Junie's Online Thoughts
Saturday, August 16, 2003
Yesterday afternoon, before we took Marcy to the airport (another gal who was leaving), we heard Sugar, the 5 year old of our landlord, shrieking her head off. She continued for over forty minutes and we were starting to wonder what the hell was going on...if someone was skinning her alive. Marcy went over and asked the nanny what was happening. She explained that Sugar woke up from her nap and wanted a Fanta. They had spilled a little and thought it might be best not to give her any. She proceeded to freak out into a huge tantrum that left them confused and at a loss as to what to do with her when she wouldnt cease her screaming. Jesus. What a rich 5 year old can get away with in this country. When Margaret came home, she got her Fanta and a snack and stopped crying. No regular kid would ever get away with that behavior here.
We tried a new Indian restaurant last night. Turns out they were celebrating their Independence day with a buffet (we had already ordered so we missed out), but when we were finished, one of the owners came over. She explained the reason for the celebration and said that she'd wanted to give their first customers a gift. For once my early supper tendencies have paid off. We got a really nice bottle of wine, as well as free desserts from the buffet (yummmmm..coconut cookies and Indian rice pudding and fresh fruit.) I think we may go back tonight for the buffet (its this weekend only) because those coconut cookies alone would make me pay 70,000 for as many as I could eat. The food was plentiful and delicious. Glad we tried it.
Today Jeremy is finishing his tests. He was told that before he could start his interviews, he had to complete a new addition to his IRB (the thing that ensures he doesnt endanger any of his informants and uses ethical practices). He sent for the required book, paid $70 to FedEx it here, read it and was ready to take the online test yesterday. However he'd gotten an email from the committee explaining that they'd suddenly changed the policy and the book was useless. He now had to complete six online test modules for his approval. What a pain and a waste of time and money. Two are finished...four more to go today.
Im emailing today....we bought some fabric.....and then we gear up for our trip to Kumasi on Tuesday morning. We'll be there until the weekend, but I hope to check my email sometime during the week.
Happy early birthday to Taylor (its tomorrow)!!!! Happy 50th!
Thursday, August 14, 2003
Well, in true Ghanaian fashion, Konrad and Afrika's drama ended as quickly as it started. They made peace and all's well.
I got sick again yesterday...runny stomach...so we watched a movie at Ross's (Matrix Reloaded...okay) and I walked them to Ryan's Irish Pub.
Quiet day today....nothing new.
Wednesday, August 13, 2003
I had a long strange day yesterday, but first I have to finish the story of our trip to Burkina.
Okay, we left off at the Maison du People, then drinking Sprite. As we walked home, we tried to decide the order of our evening. We opted to stop in a Pizzeria, have a slow drink, then order supper around 6:30. Cute place. More local beer and besop juice (from hybiscus leaves). It rained a bit and we watched the waiters scurry to remove the tablecloths and seat cushions (only to replace them all twenty minutes later.) Pizza tasted great...really thin crust. Then, a bit worried about our bags, we looked for a taxi as we headed in the direction of the hotel. By the time one actually passed, we were nearly home and just finished the last eight blocks on foot without any problems.
We retired to the patio, drank a large water and played cards. Then we moved to the bedroom to sleep. That afternoon, we'd switched to a cheaper room--this one was 6500 CFA--but it had no self contained bathroom. The door consisted of a padlock on the outside and a slide bolt inside. The bathrooms stood nearby and werent too shabby. However, the spare bedroom's fan sounded like a cross between a helicopter pad and a chef angrily chopping vegetables on a wooden cutting board. The lights worked, but the slats in the door had no screen, so mosquitoes came and went as the pleased. This is what $11 can buy you. I shoved kleenex in my ears to block out the fan (which served to impede the flight of the mosquitoes), hung cloth over the door and tried to sleep.
We woke early, and my stomach was pretty sick. I pulled myself together, we packed and checked out of the hotel. Then we argued for a taxi to Gare Routinou to wait for the CTI bus to leave at 8:30 am. Well, that didnt happen. The bus guy proceeded to pack the luggage compartment, then empty the entire thing, only to repack it minutes later. They continued to sell tickets. We waited. When we could eventually board, we assumed that the number on our tickets indicated our seats. Two and Three were right up front. Turns out we were wrong (thanks to the translation skills of some french gals sitting next to us). Those seats were for the driver's mates, so I crammed into a nearby aisle seat, with Jeremy ahead of me, pressed up against a metal bar and eating his knees.
An hour later, we pulled into some random lorry park so the driver could wash the front of the bus. Then he washed the inside. Then he started an argument with some bystander. When we finally pulled out of the park, with a new driver, and ended up directly in front of the original station, we were 2 1/2 hours late, but headed to Kumasi at last.
I felt excited to return to Ghana. Ghana is good. If we ever come back to Ouaga, we're taking the 24 hour bus or breaking it up into trotros that leave immediately after they've filled up. This part-way bus business is for the birds. Some other parts of the trip help make it frustrating...if you go to Ouaga, and things arent much different that what you see every day in Ghana (minus a lot of the best things), then it seems silly to go through all the trouble of transport and language woes. Im sure we missed so much of the culture because we couldnt understand 90% of what was happening around us. But next time we need to stay longer, or shorten transport, or else the trip isnt really work taking. In any case, I've got a list of missed photos for the next time we swing up this way (if we head to Mali next year) and would like to catch a movie at the Burkina Cinema. Hopefully by then my french improve enough to understand the answers given to me by folks when I ask them questions.
We reached the Burkina border. This time, the guard took everyone's passports and papers and told us to wait by the bus. How nervewracking---knowing my passport was god knows where. But it appeared, a half an hour later, stamped and ready to go. We boarded the bus, then drove 100 yards to the Ghana border to do it all over again. ECOWAS folks moved to the front, passport folks (Jeremy, myself and the two French gals) to the back. Easy as pie, but we had to wait for the ECOWAS people to finish. Tick tick tick.....By then it was 2:30 pm and we were not even moving toward Tamale....my stomach was runny and queasy. I did distance calculations in my head...even if we left soon, we still wouldnt make it into Kumasi before 1 am. We'd hoped for a fast car directly into Accra, but who knows how we would feel by then and what would be available at that hour. We might even relive our previous pleasure of sleeping on Bench City, care of Kumasi bus station. Whew! Adventure!
Through it all, I didnt stop comparing our trip with two others. My friend Regan paid for a 24 hour bus ride in Malawi that turned into three straight days on the bus. Talk about the trip from hell. Secondly, goats were tied to the luggage rack on the roof of the bus next to us, headed all the way to Abidjan, Cote d'Ivoire. At least I have a seat. At least I wont slip off the roof and break my neck on my leash. Life could always be much, much worse.
We drove and drove, I grew sicker and sicker, and by 1 am the bus pulled into Kumasi. Leading the French gals, we all chose to sleep at the Hotel de Kingsway, which turned out to be a lot more expensive than we thought. We paid 110,000 (another $11 room) and this time got our own bathroom, but dirty sheets and dreary decorations. Yet we were far too exhausted to care much and soon feel asleep.
The next day, we left around lunchtime in a trotro to Accra. It was soo good to be home. Clean bathroom. Strong shower. Frig of water and food. Comfortable bed. All of our stuff. Ahhh..........We cleaned the house, shopped for a few groceries and I laid down to sleep off feeling sick.
By Monday I felt better. Then came yesterday. What a weird, weird day. We ran around running leftover errands for Erin, shopped, Jeremy studied his book needed to take his IRB test and I fought the return of the runny stomach. At seven we hooked up with Konrad. Konrad leaves for Germany on Thursday and asked us to join him at his going away dinner last night at the Orangery. We drove him and Marcy, his roomie, and met up with his colleagues and other folks. I've never seen the restaurant so busy, and service truly sucked. The waitresses continued to serve new tables their entire meals, while half of our table sat ignored without food for more than an hour. In addition, during dinner, Konrad raged about a deal he had with our other friend, Afrika, over some drums. He'd promised Konrad ten drums months ago, but still hadnt delivered. The ones he did drop off were subpar and starting to mold. He was supposed to meet Afrika after dinner to sort it out. But during dinner, he barely spoke. He looked distracted and detached. We tried to engage him. It didnt last long.
After dinner we waited for him to talk to Afrika, expecting a short exchange to set up a meeting. Instead, Konrad grew quickly shrill, screaming that he had given AFrika so much money, that the drums were bad and then starting to hit his shoulders and chest. Our friend, Capito, pulled his motorcycle around and tried to break up the fight. I stood a few feet away, not knowing if I should step in. Finally I yelled for them to stop, but they were heated and raging. Capito pushed them apart. We told Konrad to move, that our car was leaving and he needed to cool out. As we entered our car, Afrika came by wanting to talk to him. Konrad lunged out of the backseat, shrieking. Jeremy shoved him back and closed the door. Afrika asked us to wait so they could talk, I said no because they were too hot, Capito yelled for us to get out of there and Jeremy turned the car around to leave. What the hell just happened?
We passed a cop roadblock and didnt stop in time. Thankfully he didnt mind and just let us pass without yelling at us or giving us trouble. When we got home, Konrad was nearly in tears, upset and still raging. Jeremy and I were both upset and mad at how poorly he handled the situation. In hindsight, I think he was gearing up for a fight all evening. I think he thought he was being cheated and wanted to make a stand. Konrad isnt the macho type. He's lanky, tall and very quiet in groups. I think this might have been his first fight and he had probably imagined a speech. But his percolating rage overwhelmed him and the whole thing went to hell in a handbasket. Its a pity, its all so stupid. Likewise, Afrika is not a fighter. He's a bit of a stoner and it takes him longer to get his act together, but he does not tolerate anyone insulting his honor. And now everyone loses...we are all implicated in his drama, when we have no beef with Afrika or Konrad or anyone else. Its not our business, we just offered the guy a ride. Jeremy was most angry that Konrad had started a fight by our car and had he been staying longer, probably would have confronted him and threatened to kick him out of the car. The whole thing was weird and bad and too aggressive to understand.
When we pulled out of the house this morning, Afrika stood there with more drums and bags. He tried to explain his side of things, but I wanted to just say that it didnt matter. It had nothing to do with us. Blech. It all feels so crappy.
Anyway, Im sick again today. More runny stomach and sore throat. I think we're headed to Ross's house tonight to watch Matrix Two, then Im going to bed.
Hi to Angie (it was soooooo good to talk to you!!) and hi to the rest of you. Drop me a line to catch me up on all y'all's lives, okay?
Tuesday, August 12, 2003
I'd meant to continue our trip to Burkina today, but Im feeling like total crap. I am sooooo very, very tired and my keyboard is sticking every ten letters, which is really pissing me off. So you will have to wait one more day for the end of our adventure......sorry.
Monday, August 11, 2003
And so begins the long story of our trip to Burkina...We heard rumors of a 24 hour bus from Accra to Ouagadougou, but it turns out that it only leaves from Accra on Saturday. Instead we opted to break up the transport into chunks. First, on Tuesday, we'd go from Accra all the way to Bolgatanga, sleep, then do the rest on the next day. It began with typical STC bullshit...running more than an hour late, arguments over seats and excess baggage. Except in this case, the porters had put giant mounds of burlap sacks under the middle aisle seats, so the people sitting there had nowhere to put their own bags. They had to stack the suitcases in front of the back door (directly in front of our seats), which gave them a little leg room, but made exiting that much more of a traffic jam. Finally, we took off. Road crews are tearing up the road from Accra to Kumasi (a good thing too...its the number one road for causing accidents and deaths) so needless to say, the ride felt like being inside a clothes dryer. I had eaten an egg and bread before we left (usually a good idea, but this one was really runny...one of the few foodstuffs that instantly curdle my stomach) so I wasnt feeling like a winner from the get-go. Jeremy grew more and more frustrated, trying to sleep, but forever clunking his head against either my shoulder or the window.
I opted to do the word find in the P & P (People and Places, a weekly tabloid--this week's headline: "Python used to eject tenant.") My nearly unintelligible lines reminded me of a time my folks drove me home from Hamline University. They had borrowed someone's van and there was no room for me in the front seats. Instead I had to sit in the back, amidst all of my bags and boxes, in a folding chair, deafened by the rattling of the sides of the van, numbed by the bumpy road and constantly throwing my arms out so I wouldnt topple over. At least this time, I had Jeremy to lean against.
The bus arrived in Kumasi, stopped briefly, then continued on to Tamale. The scenery looked different. The last time we passed this way was on our trip to Mole over Christmas, during the pre-rainy season. Now instead of brown dusty earth, we saw plenty of green. When we got into Tamale, I made the mistake of using the toilets. I had forgotten how awful the STC urinal was....blech. Anytime you have to step over a block and stand to pee in a large trough, with no door, no privacy and no toilet paper, its bound to be a bad experience. Plus, I still havent gotten the hang of squatting urinals without either splashing on my clothes or myself or stepping in giant puddles of excrement. Blech.
Instead of waiting for pokey STC, we walked to the trotro park to catch a late afternoon Bolgatanga car. While waiting for it to fill up, I learned my first lesson of the trip from a Ghanaian vendor woman sitting in front of me. If you buy a cob of grilled, tasteless feed corn and only eat half, you can tie the rest in the bottom of your skirt and save it for later. Good to know.
Tamale to Bolga was fine, although it took longer than I remembered. We arrived into Bolga late, but out of pity, the trotro driver dropped us off directly at the Sand Garden hotel. (The last time we came to Bolga, we had also arrived late. We stayed in town, but Nina knew of this nice restaurant called the Sand Garden. AFter nearly an hour's walk in the dark, we found it, and had a super tasty meal. This is why we chose to stay there this time.) However, this decision turned out to be a big mistake. At the reception desk, I asked if the restaurant was still open. Yes, he said. Fine. We dropped off our stuff in one of the expensive rooms (the cheaper ones were filled, but he did knock off 30,000 from our rate because the A/C was broken) and plopped ourselves in the restaurant. The waiter took our order, and another man appeared. He said that only a few options were available because the kitchen was closing, and we could have the veggie burger with fries. Great. They left and we watched the dining room tv. (First Cleopatra, then videos, then some bad Ghana tv, then the news....we didnt have control of the remote.) Time passes....we look around....where is our food? Finally, after 40 minutes, I walk to the waiter and ask. Well, the cook has no matches so he went to get some. "Uh, excuse me? WHAT??? Why have we been sitting here for 40 minutes if he's not actually cooking our food? We're hungry!!!" It turns out the cook just took off for home and didnt tell anyone. He was the only person with the key to the kitchen, so there is absolutely nothing for us to eat. Instead of telling us No-Im-sorry-the-kitchen-is-closed, he acted on the pretense that he was actually taking our order and intending to feed us. I just wonder how long we would have sat there before someone would have told us to go. We did not behave well, and after much shouting and threatening, we returned to the room, exhausted, hungry, with feet so swollen from dehydration that my sandels cut into my skin. I snacked on the trail mix I'd brought in my purse, and then we grumpily watched the end of Magnolia before crashing into coma sleep. We intended to leave early, but slept until 8:30. Not wanting to patronize the restaurant, we checked out without breakfast and ate en route to the trotro park instead. (more egg and bread)
On the way to the lorry park, we saw a man with six goats tied to rope leashes. One sheep/goat laid on the ground. It wasnt dead, but its sides heaved with each breathe. "He's not well," we told the man, then watched him lead the goats away, dragging the sick one and the rest down the street. I turned to Jeremy and said, "Im going to pretend I didnt just see that." Its not easy being an animal in Ghana. Most times their lives appear more free--they can wander and graze as they please--but they have a hard life and no perks.
The trotro turned out to be more expensive than before (either due to a special obruni price or because of a legitimate increase) and instead of going from Bolga to Vo and then to Ouaga, this one went from Bolga into Ouaga. Great. I would much rather negotiate transport the entire way, in English, than worry about doing it in very bad French on the Burkina side. We paid our 4000 CFA each ($8) and waited. It rained, Jeremy quizzed me from my pitiful French traveler's dictionary, and we waited some more. Forty-five minutes later, we boarded the trotro. As we pulled away, I soon learned that my French guide book was sorely inadequate and lacking the phrases I truly needed in our version of traveling reality. "We already paid. Why are you trying to charge us again?" "There are only three passengers on this trotro. Why are you insisting we pay extra to stow our bags?" "Please dont run over that pig/goat/sheep/chicken/biker/pedestrian on the road." "Please wait for us when we cross the border." "Why are we stopping to buy eggs from the lady on the road?" These are the phrases we needed....and no such vocabulary existed within my pages.
If indeed we paid extra, we also got extra help from the French-speaking driver. When we pulled up to the Ghanaian border near Paga, he pointed to immigration. Again on the Burkina side, he lead us to the office and directed us on where to walk in order to meet up with the trotro. The whole thing slid by smoothly. Jeremy was a little tweaked out, mostly because he didnt have much faith in my French abilities. I admit they are poor, but I try really hard. And my eight months in Ghana and brief stint in Lome' has taught me a lot. When faced with mutual misunderstanding and language barriers, its easiest to let go, depend on the kindness of strangers, use frequent and exaggerated pantomime and dont be afraid of trial and error even if you massacre the native language in the process. It doesnt mean that you wont be continually frustrated, but at least you can get around. At Burkina's immigration, the officer asked Jeremy a question I didnt catch. "Mi marie ne parle pas francais," I said with a shrug. He smiled, and that was enough.
We rejoined the trotro and drove past vast stretches of farmland, patches of trees and dense grasses. We were told we would pass one of the countries National parks and to watch for elephants and monkeys, but I think the rain and noise would push any creatures away from the road.
Burkina Faso....land of donkey carts and bikes. Oh, and great roads. Not a single pothole. Lots of Fulani shepherds with emaciated cows. People leading donkey-carts. Pigs. After crossing the border, we picked up more and more passengers, including a woman with beautiful jangly head jewelry. Other woman joined her, and soon a lively discussion began in the back. Everyone seemed so colorful and vibrant. I was liking it so far.
We stopped at a police barrier where ladies and children sold "gella" or small hard boiled eggs and strange green round things---not quite nuts, not quite fruit. We couldnt understand how much they were in order to try them.
Housing seemed similar to parts of Northern Ghana. Picture a small hut. Its round walls are made of mud bricks and sticks with pointy thatch roofs. A circle of these huts stand together, connected by a 4-5 foot mud wall. Usually, an extended family lives within the complex with the open center used for cooking. A porch is four big wooden poles suspending a flat thatch roof. All have dirt floors, no electricity, no plumbing, no Western conveniences (tv, phone, frig, toilet, stove) and probably no radios either. (Although in bigger villages, at least a few folks have a battery operated radio.)
This part of Burkina consists of various ethnic groupings with various languages. Most people speak at least a little broken French, although the vast majority speak absolutely no English. (Ive forgotten the guide book, so I cant list the details of Burkina Faso right now.)
We eventually arrived into Ouagadougou in a part of town we couldnt decipher from the map. We tried to walk a bit, but then gave up and took a taxi to Pavilion Vert, a hotel recommended by Erin. Our taxi driver launched into a long speech, presumably about how he wanted our help in getting a VISA, even though I repeatedly told him I didnt speak much French and didnt understand. Regardless, we exchanged addresses and entered the hotel. As our luck would have it, only the expensive rooms remained, so we chose a plain room with bathroom for 13,500 CFA ($26). We could have taxied around to other hotels, but we were so tired from having been in transport for nearly 24 hours in a day and a half.
After consulting the map, we walked down the street to the Suisse Chalet for dinner. We ordered pizza and fries and local beer. Then the waitress came back and said something. Desolee'. Je parle un petit peu francais. Je ne comprends pas. I totally didnt understand. She asked if we understood German. Yup. Jeremy, your turn. The owner spoke German, and explained that the oven would take 20 minutes to heat up. Was that okay or were we in a hurry? Nope, just fine. Kudos to Jeremy. The food tasted fine, and we watched some strange French dating game on tv.
Then we taxied to Zaka, a bar suggested by a tourguide at the hotel. We ordered more local beer (22 oz for 800 CFA or $1.60...much more expensive than the 22 oz'ers that only cost 60 cents in Ghana) and waited for the band. The musicians ran to the stage dressed in white overalls and white hats with pompoms tassles on strings. They played the Kora (a stringed guitar thing played a bit like a harp), drums and two xylophones. Very nice. Slightly different from Malian music, which also uses the Kora, but pleasant and peppy. After a few numbers, two little girls ran onto the stage, also wearing white costumes. They danced to the music, again...slightly similar to Ghanaian dancing, but also different...lots of jumping, waving of arms, pretend hitting, and shaking their butts.
We didnt stay too long..we were beat. A taxi drove us home, we shared an overpriced bottle of water ($2!!) and fell asleep.
The next morning, the first order of business was finding the STC station to buy our return tickets for the 24 hour bus. According to the map, the station sat in the center of Ouaga. We intended to find breakfast on the road (i wanted a chocolate croissant) but didnt find anything but plain baguettes and bananas. We walked and walked, stopping at the Musee of the Mosques. We didnt go in because it cost too much, and they refused to let us take a photo. (The guidebook includes a long list of things you're not allowed to take pictures of in Burkina, including museums, bus stations, national monuments, indiginous people and anything else you might find interesting.) Well, after our trek, we learned that the STC station moved years ago across town. We met up with a Ghanaian man, who sold us pop and offered to find us a taxi. Despite my hunger and severe grumpiness, it was nice to find someone who spoke English. It turns out the STC station sits near where we were dropped off the day before in the trotro, way out on the outskirts of Ouaga. The 24 hour tickets sold out that morning, but we could take a CTI bus to Kumasi instead. Fine. We paid our 8000 CFA each ($16) to leave the next day at 8:30 am.
Then, we taxied back into central Ouaga to find food and touristy stuff. First up: The Grand Marche.' Years ago, the former president/dictator of Burkina, Sankara, decided to raize the traditional market space and build a gigantic concrete box in its place. The guidebook claims its an eyesore, but I've seen much uglier buildings. I was excited to get into the market, to buy fabrics, to see what the hot sellers were on this side of the border. However, a fire burned through the Grand Marche' back in June, so the whole thing was fenced up and closed off. We walked to the gates to survey the damage, taking, as it turns out, our only photos in Burkina. Yup. Pretty burned. I wonder how that started and if anyone got hurt. In any case, nobody could tell us where the market had relocated to...and we just didnt see anything close to it along the street. Where was the cloth? the food? the crafts? the shoes and millet beer and other stuff? Instead, we meandered to the Grand Mosque and bought a bright yellow prayer rug (2500 CFA), then to a two-story building to buy a mudcloth and batik (12000 CFA). By then I was starving, so we found a Chinese restaurant to eat rice and noodles and veggies. After returning to a normal (fed) human being, I followed Jeremy to the Maison du People. Outside, we purchsed two CDs (8000 CFA) and I tried to take a photo of these great Nescafe carts. I asked the boy if I could take his photo, but then some stranger popped in and starting pimping for him, saying I had to pay 1000 CFA for the privaledge of taking his photo. Yeah, whatever. I hate that shit. Mind your own business. Anyway, the guidebook claimed the Maison du People currently held parts of the National museum. The sign stated they were closed, but the guy by the door let us into the "musuem." In reality, the room was small, dark (the lights were broken) and housed only posters (in French) and a few display cases explaining the spread of Islam in Burkina and a few old Muslim objects. Another guy showed up, speaking English (thank god) and offered to show us a video. We sat in broken chairs, and proceeded to watch an instructional video on How to Make a Pilgrimage (Hajj) to Saudi Arabia. It was, of course, all in French. After an hour, or twenty hours...I lost count...we grew weary of the video and stood up to leave. Do you want to watch another video on Burkina? Why yes, pity you didnt show us that one to start out with. He popped in another tape, showing different villages of various ethnic groups and their ceremonies. The first was a procession to induct a new chief. They danced, then stopped at the common grave of the chiefs. Here they alternately sacrificed black and white chickens, squirting blood on the rocks and ripping out clumps of their feathers, before chucking the flopping fowl to the side. If the chicken lands on its back, that's good. If it lands on its belly, it means the prayers have not been answered and you have to do it all over again. In this particular ceremony, they burned through at least ten chickens, before changing to the next event...the death of a chief. Then a dancing ceremony as the dry season draws to a close and the rains begin (if they're lucky.) The dancers wore huge fringy costumes in bright colors with big masks...think the enormous black and brown monster with pointy teeth on the Muppet Show. (As a note, the majority of Burkinabes follow traditional African religions. Only about 25% are Muslim and 10% are Christian.)
There was more on the video, but we were thirsty and tired. Unlike Ghana, there were no pure water girls every 100 feet, or even every mile, so we had Sprites instead.
It was strange...when we first drove into Ouaga, everything seemed so colorful and happy. But Ouaga itself, overall, seemed kind of drab and sad. Granted, things were way more expensive than Accra, and the city had all the trappings of a normal busling metropolis...cars, taxis, buildings, restaurants, hotels, gas stations, schools, etc....but it was more striking to see what it lacked compared to Accra. In Ouaga, the streets were dirty and brown. The people wore lots of Western clothes, with fewer ladies in bright traditional cloth. The street vendors were few and far between. There were also less taxis, and more motorcycles and bikes. Finally, while people helped us peeter along, they were not as outrightly friendly as those in Ghana. I liked Accra's accessibility, its plethora of hawkers, water girls, street sellers, random pedestrians. I liked its excitability and cheerful music. I liked hearing strangers call out greetings to me. Ouaga just didnt give me the same vibe. Maybe we just missed all the great subtle details because we didnt speak the language, but I dont think so. Ghana is good.
To be continued.............
Sunday, August 10, 2003
Hey gang. We're back in Accra, but Im pinched for time today. I will write the epic saga of our trip to Burkina tomorrow.
