So I am in the middle of working on a documentary that is inciting a serious existential crisis!! What’s new, I guess?

The film is actually an assignment for a class I am taking, but it has become so much more than just a school project. As I mentioned before, I have been volunteering (or maybe, just hanging out is more accurate) at the Liberian Refugee Camp right outside of Accra. During my days there, I befriended a few former child soldiers that live there and run a farm way out in the backwoods of the camp. They are really wonderful people although they have been completely isolated by the camp and are sort of socially pressured back into the bush where they say they feel the most comfortable. My group decided to make our film about them back in February, but it wasn’t until the last few weeks that we seemed to be in over our heads.

While this was intended to be a pretty uncomplicated student film, in the last three weeks, the situation on the camp was heated up considerably when the refugees staged a protest against the UNHCR (the division of the UN that is responsible for caring for refugees) demanding more money to be able to go back to Liberia. Their demands come at a vital time because after 18 year of existence, the camp is being closed down. The refugees either have the opportunity to integrate into Ghanaian society or go back home. The UNHCR offered them $100 each to be able to go back to Liberia, if that is what they chose to do.

$100. Are they serious? How could you expect to be able to restart your entire life on that amount of money when a half bag of rice costs $20. And many of these people don’t have any idea if their relatives are still alive. Not to mention the fact that it is doubtful that the Liberian economy is capable of accommodating many thousands of refugees. This protest must have really offended the Ghanaian government because the amount of international press coverage it got insinuated that the Ghanaians in some way were mistreating the refugees. Why else would they so adamantly refuse to just settle in Ghana…

It offended them to the extent that the national police came in and arrested many of the protesters on false charges starting riots, taking their clothes of in some tribal ritual, etc. Having been there for the protests myself, I know that these charges were false. But many people were arrested and deported back to Liberia (with nothing) as a result.

For the former child soldiers, this protest really endangered them because; knowing that there are ex-combatants living on the camp, the Minister of the Interior declared them a national threat to security. His declaration assumed that they, being ‘rebels’ were planning some movement against the government. As a result of all this tension, international volunteers have been banned from the camp for fear that we are investigators of some sort. So how are we supposed to make a film about people being targeted by the government when we are barred from even getting near them?

Well we sneak on the camp, that’s how. So every time we go there, with our cameras and boom mics! (how conspicuous!), it’s a mad dash off the bus through a side entrance. Also, because many of the former child soldiers are really concerned about their safety, they are worried that their identities will be revealed in our film. The fact that they even agreed to participate is a great indication of just how much they trust us. So we have such a heavy duty of protecting them because if the film were to get in the wrong hands, they could be in real danger.

Besides having to be very sneaky to get this film done, I am just so struck with sadness the more I come to understand the situation that the people I have come to know as friends are in. I had always known that they were former child soldiers, but I had never heard their stories in such detail. What I found out was just really disturbing.

Everyone’s story was so incredibly different. Some of the guys had seen their parents killed right in front of them and were then kidnapped and forced to fight. Some being as young as 12 years old at the time. They were then beaten and force fed drugs. They were forced to carry out extremely violent orders under the threat that if they didn’t cooperate, they would be killed themselves. Talk about kill or be killed. Other people volunteered themselves to fight because the rebels were the only people with access to food, and their families would otherwise starve. In these cases, it was like they were forced to cooperate with the enemy as a means of survival.

And some of the specific stories. My god. One of the guys was telling me about how he had to witness rebels kill a pregnant women and cut up her stomach, taking bets on whether the child would be a boy or a girl. And what was he supposed to say in that situation? Nothing,

And what is more disturbing is that I don’t really know the truth in terms of to what extent these guys were involved in the violence. There is so much that I could never understand and so many pieces of the story that I am not hearing. But all I can do is accept the truth that they have created for themselves. Because if that is how they get by, than it’s good enough. Right?

But wait, documentaries are supposed to be about exposing the truth. But what if the truth is more of an acceptance of half-truth? I really don’t like this process because honestly, I feel like I am manipulating these people’s life stories to fit my own understanding of the ‘truth’ when in reality I don’t even understand the half of it.

And I am so sad for them. While everyone else in the camp is making arrangements to go home, they are forced to keep running away from home, many of them are afraid that if they go back, other Liberians will seek revenge on them for having killed relatives. Or even worse, that they will be convicted of their crimes by a government that may hold it against them that they essentially ran away. They frequently have little education because they haven’t been able to afford it, have no jobs because nobody will hire former child soldiers and have little sympathy as many people don’t care that they were just children when they committed such violence. And not to mention the sad reality that former child soldiers are too frequently recruited to fight as mercenaries in other countries’ civil wars. And let’s consider how many countries around us are engaged in such conflicts. So what are they supposed to do when all many of them know how to do is fight?

Besides just being confused about how I am supposed to portray their situation through such a seemingly shallow medium as film, I am worried because I care about these people. They aren’t just characters or ideas. And yet I feel so helpless because I just don’t know how I could possibly help them. Any suggestions?

Searching for White

Another bomb weekend of traveling! I think the greatest thing about our location in Accra is the accessibility to all other amazing locations. Haha. Not that this city isn’t fun to stay in, but it is just so easy to travel to the most incredible places. This weekend, it was a town in the Eastern Region. Ada Foah.

This is a stretch of land where the Volta River meets the ocean. There are a bunch of islands that line the estuary that you can take a boat out to. First of all, a location that you can only get to by boat! Yes! We ended up going to a really beautiful (and affordable!) hostel out by the mouth of the river. The hotel rooms were actually small huts built on the beach. I’m talking sand floor and everything. It was a really interesting scene, because as you look to your right, you have a typical beach scene. White sands. Standard Ghana garbage everywhere. And then to your left is an incredible lake scene. Placid waters. Standard Ghana garbage everywhere. These two vibes so close together!

We walked along the beach, through this standard Ghana garbage, for a few hours to the tip the peninsula where you can actually see the waters of the river and ocean. As we neared this point, we saw two men standing at the shore just watching the horizon. After a somewhat unintelligible conversation (hand gestures may have been involved), we found out that they were fishermen who stand there all day watching for patches of white. Once they see the white, they know there are fish, so they can throw their nets out. Can you imagine this being your job? Standing and watching for white.

So that night we partied along the island with a bunch of tech students from Accra. We had some good conversations about “the difference between blacks and whites” (as one of the other students put it). At this point, I think I am used to the degree of openness about race here. Conversations like this happen all the time and they rarely occur because they hold some resentment against me for being white. Rather, they are born out of genuine curiosity, which I really appreciate. I wish we could have such open dialogue about race in the US

But I have to give my country credit. For all Ghanaians that have asked me if the US really is as racist as people say it is, I usually respond that ‘yes, racist institutions are significant part of our country’s history, but at least we have a perpetual debate about it. Even if that debate is manifested as racial tension, at least we recognize its existence to some extent.

The next morning, we took a small canoe out to one of the islands to visit a shrine. This was no tourist’s shrine; it was strictly local. Judging by the locals’ reactions, we were the first whiteys they had seen in a while. The fact that we were actually able to do this with relatively little suspicion is largely due to the Ghanaian friends that traveled with us. They translated everything, including the part of the conversation where the priest wanted us to pay GHc10 to get in. “But it’s free to pray!” Well we did go inside the shrine and participated, or observed, a ceremony. First of all, let me set this scene. The shrine was slightly smaller than my bedroom, with a sand floor and rafters on the ceiling that had drums hanging down from them. At the front of the shrine were three wooden statues that were decorated to extent that they were the focal point of worship. The statues were dressed up with fabrics, knives and animal skulls. All had their mouths carved open and had drips of what may (or may not) have been blood dribbling down…..Hmmm. Well then, let the ceremony begin. Prayers were recited (that I didn’t understand, of course); we went through rituals (that I didn’t understand, of course) and concluded the ceremony by pouring the gift of Schnapps that we had brought him on the wooden statues. And then, by some cosmic miracle!, he dropped some of the alcohol at the feet of the statues and three clouds of smoke exploded to ceiling! Very cool. We thanked the priest for having us by kneeling and shaking his hand. As a parting gift, he gave us a bottle of holy water, which actually smelled more like sewage water but who is judging, really?

We drove back to Accra on motorcycles. Which was sweet!! I have to be honest that I was completely terrified for my first bike ride, but I discovered that pretending that you actually ARE as badass as you LOOK eases the fear. Riding through like that really makes you feel like you are touching the scenery. Like you are a part of the landscape that you usually only see behind glass. Really amazing. Although riding on a motorcycle in a bathing suit and shorts through Ghana…on a Sunday…attracted some dirty looks.

Cherie M'Bife

Before I start explain this epic journey, I need to offer a disclaimer. If there is one thing that I have learned along my travels it’s that my knowledge and understanding of the world is modest at best. My perceptions of these experiences are purely my own and don’t really say anything about ‘what the world is like’ or ‘what Africa is like’. I’m learning more and more that there is no such thing as absolute reality. I guess I’m trying to say, please don’t take me too seriously. With that said…..

Kathleen and I decided that we should probably go to Mali after listening to Amadou & Miriam for the thousandth time, chillin’ as usual. It seemed logical that if these outrageous musicians were from Mali, that must be where it’s at. After failing to assemble any sort of travel group, it ended up that the two of us would be traveling alone.

First step was taking a charter bus from Accra to Ouagadougou, the capital of Burkina Faso. This leg of the journey takes 24 hours…and we spent 5 hours just waiting in the parking lot to leave Accra. Needless to say that we were slightly neurotic by the time we got off the bus. It actually had air conditioning, leg room, padded seats! By the time we arrived in Ouga, there were people littering the aisle (because of course they oversold the bus), babies were crying and I’m pretty sure someone peed on the ground.

Ironically, this ride would be the most comfortable and hassle free of the whole vacation. When we reach the border of Burkina Faso, the passengers all had to get off the bus and literally walk across the border. How incredible that as soon as you pass this invisible line, the language changes, the food changes, the landscape changes. The Ghanaians that were on our bus were suddenly the ones at the outsider’s disadvantage because they didn’t speak French. Spending the last few months as the ultimate outsider, it felt pretty good to be able to assist a Ghanaian in speaking French.



















Additionally, as soon as I passed into Burkina, the poverty was more palpable than anything I had seen in Ghana. Little boys surrounded me almost instantly begging for cadeaux (the French word for ‘present’, a favorite in Francophone W. Africa). And they are so thin. It never occurred to me to use the plumpness of many Ghanaians as a sign of relative economic stability. But seeing severely malnourished children with such regularity began to put into perspective the intensity of poverty in these countries. As it turns out, Mali and Burkina Faso are respectively the 3rd and 4th poorest countries in the world.

Getting to Ouga was completely hectic because all of the sudden, French was the norm, CFA was the currency and this time we were in a real city. Not to knock Accra, but this is by no means an industrialized city. But Ouaga has huge buildings! And such interesting people. Many of the women there shave their eyebrows and pencil them in so dramatically adding some tropical colored eye shadow to top off the Burkinabe look. And everyone rides mopeds in Ouaga, even the women in their long skirts. I gather that it is seen as a huge luxury to own a car, which is clear judging by the crazy expensive cab rides. After crashing the night in a cute little hotel, the plan was to exchange money and get our transit visas extended the next morning and head for Mali that afternoon.

Travel lesson one: don’t even think about ‘planning’ a trip through W. Africa. Because every hassle that you could think of will get in your way. First of all, the immigration office is a very unofficial looking room with piles of papers and passports conspicuously cluttering the floors and desks. We approach one of the officers who told us with a stone-cold face that he wouldn’t be able to work on our passports for at least five business days. Utterly panicked that we would have to spend 5 days in a country with a meningitis outbreak, another customer informed us that this man only wanted a cadeaux. A bribe. Hearing so much about corruption, this was the first time that I had to abide by these unspoken rules. Miraculously, after slipping the passport agent CFA5 (about $10), his face suddenly lit up, he wanted us to teach us English and he would make sure that it was done within 24 hours. Leaving my passport, the essence of my being!, with this snake was seriously nerve-wracking. Knowing that we weren’t going to get to Mali that day, I set out to exchange money. Come to find out, US dollars are completely worthless outside the US. No bank would take my money! I had to go to about 6 banks to get it done. Travel lesson number 2: this world operates in Euros.

So the next day, we come back to find that the passport agency is closed for the afternoon because there is a special market going on downtown. A market so special as to shut down government institutions. Imagine that. But lucky for us that when you pay someone a bribe, they are really obliged to take care you. In this situation at least. We got in touch with the agent we dealt with and he actually came down and opened the office.

We got on bus #2 and traveled about three hours to a small town West of Ouaga called Ouagiyouha. The plan was to take some sort of official bus into Mali. So let’s talk about the criteria for a real bus. It has a logo on the side, individual seating and it doesn’t pack passengers into the isle. Too bad for us that this would be the last official bus we would take.

As soon as we pulled up to the bus station men on the streets started questioning us in shady tones, “Mali? Mali? Dogon Country? Dogon Country?”. It was almost as if they were selling drugs, and although we were buying, I was hesitant to tell I was hesitant to tell all 
these men exactly what my travel plans were. But such is Africa; it's not seen as a breach of privacy when people ask you 
where you are going, where you live, where you are from etc. When we found out that there was, indeed, no bus into Mali, we 
had to link up with this man who was allegedly a 'guide' who lead us to a bush taxi that was planning on going to the Malian 
border town of Koro. 


This ride ended up being an infamous bush taxi, which is essentially similar to the public transportation in Ghana (the stripped 
down industrial van with at least 20 people in it) aside from the fact that these cars are guaranteed to break down at least once 
along your journey. We were waiting for around two hours and ended up just paying for the extra seats so we would have to 
travel at night. Of course this made us stand out as those white women with cash to spare, so the guy that had lead us to the 
car immediately wanted to be compensated for his troubles. After I said that I wouldn't give him any money, he told me that 
he wanted my silver necklace. How rude! Or desperate? His persistence taught me something crucial about people who demand bribes - if you start to get angry, it makes them nervous and more forceful. I think that my matching his aggression was making the situation worse. Only Kathleen relentless smile and 'I don't understand what you mean??' trick got me out of that one.


















About ten minutes into the trek towards the border, we got a flat tire. During the interim of the fix-up. This Nigerian girl 
started asking Kathleen for money because she didn't have her visa to get into Mali and she would need funds to bribe the 
officers.....a bribe once removed!! haha it's only with the understanding I gained on the course of this trip that I can actually 
find that outrageousness funny. When we finally crossed the border, it felt like such an accomplishment!! Soon enough, the landscape really started to morph into what you would picture a savannah to look like. We even saw camels! (which is actually really unlikely, although it was exciting regardless!) That land just has such a strong energy, it’s really breathtaking. It’s as if just standing on this ancient land makes you feel like you are making some pilgrimage of some sort.

After a few other rides, we eventually reached Kani Kombole where we were going to start out on our Dogon Country Adventure. For the number of guides that questioned us along the way about Dogon, we didn’t even know what to expect of the area. As we were driving through the barren savannah, with the orange dust flying around the car, we came up on the enormous plateau that is Dogon Country. Along escarpment is where one of the oldest civilizations on earth survived for ages by building cliff dwellings into the side of this enormous plateau. The Dogon people even managed to avoid being captured by slave traders because nobody could make their way up to the rocky villages. How exactly they were able to survive for so long and so far away from any water supply (the Niger river is at least 5 hours away) is beyond me. And because this is Africa, you can just roam about the cliff villages, which are still in incredible shape, at will. No ropes or fees.

We had already hired a guide over the phone that agreed to meet us in Kani Kombole to start our hiking trip along the plateau. We got his name from a German girl that we met back in Ouaga. Travel Lesson: Do NOT hire people that you have never met face to face. Now Kathleen is going to kill me because we agreed to never speak of this incident (and we really haven’t). But here’s what happened. The guy that met us there was basically there to collect half of our money and send us off with another tour guide who coincidentally didn’t have a guide’s certification card. Not that the card is an indication of how trust worthy the guide is. But when you are out in the middle of the savannah hiking for days in the middle of nowhere, you want to be sure that your guide knows the area. If only for the sake of safety. And besides, what was this guy doing agreeing that he would do the job over the phone to only pimp out another guide? I should have trusted my initial instinct because that just didn’t seem honest, but I conceded. The guide pimp even went as far as to draft up a contract about what we expected from the tour. About fifteen minutes after the guide pimp left us with this uncertified guy, it was clear that we was absolutely not fit to take us through this journey. It was just bad vibes. What should have been an easy return, became the most dramatic situation of our entire trip. We had already paid 6000 CFA (which is around $100) as an advance and we just wanted our money back so we could find a suitable guide. And he refused to give our money back! Citing that we had signed a contract, lets get the guide pimp back here and talk it through, I will give you the money but let me just keep it in my pocket while we talk. I mean this guy turned so shady, so fast. I can’t believe it. Kathleen pretty much took over from there because she is an actress and therefore better at dictating people’s behavior. But when I saw how upset she was getting, I stepped in and told him he was a liar and a thief in French. Obviously that only made it worse.

While she was inside a hostel arguing with this guy, I was sitting outside with waves of Malian children saying hello to me only to ask for soccer balls, pens, money, gifts, treats. It was really sad because as soon as I told them I had no gifts, they would loose interest and leave. One of the little boys was even pointing to a handicapped kid sitting in a wagon saying, “You see? He’s sick, give me money”. Exact words (all in French of course). I felt like everyone was just trying to take me for all I was worth from all directions!

But after about two hours of tense discussions, we got a portion of our money back. I was mainly irritated at myself for even letting that happen, because I had a gut feeling about it and just went along because I didn’t think I had a choice. But now I know! If your intuition is saying something to you, you always have a choice. It was also a harsh realization that you are getting taken advantage of everywhere you turn.

Our last resort was to call a guide that we had met in a Malian border town, Souliman. Both of us had positive feelings about him and the day we’d met him was actually his birthday. We should have known that was the cosmos guiding us together! After that whole drama with the shady guide, we were overjoyed to have this kind-hearted soul join us for what would turn out to be the most amazing journey.

That night, we slept on the roof of a tourist hostel. It was the most incredible thing to be sleeping under the brightest stars I have ever seen listening to the call to prayer coming from the mosque just next door. With the moon illuminating the form of this giant plateau just to my right, I felt so protected by the strength of the land. Thankfully the faith in humanity that I’d lost that afternoon restored itself to some faith in the universe.

The next morning, we got started on our two-day, 15km hike to the top of the plateau. Souliman, who was actually handicapped from polio when he was a child, was leading the way, bringing us up into the cliff dwellings along the way. The hike ended at this village that was built on top of the rocky plateau. Here, we visited the local fetish priest and walked out to the actual cliff where you can see the entire savannah. That was a sight I will NEVER forget.



The next stop was Mopti, the city along the Niger River. Getting out of Dogon country was so small task. We had to drive in a rickety station wagon along ROCK for about three hours. I had heard that the roads out here were poor, but these weren’t even roads, it was just rock. But it was a gorgeous drive nonetheless, passing by the most fragrant onion farms I have ever seen.

In Mopti, we met a 15-year old boy who became our guide. Here’s the thing with Mali, they really have no industry outside of tourism. This fact pervades almost every detail of your trip. Most of the kindness that is extended, the inflated prices and the fact that you will end up getting a guide every step of the way. After enough people come and hassle you about being your guide (“I give you the good price!” “Show you everything!!”), you just go with the one that you get good vibes from. This 15-year old had it. Like many kids in Mali, although he was 15, he actually looked about 9 years old as a result of just not having enough to eat. He took us out on the Niger where we visited a Tuareg village and went swimming in the water. Swimming in the Niger may not be hygienically advisable, but I went in my clothes, so it was kind of a necessary baptism.

That evening, we made a friend, Abu Bakr, who took us to his house to have dinner on his roof. His house was right next to the central mosque in Mopti, so we had an amazing view not only the men praying inside the mosque courtyard, but the people throughout the neighborhood performing the sundown prayers on their roofs. On Abu Bakr’s roof, we were first treated to the customary three cups of tea. This tradition goes like this: the first is called “strong as death”, the second is “mild as life” and the third is “sweet as love”. With every cup of tea, they put more and more sugar, so the last one really is sweet as death. And allegedly, if you are given a fourth cup of tea, it means that you aren’t welcome in that person’s home. Every proper Malian reception includes this ritual, no matter how damn hot it is!


















The next day, we headed out the town of Djenne, home of the famous mud mosque. In order to get there, we had to take the crappiest ride of the whole trip! We took a bache, which is essentially a pickup truck with some wooden benches set up in back. The two of us took turns squeezing on the bench and sitting on a tire on the floor…..for four hours!! But Djenne was completely worth the trek. This town is straight out of Aladdin, if I may be so politically incorrect. There is a peaceful air about Djenne, until you come to the main square where this incredibly powerful mosque is. It was built in the 13th century, making it one of the oldest of its kind in the world. Despite its age, and UNESCO’s tireless efforts to preserve it as a tourist site, locals still pray in the mosque. Or local men, I should say. From as much as I could gather, Muslim or not, women are not generally allowed into the mosque. For as ridiculous as I think that may be, the throngs of contemplative Muslim grandpas walking to prayer were really quite beautiful. But I still couldn’t help but wonder, what were the women doing?

Because nightlife isn’t so poppin’ in Djenne, going to bed at 8pm and waking up at 6am to the dawn call to prayer is totally acceptable. We were lucky enough to be there for the famous Monday market. On this day, a huge market is set up around the mosque and people come from all over to exchange. I was walking through with my friend Mike (a lone traveler that we linked up with along our travelers) and he decided to buy a package of potato cakes to try and to share with the kids that were already surrounding us asking for cadeaux. What started out as an orderly line to receive the cakes suddenly turned into a competition between the kids to get the most. Before we knew it, they all came in for the food at once and were actually scraping at each other to get a bite. It was just such a pathetic scene. They actually seemed like pigeons fighting for breads. I think this was one of the first times that it really struck me that these people are not just struggling. They are hungry.

Bona fide hunger is something that I have never experienced myself and have never truly seen. Another image I remember as driving that helplessness home was at a bus station where I saw this little kid who must have been about two years old, scraping away at dirty dishes trying to eat whatever he could. Right by my feet. How disgusting do I feel that I haven’t been legitimately hungry a day in my life? And our 15-year old guide in Mopti who said he doesn’t go to school because he is too hungry to waste time like that. How horrible do I feel that I stuff my face every night in Accra? Hunger is a kind of suffering that I just can’t imagine, but that I have to understand.

On the way back to Mopti from Djenne, we had yet another bush taxi breakdown situation and yet another life lesson. OF course! As a general rule, no matter how upset you may be that you are stuck on the side of the road in Africa for hours on end, unless the locals are making noise, you must grin and bear it. But in this case, it was getting late and the last thing we wanted to do was sit on the side of the road in the dark. So there were a few European tourists in our small bush taxi who had been chatting us up and comparing travel tips. They were all older than us, so it was nice to have that sort of parental exchange with someone. Despite their friendliness when we were smooth sailing, as soon as that bus broke down, it was African survivalist mentality in full effect. I don’t know why, but it seems that white people frequently do that out here. Everything is all chill and ‘yea one love, we’re in Africa, man’ and then as soon as anything goes wrong it’s every man for himself. These other tourists quickly flagged down another bush taxi that had been hired out by even more Euro tourists that agreed to take them to Mopti. And would you believe that when I asked if there was enough room for Kathleen and I, these previously charming adult tourists dispassionately said “Nope, no space”, leaving the two of us to sit precariously in the sweaty setting sun. I even went up to the window of their bush taxi, nearly begging them to take us, and a woman, older than my own mother, looked me in the face and said “No, there is no space” and turned her back on me, the other tourists in the van completely ignoring my pleas and my obvious plight. How dare they!? I mean we are clearly young girls out here all alone, and we clearly needed help. Why would someone just refuse to help?

And then I recalled the hundreds of Malian children that I’m sure I similarly snubbed through taxi windows. When they are really the ones who need help. They asked for money, and I said no so many times. I had money every time. Of course this wasn’t out of malice, obviously you can’t give money to every single person who asks for it. But that rationalization didn’t make me feel any better about getting a taste of my own medicine. And then I just got to feeling like crap about humanity. I mean, how can it be that we just tune out calls for help just because we hear them so frequently?

In the end, it was the callous tourists’ guide who came and told Kathleen and I that we should get in the other bush taxi. And of course, there was more than enough space for us. In retrospect, I realize how completely hypocritical and selfish it was for me to even think that I deserved to be ‘saved’ from that bush taxi breakdown. After all, the rest of the Malians would still have to wait for God knows how long for another car to come. And what I think that just because I am a foreigner, I should be saved? As you can see this adventure inspired a great deal of self-examination and challenging of my own hypocrisy.

We had planned to get back to Burkina that day, but when we returned to Mopti, there was no bus. No explanation, just no bus. But the delay reunited us with our 15-year old guide and gave us the courage to drink the local water. Which ended up being perfectly sanitary. By sanitary, I just been that it didn’t make me horribly ill! HAHA

We ended up leaving a day later to Burkina on a bush taxi that crossed the border overnight. Yikes. Not advisable. We were so cramped in that car, I was actually snuggling with the teenage boy sitting next to me. Before we crossed the border, we actually stopped in a parking lot….for about three hours. Of course nobody told us that a nap stop would occur. And we were nearly the only women on the bus! I wrapped my scarf around my head to just cover up as some of the white skin that seemed to be a liability at the time. Although this is completely dangerous, it occurred to me at the time, that there was absolutely nothing I could do about it (aside from running into the dark and desolate savannah screaming for my mommy, of course). If I was going to sit in this parking lot, that’s just what was going to happen. We eventually got to the border before they were open and we sat by a fire with all the Malian men on our bus and talked politics. The Malians are generally very serene people. Maybe it’s their meditative air that put me at ease considering the absurdity of the situation. Regardless, crossing the Burkina border as the sun was rising on the savannah is something I will never forget.

Although we thought we were in the clear, when we got dropped off in Burkina, we realized after about 5 minutes that we weren’t even in the right city. Woops. We were supposed to get a bus back home from Ouga. Well we were about 6 hours away!!! Ahhhh, one thing after another, I tell you. So we managed yet another ride that day. When we finally got on our way back to Ghana, we started out on round 2 of the 24 hour journey clawing our way through fighting passengers onto a non-air conditioned bus with school bus seats. At this point, it was only normal that I lean on the shoulder of the middle-aged man next me in order to catch some sleep. I mean, whatever, man! Hahaha.

Retelling this story sounds a lot more like torture than a proper vacation. But I have to say, that I have never learned so much about myself and about the world in such a short period of time. I love Ghana dearly, but there is some energy up there that you don’t find in the same way here. The energy of a truly thick history. Energy of suffering that I had never been able to conceptualize. It may have been torture at times, but I was broken down and emptied of so many things that had been ailing my perspective on life. And hopefully, fingers crossed, refilled with humility. I wouldn’t trade that for any vacation.

We finally arrived to Accra 5 days later than we had intended. Dirty. Sweaty. Sunburned. Tired. Enlightened. And locked out of our room for hours. Go figure.