ebo he told the immigration officer to take care of me and to let nothing happen. After being taken to a room that looked like an interrogation room, I waited as an older British man sat before three officers insisting that they give back his passport. They had already taken mine. They laughed and spoke to each other in Ebo, obviously taunting the man.

Eventually I was in the hands of airport security and escorted about. They'd say things like "cjlgoiual agoiaoidsfm transit alkjsd;lkago lagoiaojf". "Ehh, ehh" the other person would respond and point at me. I was lead, alone, down dark hallways with no one around. Scary at 5 am when you are sleep deprived. Then they took me to one room to wait for the Ghana Airways office to open. A woman was sleeping on a broken down bench. I waited and watched as several people came in and out of the dim and dusty room. They had taken my passport and plane ticket. So I kept my eyes on whoever had it.

The two lady employees began asking me about my hair. "Is that your hair? Is that all your hair? How do you get it that way? Are you Jamaican? How do you "bath"? Can you "loose" it? I figured after this discussion, we'd developed a bond and they would look after me.Which they did. I was escorted to the front of the long Ghana Airways check in line, where excess baggage of 8 pieces is the norm.

I was then escorted to the line for boarding. I thought it unusual that the plane was nearly finished boarding since the check in line had just begun and I was the first person checked in. But I thought myself lucky and handed my ticket to the agent. She tore it and the next agent waved me on. Still I thought something was wrong so I asked if this was a flight to Accra. He said yes, but I must have looked confused and he asked to see the remaining portion of my ticket stub. It was indeed the wrong flight. The wrong airline at that! I wouldn't have minded except that my luggage had already been checked into Ghana Airways. The agent began to randomly check other passenger's tickets and determined that I was the only one who had been wrongly boarded.

I sat down and waited for what became 3 hours for my flight on Ghana airways. I was nervous because of the things I had heard about Ghana airways and more nervous about the prospect of being stranded in Lagos (nicknamed the wild wild west) without a visa. When boarding time was called people rushed the counter like it was first come first served. As I was pressed into the crowd I asked the man next to me what was going on. He repeated what they had announced. Those with no seat assignment printed on their ticket had to step aside. They have overbooked! Trying not to panic I asked where on the ticket I should find the seat assignment. Mine was printed "8A". Whew!

An hour later I arrive in Accra to begin the first of many "negotiations" with taxi drivers. The taxi driver delivered me to the home of my friend's parents. I have arrived! My first day in Africa.

April in Africa

* destination: Ghana, Burkina Faso, Mali and Senegal
* 31 years old, trekking solo for 3 months

This is the year. This is the year. In January, I declared it. I was packing to move into a new apartment. I leafed through all the guide books and women's travel memoirs I had collected. I found old journals detailing which countries I'd visit and how long I'd stay in each. Had old maps and articles filed away, I knew I would need them.

I decided I'd only sign a six month lease, just in case. In May I gave notice to my job, where I have worked as an exhibit designer for the past four years. When I gave notice to my landlady, it was official! No turning back now.

I pulled out all the old notes, studied and highlighted all the guide books, talked to other travelers, read online forums, talked to Africans and concluded, West Africa had to be my destination.

Those around me are subjected to unsolicited information about chocolate. I love chocolate! Can I say it again? I love chocolate. In recent years, as my palate has developed, I've also become more interested in cocoa/cacao, and where it comes from. Africans and people of the African Diaspora are the farmers and producers of most of the world's cocoa. Cote d'Ivoire and Ghana are the number one and number two producers worldwide. So of course I have to go to West Africa! It only makes sense.

I know there is a major divide between the world's love of chocolate and the conditions under which cocoa farmers work. What will happen when I visit these farms? Will I feel guilty? Will I still love chocolate? Will I become a full time crusader of fair trade and protestor of slave labor? Could I handle a day's work as a cocoa farmer? Do cocoa farmers have a cultural and spiritual connection to the harvest? Or is it only a way to make a living? How many cocoa farmers have tasted chocolate? How has world demand affected local economics, politics, education and healthcare?

As much as I love chocolate, it's not my only mission. Many African Americans make a pilgrimage to the slave ports/dungeons along the coast. I will visit the slave ports along Ghana's coast. Though I've heard others describe how they felt, I can't anticipate what my experience will be. I hope to be transformed by it all. . . Ghana's beaches and markets, Burkina Faso's art and intricately painted houses, Mali's music and dogon villages, Senegal's food and coastal islands.

Will I have returned home? Will I feel a connection to the land and people? Can I slow down and move at an "African" pace? Can I handle the heat? These are some of my questions. Family and friends have another line of questioning: Why are you going alone? Can't you find someone to go with you? What are you going to do for three months? Why did you choose these countries? Will you be safe? Do you know anyone? What if you get sick? How will we talk to you? Whatlanguage will you speak? Why are you going? Why are you leaving your job? What are you going to do whenyou get back? Are you coming back?

Yes, I bought a round trip ticket. After a week in London, I arrive in Ghana August 11. I will travel overland from Ghana, up to Burkina Faso, then on to Mali and Senegal. I will fly out of Senegal in November, stop briefly in Paris and then return to the U.S.

My last two months have been filled with research and preparation. Becoming a nomad is a lot of work. Plane tickets, immunizations, visas, moving into storage,planning, packing, budgeting, worrying, and saying goodbye.

As I was packing, I came across an excerpt I had taken from Paulo Coelho's "The Pilgrimage": ". . . when you travel, you experience in a very practical way the act of rebirth. You confront completely new situations, the day passes slowly, and most journeys you don't even understand the language people speak. So you are like a child just out of the womb . . . at the same time, since all things are new,you see only the beauty in them, and you feel happy to be alive."

The time is here, two days to go. . .