Evangeline Travels

I’ll make this brief for you, dear readers. I am well aware of my tendency to be long winded.

Graduating this May. May the 13th to be exact. I will obtain some attractive pieces of paper stating that I have a B.A. in Art History, a B.A. in International Studies, a Certificate in Chinese Studies, and a Minor in Geography, from Indiana University, with an Honors Notation. I will wear an overpriced robe and a silly looking hat, I’ll stand around bored and uncomfortable for several hours, and some elderly white gentleman I’ve never met before will shake my hand, warmly congratulate me, and hand me said pieces of paper.

Going to Jordan in May. May the 15th to be exact. Should be far more interesting than the above mentioned scenario. People seem utterly baffled that I have chosen to go there. It seems that many assume the entire Middle East is a sandy hell hole you only go to if you’re in the army. I don’t have the time or energy to explain myself to such people. I’ve been sticking with the short answer, “cuz I’ve never been before.”

After the Jordan study abroad program ends, I’ll hopefully have the funds to pop around Europe for a bit. Never been to Edinburgh or Prague. Would like to see some museums in Amsterdam or Athens. Have some friends to visit in Paris, Northern England, and Germany.

I’ll be sure to give you plenty of reading material then.

I begin this post with a reference to that famous Tennessee Williams line, “I have always depended upon the kindness of strangers.” Other than the whole being utterly delusional part, Blanche DuBois and I do have this in common. My life would not be nearly as wonderful, fulfilling, enriching, exciting, and a slew of other positive adjectives were it not for the nameless, faceless people who have touched it so profoundly.

My life (not to mention this travel blog) would be rather dull and empty were it not for the scholarships that have provided me with my education and travel opportunities. My studies at IUPUI and my experiences traveling the world have shaped me into the individual I am today, and these opportunities would not be possible without those donors and organizations that have supported me financially over the past 4 years. Though I occasionally have been able to send thank you letters and postcards to some of the people responsible for the funding and selection of these scholarships, I don’t really know any of my benefactors’ identities, or motivations to give to young unknown people like myself.

Sometimes I think it’s for the best that I don’t get to meet these people. I simply wouldn’t know what to say, I’d likely just keep repeating “wow, gosh, thank you so much” at an annoying rate. How could one thank an unknown person who has given them so much? How could I begin to describe the ripple effect that it has had, how many lives it has touched vicariously through me?

I’ll end this post with that cheesy expression “pay it forward.” The financial assistance that I have been so very fortunate to receive over the past few years does not end with me. It extends to all of the lives that I have touched, and will further manifest itself as I continue to grow and discover new ways to better the world I live in.

谢谢. Merci. Gracias. Danke. شكرا . teşekkür ederim. Grazie. ありがとう. Meda ase. Thank you. 

Saturday, October 15th

Day three in New Orleans. Happy to report I have proven everyone wrong and managed to escape death or injury.

After I left off, Friday night at the hostel, nothing much happened. I tried to weasel my way into some French and British people’s conversation, hoping to find people to do something with the following day. When they started talking about their drugs of choice, I opted not to try and hang out with them. Luckily, one of the girls in my room seemed promising—laid back, a bit quirky, thirty-something, fluent in multiple languages, used to intern for the UN. But Saturday morning she slept in rather late because she was tired from her flight, and I couldn’t wait to go explore.

I took the trolley to the French Quarter, a place I knew would be packed with tourists so I didn’t feel uncomfortable walking around solo. Despite the hackneyed touristy aspects, it was a lovely place to walk around. Delicious pastries, peculiar decorative displays of New Orleans pride, Halloween decorations galore, art galleries, antique shops, and the charming architectural elements—particularly the Spanish ironwork balconies and pastel colored stucco. I walked around for hours. In my wandering, I came across a restaurant named Evangeline, so out of vanity I had to stop and eat lunch there. The Po-boy sandwich and mimosa was fantastic, but I was a little disappointed they didn’t have any merchandise for me to buy.

I walked through Bourbon Street, knowing it wasn’t really my thing but people told me to check it out anyway. Since it was around 2 in the afternoon, I assumed it wouldn’t be too wild. I was incorrect in this assumption. Like in Europe, it’s legal to have alcohol on the streets here, as long as its not in a glass bottle (since glass bottles in drunken hands can be lethal). People, most certainly all tourists, were already drunk, loud, and obnoxious, stumbling around with their hurricanes in colorful plastic containers… it was a hot sloppy mess. I knew I would not be returning.

After I rested back at the hostel for a bit, my roommate and I did a little shopping together. I knew I definitely wanted to go out to see some live music that night, since the live jazz and blues was a good part of my motivation to come here in the first place. As I went to the front desk of the hostel to ask the receptionist for suggestions for a laid back, authentic place to see live jazz, I heard another person asking the same thing. After talking to the receptionist and the fellow inquirer for a while, I decided I had to go where she suggested, Frenchman Street in the Marginy neighborhood, not too far away.

Unfortunately my roommate couldn’t come out with me, since she has a health condition that leaves her very fatigued, so I was concerned I wouldn’t be able to go at all. The other traveler who was asking about good live music venues was an Australian named Edwin, who had been traveling with his girlfriend around the US the past few weeks but she had to return to Sydney. Since he frequently brought up his girlfriend in conversations, and I knew we would be taking a crowded streetcar to a crowded neighborhood, I decided to go against my normal instinct of avoiding going anywhere alone with an unfamiliar male. I felt it necessary in that particular situation. The jazz was calling me.

Turns out, Edwin and I really got along. 5 minutes into the conversation and we already were poking fun at each other—a good sign. I’ve met a few great Australians at great hostels in great cities, and suspect that there is something about our cultures that makes our senses of humor mesh pretty well.

We walked to Frenchman street and, sure enough, there were several unbelievably talented musicians, performing on street corners and in crowded nightclubs (video coming soon with footage of a few favorite performances). As we were sitting in one jazz club watching one brass band play in a highly animated and passionate manner, Edwin said something that seemed hilarious and somehow a little profound: “there’s nothing that a shit ton of brass can’t fix”. Ain’t that the truth.

Our cross-cultural amusement continued throughout the evening. He was visibly excited to say Americanisms like “fitty”. I was excited to say I had to use the “loo”.

We returned to the hostel relatively early, since I planned on waking up early the following day… but of course stopped to eat a beignet on the way. A beignet is nothing short of incredible. A fried pastry placed in a small paper bag with about a pound of powdered sugar dumped on top. God bless New Orleans. All in all, I was quite happy I decided to step a bit out of my comfort zone and share an evening and some pastries with that pleasant humored Aussie.

Sunday, October 16th

Woke up early to visit a plantation today. For the sake of saving time, I decided to visit the closest one, Destrehan plantation. My little guidebook I purchased (which has been immeasurably helpful this whole trip, and handy whenever I’m dining by myself), said that this particular plantation was not the most stunning of them all, but it did have one major selling point: it is featured, briefly, in the movie “Interview with a Vampire”. After I read that, it was pretty much a done deal. When I arrived, I recognized it as the place where Louis kills the poodles. “Evil doers taste better”. Love it.

The plantation was lovely. The massive old trees with the hanging moss looked straight out of a romantic landscape painting, and the history of the house and its occupying families, as dictated to me by a tour guide in a giant hoop skirt and bonnet, were quite interesting. History and scenery, always a pretty solid bet.

I returned to Nola to walk around an area with some larger old homes called the Garden District. With my little book in hand, I could read about the history of the more stunning or historically relevant homes. I kept running into tour groups with tour guides telling them all the facts I had in my book… suit yourselves. I was hoping to stroll around a nearby cemetery, since I have always been intrigued by the raised graves, however it was oddly closed on Sunday. So I walked around the perimeter and got a few glimpses, which was enough for me.

After a few last minute purchases in the French Quarter (I had to get apology gifts for my mom and my manager, since they were both pretty apprehensive about my coming here alone), I returned to the hostel for a while to rest and figure out my next move. It just so happened some people were watching Interview with a Vampire in the common area, so naturally I joined them.

I ended up talking with several people who were also traveling solo. Edwin was there, along with a girl from Cali who just graduated from law school, an Australian girl traveling across the US for the next few months, and a few others. One of them mentioned an event they randomly found online, an after party for a film festival that supposedly had free alcohol. So the group of solo travelers set out to find this place, thinking that it was far too good to be true. Turns out, it was not. There was indeed a bar at a hotel, that was indeed giving out free drinks. Unlimited. And they were delicious. We raved about how great the film festival was, even though we hadn’t been to any of it and were completely crashing their party. It was good fun.

Although I had a bit too much to drink and was having a bit too much fun, I was able to take a cab back to the hostel, wake up the following morning, pack my things, check out, and drive 14 hours home. Like a champ.

All in all, it was a truly wonderful experience. I was a bit apprehensive before I left, after hearing people tell me over and over again that it was a bad idea… but it wasn’t. And if it was, it was the best bad idea I’ve ever had, and I’m sure I’ll have some even more wonderful bad ideas in the future.

For various reasons, I have had this fantasy of going on a New Orleans road trip for quite a while. The antiquity, the European culture, the literary connection with my unique first name, to name a few… The idea kept growing and growing in the back of my mind, intertwined with other travel plans, manifesting itself in the form of hours of aimless internet searches on New Orleans travel guides, New Orleans drive time from Indianapolis, New Orleans hostels, stops on the way to New Orleans… And the little idea grew to a point where I couldn’t ignore it, so I went about trying to convince people to go along with me. That didn’t exactly happen, since, as I often complain, a majority of people I know don’t possess the trinity of travel requirements: time, money, and balls. I’m motivated enough to make enough of all three. So, I decided to go to NOLA, solo.

Reactions to my plan of driving across the country by myself were fairly predictable, the worriers worried, and the badasses said, that’s badass, go for it. On Thursday morning, before my departure, I expected my poor mother to find some way to sabotage my leaving, perhaps by slashing my tires or falling a tree to block my car in the driveway. But she got over it.

I left Indy in the afternoon after my last midterm, the beginning of an extended fall break weekend, and headed to Nashville, TN. It was a good halfway point, and it is a city I have never visited before—a continuation of my intracontinental ventures goal from the beginning of the summer. I arranged several weeks ago to stay with a girl I found on Couchsurfing.

People generally seem to be rather mystified by the concept of couchsurfing. I guess on paper, and at first glance, it does seem pretty ludicrous. You join a network of travelers and hosts, build a profile after your identity and address has been checked, and send requests for people to host you. There is no money involved. Just a couch, a spare bed, an air mattress, or a folded comforter on the floor to sleep on, along with a nice experience with a local, and inevitable new friendships formed. Couchsurfers are a special breed of people—I’ve never met a fellow couchsurfer that I did not immediately get along with. I surfed in France with a few different people, and could not possibly think more highly of the organization.

My couchsurfing experience in Nashville was nothing short of delightful. My hostess, Emily, and her adorable tail-less cat, were very warm and gracious. She is originally from Alabama, with the endearing accent and hospitality to prove it. We had been emailing back and fourth and talking on the phone for about a month before I arrived, so that, along with her natural warmth, made me feel as though I was seeing an old friend when I first met her, and we gave each other a big hug.

It was a lovely abbreviated trip to the Music City. We had dinner at a fabulous restaurant, sweet potato fries and sushi, and then went to the Honky Tonks to listen to some live musicians. The country and rock and bluegrass bands were all fantastically talented and entertaining. As a city gal I never really got into this kind of music, but after seeing these bands, I will surely do some music downloading when I get home.

Woke up around 7:30 this morning, was on my way by 8:30 and had a long but surprisingly easy drive to New Orleans. Passed through Birmingham, Alabama and made a quick visit to the 16th street Baptist Church, just because I am a civil rights history nerd. From there I drove pretty much straight, stopping only for gas, but my car gets great mileage. The combination of lengthy solitude and a 5 hour energy shot I nursed over the course of a few hours led to some strange results… lots of talking to myself, lots of loud singing, lots of yelling at other drivers and reading signs out loud… one of the many advantages of driving alone, there’s no one that you are trying to convince that you’re sane.

It’s my first road trip alone, but I find there are many advantages… I can stop when I feel like it, where I feel like, and spend as much or as little time and money as I please. There’s never the awkward “I dunno, what do you wanna do?” conversation—you just do it. There’s never the awkward gas station stop where you try to hint that you paid last time and its their turn, without sounding like a douche. And its actually easier to stay focused when driving alone, because quite often your co-pilots will fall asleep for lack of stimulation to stay awake, which makes you as the driver feel sleepy. But mainly, the blasting any music you want and yelling along is the primary advantage.

As soon as I arrived to Nola, I went to the lovely Tulane University and met with a friend from high school. We strolled around for a bit, had dinner at an old school diner, and enjoyed the perfect weather and scenery. I opted not to stay with her during my trip, since she has a few big school projects due next week, and instead decided to book a hostel.

Hostels are the best for solo travelers. Hostel common rooms usually have no shortage of good company, fellow adventurers and tourists willing to do adventurous and touristy stuff with other travelers. In Hainan, China, we split a bus with a few British girls from the hostel to go to the rainforest and hike. In Marseille we met a charming South African and went to an awesome blues concert with him. In Madrid we met some lovely Frenchmen and had many chats with them, and when my friend accidentally left her i-phone at the hostel, one of them was kind enough to mail it back to the state s to her. In sum, hostel friends are the coolest. That was my motivation in choosing the hostel, the India House backpackers hostel. Lots of common areas, a common patio, a room shared with 5 other girls… bound to find a buddy here somewhere. Currently sitting on the patio next to some spunky Brits and an Austrian playing cards, talking about the rugby match they’ll watch later. I’ll pretend to like rugby for tonight, for the sake of finding people to go on tours with tomorrow. Seems like a good plan. So I guess I should stop being a dweeb on my laptop and go talk to people.

Much love to everyone worrying about me at home.

I have received a few complaints about my literary inactivity on here since my return from Ghana 2 months ago. So sorry to disappoint, but I haven’t had as much material to work with since I’ve been back, and even less free time to spare.

Upon the realization that I have traveled to more cities outside of my vast and beautiful continent, I felt a twinge of guilt. As though my homeland might somehow hold it against me for venturing elsewhere so frequently when she has so much to offer. So, over the summer, between work and an inordinately difficult summer class, I took it upon myself to compensate for my egregious lack of patriotism over the past few years and explore me some Amurica.

Boston

My mission began in Boston, which seems like an appropriate starting point for an explore America tour. The drive was a drag, around 16 hours from Indy, but I was rather enamored by the final destination so it was not a bad trade off. To briefly summarize: favorite aspects were the fabulous antique markets, quirky shops, old buildings, 17th century headstones, and everything about and around the Harvard campus.

Grad school fantasies? I think yes. No one ever told me not to dream big.

Different Sides of Lake Michigan

I also took a quick 2 day trip to Lake Michigan after a stressful week. Seems that a beach sunset and a few Michigan fresh blueberry milkshakes from an old drive in diner was the perfect medicine. The simple joys in life.

Chicago was another destination, but at this point I have been to Chicago so many times it hardly even feels like travel. The perfect weekend destination from Indy, and since one of my best friends lives there I always have a marvelous free hotel to stay at. Had a blast and a half with old friends that weekend.

St. Louis & Columbus

A few weeks later, a friend and I randomly decided to go to St. Louis one day. We did not prepare a whole lot, which can be a good and bad thing… We looked up a neighborhood that had cool antique markets and decided we would improvise from there. Well, when we arrived too this supposedly charming antique district, it turned out to be run down, decrepit, shit area of town, with vacant buildings and a single Salvation Army store. I guess we should have researched that one a bit more. But we had a great time regardless, and our little incident in the ghetto of St. Louis was a source of amusement more than discomfort or annoyance. Travel requires flexibility. We found a random nice hotel downtown, pretended we were staying there, and had them give us suggestions. They steered us in the right direction, we went to a cool area to wander and window shop and look at old houses.

The following day, we went on another day trip in the opposite direction, to Columbus, Ohio to visit a friend. I was impressed and intrigued by the city, and hope to revisit soon to explore it further.

I think by this point, I was about equalized in the American:Non American city visitation ratio. Patriotism questioning crisis averted.

Toronto

Labor day weekend, after a sure to be grueling school semester had barely begun, was another travel opportunity. I see every crack in my schedule as a travel opportunity, which is surely an annoyance to my job and other obligations at times. What can I say, it’s an addiction. Since a friend of mine was staying in Toronto that week, a few friends and I decided to go visit her in the city I loved so much when I went last summer.

When we crossed the border, my friend shyly asked for them to stamp our passports. The border officer did it. Another exotic stamp for my collection.

Toronto is a truly international city, the melting pot that the United States often claims to be but sometimes falls somewhat short of. People of all races and immigrants galore populate the urban landscape in a captivating way. One thing I tend to pay attention to when I travel is the amount of mixed couples, and judging by the amount of two-tone couples holding hands and strolling in the wonderfully walkable city, it seems that everybody dates everybody.

Canadian cities are known for being cleaner and friendlier than US cities, however this was not always the case in Toronto. The apartment we stayed at, though lovely and near some great areas and a major university, seemed to be right by a bizarre mecca of homeless, a freak show of colorful characters in depressing life situations… A toothless man zooming by on a motor scooter wheelchair, a shirtless man with a massive goiter protruding from his neck, addicts and mentally handicapped people having animated and incomprehensible conversations with themselves. Walking down this street felt like I was in the midst of the zombie apocalypse. There appeared to be vacant buildings down the street from the apartment, which I assume attract the squatters. They didn’t make me feel at all threatened, just a little sad and uncomfortable… And I had to hold my breath if one of them walked past  to avoid the inevitable stench that would follow.

On Saturday we must have walked around 10 miles, exploring the city on foot until our sandaled feet were blistered and sore. Plenty of lovely sights, intriguing shoppes, and delicious hole-in-the-wall eateries, with plenty of excellent people watching along the way. When searching for a good restaurant for dinner, we stumbled across a fantastic Italian festival in Toronto’s little Italy. It appeared to me to be far more authentic than the little Italy in New York, which only had shitty pizza joints and places to buy Godfather and Goodfellas t-shirts. Toronto must still have that legitimate Italian immigrant population. I don’t know if it was in the Gelato, or the jovial old men I saw walking by with the swollen pregnant looking bellies that were distinctly Italian, but there was a definite authenticity here. The festival was good fun, with live music and thick crowds, and Italian cuisine at every corner. A lovely way to spend a warm summer evening with friends. We ended up at an amazing restaurant where I had butternut squash ravioli, which I have never seen at any restaurant in the States. It was as delicious as Florentine butternut squash ravioli. I could write a novel describing how amazing this ravioli was.

I am hoping to continue my road tripping tendencies, now that I have finally gotten over my fear of interstate driving and developed more of an appetite for the road. There is such a sense of freedom about the classic concept of the American road trip. The things that go wrong or take you by surprise often end up being the most delightful flavor of the journey.

People sometimes comment that I am so mature for a person of 22 years. To dispel this misinterpretation of this character, may I present the final photo of our Toronto trip, taken at a random country town somewhere between Ann Arbor and Fort Wayne.

Journal entry, June 6th, Kumasi

It was a long and bumpy drive to Kumasi today. We were in Ellis’s big white van again, like our last 2 road trips. For much of the journey, the van kicked up quite a bit of red dirt from the road… And I use the term “road” quite loosely here, as it did not resemble much of a road. Cars veered to the left and right, passing each other on either side, all trying to avoid the massive craters. We may as well have been on the surface of mars. And the way the drivers all swerve around like mad, one would think that everyone was intoxicated.

After the physically jolting voyage, we visited the Asante palace and museum. It was not hugely exciting. Creepy wax figures in native Asante garb, some drums, some chipping old gold jewelry. It was somewhat sad in many ways, to see these centuries old precious relics sitting out in the open, virtually unprotected from the heat and humidity. However our distractingly handsome tour guide did tell us something that I found to be quite interesting. The British governor of the Gold Coast around the turn of the century, back when it was a colony, was a very unkind fellow by all accounts. He demanded from the Asante people their Golden Stool, a highly sacred object to them, only sat upon by the king. A verbatim transcript of the governor’s addresses the Ashanti chiefs in 1900: “Where is the Gold Stool? Why am I not sitting on the Golden Stool at this moment? I am the representative of the paramount power; why have you relegated me to this chair?” And this fellow happens to be named Sir Frederick Hodgson. He could well be one of my distant relatives. Not an appealing person to find out you could be related to, but it could be worse. I mentioned to our distractingly handsome tour guide that my surname was also Hodgson, and joked that I hoped I was not related to him. He smiled and nodded, pretending to understand my American accent. He made some joke, and I smiled and nodded, pretending to understand his Ghanaian accent.

Journal Entry, June 7, Mole National Park

An even longer drive today to Mole National Park, but beyond worth it. We drove past a lot of villages with mud huts. A lot of kids in matching school uniforms. A lot of run down taxis and tro tros spewing black exhaust. A lot of termite mounds emerging from the earth like giant red stalagmites. A lot of women in vibrant kente cloth skirts carrying huge baskets of food or bundles of firewood on their heads. A lot of little gangs of scraggly goats or cows grazing leisurely. A lot of churches. A lot of Mosques. A lot of vendors at the side of the road selling piles of melons or avocados or yams or mangoes… Many sights continuously repeated throughout our long journey, but I never grew tired of looking out the window as we zoomed past everything.

When we arrived at the hotel in the heart of Mole national park, there was a baboon on the roof. Then another by the restaurant. And a few more lounging by the pool. Mommy baboons with little babies trailing behind them or clinging to their back. Also saw a warthog by our room.

A baboon started to run towards me at one point, which gave me a good scare, but it stopped and backed off when I yelled at it… So I decided not to sit by myself anymore.

As I write, I am sitting before one of the most beautiful vistas I have ever seen in my lifetime. I’ve never seen such rich, lush, totally uninterrupted forest. I can see for miles from this vantage point from a hillside–no roads, no telephone poles or radio towers… Just a water hole in the valley below, endless trees stretching to the horizon, and a sky of such shades of pale yellow and gray that my camera can’t come close to capturing the perfection of the scene. The weather is clear and temperate here, but I can see dark clouds far off in the distance, occasionally crackling with lightning. Small monkeys are picking fruit from a nearby tree. A moment I want to linger in my memory for as long as humanly possible.

Journal Entry, June 8th, Mole National Park

Another memorable day today. We woke up early to go on a safari on foot with a local guide… more like a leisurely hike down the dirt road by the hotel in my opinion, but perhaps it counted as a safari because the guide carried a rifle that was about as tall as he was. I love a man with a thick accent, a huge gun, and an encyclopedic knowledge about wildlife.

After a short walk we came across 2 huge elephants, grazing peacefully, seemingly moving in slow motion. It was truly incredible to see them so close, and in their natural environment. Well maybe not entirely their natural environment, it was a soccer field by a village school. Close enough. It began to rain, and the massive creatures began to saunter towards us, close enough that our guide nervously told us to back away as he held onto his rifle. We walked across the field to a shelter to escape the rain, and one of the elephants to follow us, almost deliberately it seemed. He ended up right next to the building we were in, only about 10 feet away from us. It was quite a sight, watching him heave his giant head upwards as that dexterous trunk nimbly grabbed bunches of leaves off of branches and shoveled them into his massive mouth. Something about those eyes, peering from that wrinkled gray flesh, looks so gentle and oddly human. I’ve never seen one so close.

…We also visited a rural village near Mole national park, many interesting photos from there. But I will have to save them for later. Back in Accra now, it was a long journey but I am glad to be back safely. Tomorrow we will be going to Nii Maama’s wedding engagement ceremony, I’m very excited for that. We all had traditional Ghanaian dresses made.

So sad to be leaving in 5 days… This trip has gone by far too quickly. A friend told me that amazing experiences end only to make room for more… or something like that. Hope you don’t mind my stealing your quote. Let’s hope it’s true.

More posts to come when I have time. Much love to everyone back home.

Journal Entry, May 31st, Accra

Every time I travel I seem to have some issue with my camera. Back in the olden days (ahem, 4 years ago) when I used film cameras, I always lost a few rolls somehow. In China my digital camera broke and I had to replace it. Last trip to Europe I left my charger and battery in a hostel in Sevilla when I woke up late and left in a panic for an early flight, but thankfully was able to get them back later. The plague that fell upon my photography this time was: little kids who have never used digital cameras before accidentally deleted everything. It was a definite ”oh shit” moment when I realized what they had done, but I couldn’t let them see how upset I was. Luckily, I had unintentionally loaded most of my images (not video though) onto a thumb drive yesterday when I was uploading to my blog… phew. So most of my photos are still in existence, thankfully.

Journal Entry, June 1st, Accra

Today at school, the French teacher was kind enough to allow me to teach part of her lesson.  The kids were learning about body parts, so I had them play a game of Simon Says — “Simon Dit” — to practice. Simon dit…. touchez le nez. Simon Dit…. ouvre la bouche. It was good fun, the competition got quite heated, as one would expect amongst 5th graders.

The kids keep asking me when I will be leaving, and whether I will come back to visit them soon… I didn’t have the heart to tell them that tomorrow is our last day at Morning Star School. I just pretended not to understand. They speak so quietly, and their accents are so different, I don’t understand them half the time anyway. We played around together after school, jumping rope, dancing, playing more Simon says. At one point I stopped to fix my hair, which I wear in a braid to the side. The girls gathered around me and watched, quiet and wide eyed. Then Grace, a beautiful girl with short hair and a great smile, timidly asked if she could braid it for me. Then they all asked to touch it, commenting on how soft it is. The braid they gave me looked pretty bad, but I left it in. It was a sweet moment… I sure will miss my girls.

Journal entry, June 2nd, Accra

I had a lovely lunch break with Auntie Mary today. After we had a long conversation in the classroom while the kids were at computer class, she invited me to go across the street for a drink. She asked me if I had ever tried Malta, a Guiness brand malt beverage with no alcohol, supposedly an energy drink of some sort. It was absolutely disgusting. I don’t even know how to describe how disgusting it was… Like liquified bitter bread. Normally I pretend to like stuff that people offer me in other countries, but I nearly gagged on this one. Had to switch with a Fanta. We were pretty quiet for the most part, sitting on a bench outside of a little street vendor’s stand, drinking from worn looking glass bottles. Airplanes fly over the school quite frequently, and every time we heard one approaching, Mary’s face would light up, and she’d point and say where it was going. She could tell where they were going by the direction, time of day, and airline. “Dubai. Emirates Airlines.” “London. British Airways.” “Cote d’Ivoire, flying West, see?” “Atlanta, goes above here around 9:30 every day.” I suppose she comes here and watches quite often, drinking that awful beverage, staring longingly at the sky wishing she was on a flight en route to her beloved India.

At the end of the day, the class of 5th graders I have been spending the past 3 weeks with, all anxiously surrounded me to ask for my address, phone number, facebook, a present from the US, when I was coming back to visit, could they visit me in America, and so on. 33 kids in all, 10 and 11 years old. I definitely bonded more with the girls in the class, but am fond of them all. A few of the girls started crying because I had to leave… I was sad to go. I have had a great experience getting to know them over the past few weeks, and hope to see them again some day.

Feeling ill today, my body took a beating over the weekend and now it seems to be quite upset with me. Taking the day off school, but hopefully I’ll feel well enough to go in the afternoon. I promised the kids I’d be there. Since Iactually have some time to kill, I’ll treat you all to some more journal entries.

Journal Entry, May 27th, Eastern Region

Another great experience today. We visited a rural school in the Eastern Region, about an hour outside of Accra. We drove through the hilly terrain until we reached a rugged dirt road, that lovely red Ghanaian soil. We had to walk down a rocky hillside (quite awkward to do in a long skirt, but we were told to dress nicely) in order to reach the school. It was a very simple structure with about 6 rooms total. Because of the limited space, many of the classrooms were separated with wooden dividers to make them into 2 teaching areas. The facilities were far more sparse than Morning Star School, making it apparent that rural schools lack many of the resources that urban schools have. The building was hard to get around, no sidewalks of course, only steep hillside covered in boulders. No posters on the walls. Not many books. Nothing valuable, because there were no locks on the doors. No doors at all, actually. Not a single computer. Even if they could afford a computer, there was no electricity. The desks and chairs were wobbly and uneven, appearing as though they were thrown together out of scrap wood. No running water. Nowhere to use the restroom, I suppose they just have to go to the woods. Just simple, bare rooms with chalkboards painted on the walls, and slanted cement floors.  But one would never know about the unpleasant conditions of the school judging by the kids. They were just as bright and enthusiastic as ever, in dapper green uniforms, asking us to take photos of them when they saw our cameras. We stayed and chatted with the 7th graders for a while, and talked about our favorite music, asked questions about language and culture, sang some Shakira. They all said they wanted to go to Junior Secondary School (equivilant to high school), then to university, to become teachers and nurses… It broke my heart knowing that it was unlikely for most of them to have those opportunities. Rural communities simply lack the resources and infrastructure to give children a fair chance.

(We gave a small donation to their school to thank them for allowing us to visit… I don’t feel like it was enough though. I will be sending some money and supplies to the school when I get home, if anyone would care to donate just let me know.)

Journal Entry, May 28th, Volta Region

More adventures and misadventures today. We woke up early to drive to the Volta Region with our same beloved tour guides, Ellis and Nii. We drove for several hours, more crazy bumpy rural roads, and eventually reached a monkey sanctuary. We met with a tour guide who took us on a path through the jungle, then started calling to the monkeys and holding out a banana. After some waiting and looking around, we began to hear some rustling in the trees above, and some high pitched noises, like the mews of kittens. A few of the little creatures, which were about the size of small cats, timidly approached the guide’s outstretched arm and grabbed little handfulls of banana. I was anxious to go next. I held out a banana, and 2 of them hopped onto my shoulder and arm to get to it. Their little hands and teeth felt strangely pleasant to me, but then again I’ve always been an animal person.

We were supposed to go to a waterfall next, but it began to rain quite heavily, so we had to skip it and head to the hotel… What a trip. The red muddy streets running through the thick of the forest were filled with deep pits and puddles. We noticed a group of people ahead of us surrounding a big white van (just like ours) that was stuck in a mud pit in the road, trying to heave it out. Ellis stalled, then inched closer, unsure of what to do next. One of the villagers who was trying to help them get the van out of the mud came and talked with Ellis and Nii, telling them to try and drive past the stuck vehicle. Eventually we did pull forward, only to become stuck in the mud right next to the other van. The villagers all laughed at our predicament–these Abruni (foreigners) stuck in a van stuck in the mud stuck in the middle of nowhere. They kindly attempted to pull us out of the ditch, without success. A big tractor came to the rescue, and the men all worked together to tow the other van out of the mud. After a lot of different attempts, eventually both vans were pulled out of the mud pits.

We continued on down that narrow rugged road until we reached a small village at the foot of a mountain. How picturesque. There is a stretch of road lined with simple buildings, about the same length as one city block. And that is the whole village. Just dirt road, mountains, and jungle beyond it. Our lodging is simple, but is by no means a mud hut. Just a basic lodge with a common area and a few bedrooms. The electricity is not working so I am writing this by candlelight, how quaint.

Journal Entry, May 29th, Volta Region

Beyond exhausted today. We climbed the mountain, Mount Afadjato, along with a local guide who had very bad B.O. from the get go. 2900 feet of steep, rocky, muddy, unforgiving terrain, but I was able to make it up without a huge amount of trouble. After my mountain climbing experience in Washington state, I knew that the hardest part was getting over mental blocks. Once you are free of those, your body can do about anything. Other people in the group had a lot of trouble climbing, so I had to try and encourage them, telling them we were almost to the top when I knew damn well we weren’t. But we made it, all 5 of us, in about an hour. I bet I could have done it in 45 if I didn’t have to stop and wait for them so many times… Guess I’ll have to come again and see. I was quite a bit ahead of the group for most of the hike, so I was the first to reach the top… And for a moment, it felt like it belonged to me. The view was spectacular. Facing east, we could see Togo. The village was tiny, far below us. Otherwise it was just mountains and forest, as far as the eye could see. The tallest mountain in the country, what an incredible feeling.

On the climb down I spent a considerable amount of time sliding on my ass. It was just too steep to walk down. But we all made it down, with minimal scrapes, which was quite a feat. After that we managed to hike and see the waterfall we had missed yesterday, Tagbo Falls. The tallest waterfall in West Africa. Exhausted from the climb, I laid on a cool, flat rock and enjoyed the breeze, the mist, the momentous sound of the falling water. A moment of perfection.

…Now I am paying the price for our adventurous weekend, laying in bed in the hotel, sore and nauseous and covered in bruises. And unbelievably happy to be here.