Africa 2006

I landed in Dakar just before midnight 51 days ago. As my new friend Arona drove me to his family’s apartment in the city centre, my first glimpses of Africa emerged from the shadows of the darkness: skinny dogs – or goats – roaming the streets; homeless people sleeping on stairs or torn pieces of cardboard; stately women walking along the road’s shoulder with tin bowls of food on their heads; billboards advertising mobile phones or Western Union money transfers.

Yesterday I caught the early flight from Heathrow to Keflavik, cutting 10 hours off my journey. As we descended through the clouds, the shapes of Iceland gradually revealed themselves in the same way: snow covered mountains and frozen lakes; the stark blue-grey stillness of the sea (how is it possible it’s the same one I soaked my ankles in just a few days ago?); the black splodges of lava rocks cutting into the landscape. It was like a world waiting to be coloured in. It was good to be home.

Already West Africa seems like a world away – except I keep blurting out anecdotes to my husband and have already bored him with an extensive slide show (an edited version of which will appear here in the coming days – or as soon as I figure out how to post one!). But what a wonderful world away it was.

It’s too early to analyze (even for someone whose husband calls her Analyza…), but highlights include a ten-day experience of Senegalese hospitality, a much shorter one of the Dakar-Bamako Express, sorting out the visit to Timbuktu, visiting schools and orphanages, a delicious supper with new local friends in Ouagadougou, meeting the head of the voodoo religion in Benin, and one really really long bus trip.

The broad memories I have are of moments of incredible poverty, far more moments of incredible hospitality, and a friendliness and vitality in a world full of colours and smells and sights. If the cliché “assault on the senses” is often used regarding India (which I have never visited), it must also apply to West Africa.

Aside from the transportation, I felt completely safe and welcome. I have made far more promises to send photos and articles than I have on any other trip. The travelling itself was the most challenging I have undertaken – but I’d do it all again in a second!

Thanks to everyone who posted comments on the blogs, especially to those of you I don’t know personally – it was always a nice boost to see that people were reading it! You can probably spot the entries I wrote from the stuffiest internet cafes, or the ones with lousy keyboards, or the ones I wrote when I was tired or grumpy or elated or relaxed. I tried not to write too much about the backgrounds and facts of places (often because I didn’t have such facts to hand!), but just about the particular things that were happening to me. If you went to the same countries for seven weeks (and I highly recommend it), your story would be totally different; that’s one of the joys of travelling.

Aside from the hospitality (it is going to take me a while to get out of the habit of a hand shake and long greeting every time I walk into a shop), the economic situation stays with me. Consider: one in ten Malian women die during childbirth; the Netherlands and Belgium combined are the size of Togo, but their GDP is greater than that of the entire African continent; one in four children born in the region die by the age of five. I haven’t fact checked these, but even if they are only vaguely accurate they are startling.

Things can be done to help: volunteer with a relevant organization or charity; sponsor a child; give alternative gifts this holiday season, like mosquito nets for children or a well for a village. Check out the sites of some places I visited: Contact Mieke Rietveld at g-m(dot)rietveld(at)planet(dot)nl for École Christ Roi, and visit the websites of Peuple du Monde and SPES. For the environment, don’t forget to offset your carbon emissions when you fly.

OK, end of lecture. 

I have a “Song of the Day” calendar on my desk in Reykjavík (does that make me a geek??). I peeled off about a centimetre of pages when I returned last night and revealed today’s selection: Thank You for Talkin’ to Me Africa by Sly and the Family Stone. I don’t know the song, but the title says enough. 

Until next time, Africa.

FIN.

PS – Starting in 2007, articles I write on my trip (with better background info and proofreading!) will be posted on my regular website as they are published.

As the song says, “All my bags are packed, I’m ready to go” - except my bags are not yet packed.

But otherwise I’m pretty much ready for my 23.55 departure for Reykjavik, via Milan and London. In an eery symmetry, my final flight is scheduled to land at Keflavik Airport at 23.55 on Tuesday.

If I land to see 100 camels roaming the snow-covered lava fields (I hear it’s been a bit wintry in Niceland lately), then I guess a deal has been brokered and I’ll have to return to Africa, but otherwise I’m looking forward to the darkness and snow again after a great trip.

Stay tuned in the coming days for a “proper” conclusion and of course - a slide show.

1. Speaking English!
2. Discovering a book exchange just when I ran out of reading material. My new collection includes a novel about a UK public-school drug addict, the hilarious confessions of an IRS tax collector, and a novel about Newfoundland’s coming-of-age
3. Air conditioned buses - one of which was even on schedule!
4. Meeting by chance two people I had met on separate occasions in Mali over a month ago and catching up with them
5. Beer in the evening with different guests at the Mighty Victory Hotel in Cape Coast - something I thought I would find everywhere, but ultimately proved to be quite elusive
6. The canopy walk at Kakum Park - I did it!
7. Visiting Elmina Castle
8. Visitng Cape Coast Castle
9. and 10. - TBD… After all, I haven’t left quite yet!

OK - one of the last top tens…

1. My only swimming of this trip in the pool of the Hotel Alize in Baguida, with opera blasting from the bar’s speakers
2. A visit to the SPES orphanage - although not with enough energy on my part!
3. Crashing the investiture party of the new supreme leader of the the voodoo religion and meeting him in person the next evening
4. All the shared taxis: lots of waiting, lots of life, lots of marriage proposals
5. Painting walls at the Peuple du Monde orphanage in Abomey
6. Visiting the old UNESCO palace at Abomey
7. Dinner with all the mayor’s reps at the Yovettes restaurant on stilts in Possotome
8. Chilling out with great food (especially a memorable prawn and cream dish) at a little cafe in Baguida, near Lome
9. The long bus journey from Ouaga - but only in retrospect!
10. Being told “bonjour” or “bonne arrivee” by everyone - without them wanting to sell me anything

After ten days or so of fluctuating health and visiting orphanages, it was a nice change to do some purely touristy things in Cape Coast.
One was my first visit to a National Park on this trip. Kakum National Park is one of Ghana’s smallest, but is only 35 kilometres north of Cape Coast. It’s not home to lions or tigers or bears – but I did see lots of ants! There are also monkeys, antelope, and hundreds of bird species, but many are scared away by the presence of humans. What most people, including myself, visit Kakum for is the Canopy Walk (one of only four of its kind in the world – and constructed by Canadians!).
 The Canopy Walk is a series of seven small suspension rope walkways constructed 30 metres above the ground, above the tops of the trees, affording an unorthodox view of the rainforest.
Unless you’re like me, and really scared of heights.
It’s pretty clear from the solid rope construction (and the nationality of the builders! J ) that the canopy walk is safe. But that didn’t stop me from being very very nervous as I stepped onto the first walkway and heard it creak and crack as I inched forward (only one person is allowed on each walkway at a time, because it sways so much). The walkway was too narrow even for my two feet to be next to each other at one.
Once you start, you can’t stop, so I continued along all seven, focusing just on the bit of walkway in front of me and never glancing around to see the (apparently spectacular) view.
But I did it. And it’s the bravest thing I think I’ve done on this trip.
**
Cape Coast is most famous for its UNESCO-listed castle of the same name. The part of the coast has more forts and castles from the slave trade than any other region in Africa and it is estimated that between 12 – 25 MILLION people passed through the continent as slaves over a four hundred year period (OK, don’t quote me on all the stats; I don’t have my book here to confirm everything).
Cape Coast Castle was one of the major posts for the slave trade, operated primarily by the British, but also at other times (again, don’t quote this!) by the Portuguese, the Dutch and the Danes.
The tour of the castle included the dungeons where thousands of slaves were kept chained together until they were shipped like tinned sardines off to the Americas. They are dark, dank, sweaty, stuffy, and incredibly small for the number of prisoners they contained at once (150-200, although I didn’t get the exact dimensions of the cells).
There was also a special room for those who were convicted of trying to escape – they were chained together in groups of 50, without fresh air, food or water, and left in the room until everyone was dead, at which point the corpses were thrown into the sea. Above the rooms was the chapel – as our guide said, a sort of perverted version of heaven above and hell below.
Our guide also talked about the education system – the oldest schools in Cape Coast (and Ghana in general has a reputation for having one of the best educational systems in the region) were originally opened for mulatto children – the offspring of female slaves who were raped by the European captors. Pregnant women were not sent to the Americas and their children were generally looked after by the Europeans. Surnames like Johnson and Van Dijk still exist in this region.
Outside the castle, the waves crashed against the rocky shore and fisherman plied the waters in long narrow boats with long narrow flag poles atop them. (Except on Tuesdays, when they take the day off to allow the fish to rest).
I also visited the castle at Elmina, a smaller village 10 kilomtres from Cape Coast, where little boys played with kites they had fashioned from discarded black plastic bags.
It’s been a sobering, and a fascinating, past few days.
COMING UP: I head back to Accra, the Top 10 for Benin, Togo and Ghana and – the big finish!!

I was grumpy. 

I woke up in Accra with a minor cold; my head was throbbing from clogged sinuses. Contrary to what the hotel staff had told me, the buses to Cape Coast, 120 kilometres west along the coast, were not leaving every hour, and the only one that day (I had missed the 7.30 departure) was leaving at 4.30pm, meaning another night-time arrival in a new city. It took an hour by taxi to drive the 4 kilometres to the Accra bus station to buy my ticket.  Later that afternoon, as I prepared to depart, the friendly but somewhat futile Man Who Can Only Say Yes (a similar incarnation also exists in several other countries…) was working at the reception. “Can I catch a taxi right outside the hotel here?” Yes. “Or should I walk down to the main road for a taxi?” Yes. “Will you give me a million dollars?” Yes. (OK, of course I didn’t ask the last question, but you get the idea). 

No taxis were showing up, and by the time one did and I managed to talk it down to a vaguely reasonable price, it took well over an hour to return to the bus station (“It’s only a 20 minute drive,” the MWCOSY had assured me at the hotel).  I arrived at the station and the bus was delayed (of course). 

To paraphrase Bridget Jones: grrr, grrr, grrr. I was tired and becoming frustrated by the tiny inconveniences that happen all the time here but are normally just part of the fun experience. Would I never get a straight answer from anyone? Would there ever be straightforward transportation anywhere on this trip?  And then I met a lovely woman, with tinted sunglasses and a grey hairpiece which was reminiscent of Mme Samb in Senegal. 

I had tapped her on the shoulder to ask if I was indeed waiting at the right spot for the Cape Coast bus. Yes, she assured me I was, and then introduced me to her friend who was travelling on the same bus. The friend told me she’d keep her eye on me and make sure I caught a fair taxi at a fair price when I arrived (late at night) in Cape Coast.  I thanked her for her kindness. 

“Well, my children have travelled abroad and have always been treated well by local people,” she said. “So when I meet people travelling here I always try to do the same.”  And, just like that, she restored my faith in the whole experience. 

PS – Even more so, when, upon reaching Cape Coast, the woman’s friend escorted me in the taxi and insisted on paying for it when I safely reached the door of the (wonderfully named) Mighty Victory Hotel. It reminded me about how, at every corner of this trip, I have been met with kindness and hospitality. 

“So, how did you like Togo?”  

I was being ‘quizzed’ by the Togolese border official at the Togo-Ghana border post at Aflao.

“Well, it seemed nice, but unfortunately I wasn’t feeling very well, so I didn’t get to see much of the country,” I answered.  

“Ah!” – that’s the only way I can write the falsetto exclamation of mock horror that seems common in this part of Africa, used to mean something like “What! You can’t be serious!”. “Well, that’s alright,” he continued. “Next time you visit, you can find me and I’ll keep you company the whole time.”

I crossed the 100 metres or so into Ghana, my last overland crossing of this journey, and the story was similar. 

“Can I have some money?” an official inquired hopefully, after asking to see my yellow fever vaccination (finally – it was the first time since Bamako someone had asked to see proof of the expensive piece of paper. Finally it seemed all the cost was worth it – plus, you know, medical protection against a potentially deadly illness).

I shook my head. 

“Well, maybe you could marry me instead?” he ventured optimistically.

I declined again, but I did offer him a token Canada flag pin (one of those free ones all the MPs give out). This time, he turned me down (!!!) 

And so I arrived in Ghana, land of English speakers and religiously-themed hair salons.

Yes, southern Ghana’s fervent Christianity is famously expressed in the many religiously themed names owners give their various enterprises. In the first few minutes of my bus ride to Accra, I witnessed places like the Goodness and Mercy Veterinary Clinic, Glory Mart, the Holy Trinity Spa & Health Farm and Sweet Jesus Fashions. A van was painted with the slogan “The Lord will protect me from all danger.” It was parked next to a construction site where tree trucks kept up the different floors and people worked several storeys up without any hard hats.  

The three-hour (in reality, 5.5 hr) trip to Accra was filled with more potholes and police checks that I had anticipated from a country many ex-pats in other regions had insisted was the most “civilized” and “advanced” of the region (their choice of words). But the journey passed without incident and I arrived along the tree-lined and refreshingly moto-free boulevards of Accra just as the sun was setting.

I had a reservation with the Caspar Guest House. My Rough Guide listed it as “mid-range” in price, but as loyal readers will recall, I had to have a confirmed reservation before my visa was issued and so I had chosen a slightly pricier place because I needed it to have access to a fax machine to send the confirmation. My guidebook listed it as about $35 US / night, certainly more than I have been paying, but worth it now and then.  

Except the price had now gone up to $70!!

Of course I paid it – the reservation was made and I was tired (and the German owner was nice and friendly). It will get considered an extra cost of buying the visa.  

Then at dinner I was relaxing in the small octagon-shaped restaurant of the hotel and ordered chicken kebab with rosti (hey, it was on the menu!). I could smell the grease heating in the kitchen. Then a cat ran in through the open door, not an uncommon occurrence. But within a minute she was racing around the room and screeching. I glanced over my shoulder to see that she had caught a still-writhing mouse between her jaws. The cat gave me a satisfied look from where she stood right next to the kitchen door.

So this was the entertainment an extra 40 bucks buys. 

(PS – And although my air conditioner started dripping water and making very bizarre noises in the middle of the night, waking me up and forcing me to change rooms, the owners were very helpful and friendly and actually gave me a nice discount, so I can’t slam them too much. Still, I’ve had to switch to a more budget-friendly place, and will leave tomorrow for Cape Coast. Onwards and upwards, as they say!).

Admittedly, I can be a baby when I get sick, but I’ve never considered myself a hypochondriac. Still, maybe I have some form of it that manifests itself only on long journeys. In any case …

After happily over-paying to get a taxi all to myself back to my auberge yesterday (a sure sign I was feeling unwell!), I collapsed in a sweaty heap in bed and slept for six hours.

When I awoke, I had a chat with the auberge owner: yes, I had a fever (38.8 this time – I little lower than the 39.3 in Mali, but I’d been taking aspirin to try and reduce it), and all the symptoms I remembered from four weeks ago.

Do I have malaria AGAIN? Is it me? Is doxycyclene just ineffective in this region? Or am I just getting some flu thing and over-reacting?

Who knows. In any case, the auberge owner is convinced it’s malaria and, now knowing the routine, I bypassed the doctor and headed straight to the pharmacy for exactly the same pills which I took last time. (Fate’s cruel twist here is that this seems to happen only on weekends, when clinics that could confirm or deny malaria are closed. So I’ll never know for sure).

I’m still pretty tired, but already feel enough energy to come here and visit the CyberCafe – which I officially consider the road to recovery.

So a few more rounds of pills and I should be tip-top again – just in time for the last week of the tour – and Ghana….

PS: Which reminds me: What have I been forgetting about the trip? What do you want to know more about? (safety, border crossings, shared taxis, nature, etc) - Drop me a comment if there is a subject you would like to request!

Earlier I promised I would only be harassing you dear readers twice about donating to a good cause on this blog. One was with the Ecole Christ-Roi in Ouagadougou (and, ok, unplanned was the Peuple du Monde orphanage which is also a good cause) - and the other is Spes.
Spes, which is Latin for hope, stands for Soutien pour l’enfance en souffrance, and is an orphanage in Lome, the capital of Togo. It was started by a group from Iceland, so of course I needed to pay it a visit on my trip!
The orphanage is housed in a multicoloured building with various different turrets – like a fairy tale castle. Everything is in excellent condition and the 61 children all seem well cared for and happy.
The orphanage is funded predominantly by Icelanders and French, but anyone is welcome to sponsor a child. When a child is sponsored, the next person on the waiting list is given a place in the orphanage – this way, every resident always has their place paid for. There is still a waiting list, and Spes are hoping to build another orphanage in Kalime, 120 km north of Lome.
All the kids here sleep in rooms with screens on the windows and get three cooked meals a day. They wear clothes donated from abroad (one had a great Sparisjodurinn Tshirt from the Icelandic bank).
***
Now is the point where I insert lots of insightful comments and little quotes from the children and the staff about life in the orphanage – little details that would really make the place come alive and would make you give to this worthy cause.
But I’m afraid I don’t have too many of those. And my future article on the orphanage will suffer from my (for lack of a better adjective) sucky journalism. For from the night before I visited Spes, and increasingly after I arrived on Saturday morning, I felt unwell … headache, aches and pains, feverish and only just about enough energy to walk (trudge is more like it). Which all led to have rather a feeling of … DÉJÀ VU (so see the next blog!)
PS: For more information, or to sponsor a child, visit www.spes.is or spesworld.free.fr

There’s nothing like an evening with politicians…

After my one day of labour in Abomey, I headed (via a “quick” stop in Cotonou to collect the passports) to the village of Possotome, home of Benin’s mineral water, for a day of relaxation by Lake Aheme at Chez Theo, an auberge which someone had recommended.

While the day was quite pleasant, relaxing was probably not the best word for it, since the auberge was hosting a conference for the day with representatives from the mayor’s offices of four different Beninese cities. (In fact, the auberge had no rooms left, but the owner cleaned out his own room for me to use! – I have no idea where he slept, but at least 50% of the conference delegates assured me that if there was a problem, I could sleep in their rooms in the “extra beds”..)

A lot of the day was at the restaurant Les Yovettes (Yovo being the local word for a white person), sitting on stilts on the Lake. In the evening, the conference delegates invited me to dine with them, as they indulged in the local schnapps, a palm wine / vodka combo concoction from a long thin blue bottle. The German man who organized the day wryly assured me that the men were as rowdy with the palm wine as they were during the day’s meetings.

They were all very excited to talk to someone who was going to write articles about Benin (despite my emphasis that Iceland is a miniscule country and was not going to make them famous).

Conversation at the delicious dinner of spicy fish and pork, as it often seems to, centrered on why I was not travelling with my husband. Are you really married, they would ask. Show us your ring, they would demand cheerfully.

After convincing them that I was indeed married, then they would try a different tactic: ‘You know, if you spend long enough in Africa, you’ll fall in love with an African man. It’s unavoidable.”

Or from the other direction: “Of course you know your husband is seeing lots of different women when you’re away. It’s just normal.”

I explained that it wasn’t always “just normal”.

And then my favourite: “Well, your husband will definitely be seeing other people while you’re gone because I saw it on a European TV show on TV5 once.”

Well, who am I to argue with television?