I stroll across an unusually green campus yesterday en route to a meeting with my Study Abroad group. We are heading to Peru soon. It’s hot, and I scramble to make a pit stop at the departmental office where a box of new Flip cameras awaits. The cameras are for an ongoing video and photography project, and I speedily pick them up now in an attempt to squeeze every last minute out of this shrinking lemon of a day.
Glancing to the left outside the building, I see three young men sheltered under a Russian olive tree, and one of them looks astonishingly similar to the guy I’d wrongly profiled as a terrorist on board my May Lufthansa flight to Spain via Frankfurt. (For those of you who read the story of the presumed terrorist, you’ll recall that the man proved to be a harmless but nervous flyer with a penchant for Disney films like Bolt).
It’s him. I’m sure of it. But can it be him? Is it just my imagination working overtime, trying to pick up a summer shift or two in these topsy-turvy economic times?
I make a deal. I’ll head into the main office and back, and if the Bolt fan is still here, then I’ll make contact. Heck, I’m already late.
Box of Flip cameras in hand after the office rendezvous, I return to the Russian olive and see that now four young men are huddled around the bench stationed neatly below the welcome shade of the tree. They’re likely on break from a summer school class.
And so I promptly make my move. Seconds later, I find myself speaking aloud to a young, dark haired, smiling man of around 20 years of age:
Excuse me, I know this may sound strange, but were you recently on board a Lufthansa flight to Frankfurt? My speech is fast, I’ve hastily down shifted to a New Jersey dialect.
Nervously smiling, he replies: I’m sorry, but my English is not so good, I am an international student from Saudi Arabia. Still smiling. I wonder if he’s scared of me.
It’s him! I give it a second shot, this time much slower, and add: I remember you from a Lufthansa flight to Frankfurt in May. Was that you? Back in May?
With aid from his friends, he tells me that indeed, it was him on the flight! He was headed to Saudi Arabia and shares how I, too, looked strangely familiar.
I explain that I’m a professor here on campus. Has he ever taken a geography course?
No.
Would you like to?
Sure. (Though I suspect he could teach me a thing or two about geography).
We introduce ourselves and shake hands. And just like that, I am speaking with the young man and his friends about their futures, about life in Colorado, about Saudi Arabia, and I am late, oh so late, for an appointment that is designed to prepare my own students for an educational, cultural, experience abroad. Under the hot Colorado sun, the irony lies naked at my feet.
Did I tell him I thought he was a terrorist? No.
Did I learn something from all this? Uh, yes.
The Bolt loving terrorist is now stalking me.
Kidding.
Wednesday, July 08, 2009
Tuesday, June 30, 2009
Home!
Although the mosquitoes seem to have been given reliable keycard access to my room, for me there is no alternate exit, as the windows are barred shut, and the malfunctioning, smoke detector missing a battery causes just the slightest bit of alarm, as I lay awake at night listening to the spectacular thunder and rain. When we advise the hotel personnel that new batteries are needed for the smoke detectors, housekeeping promptly posts red and black signs on the back of each room door which simply read, “no smoking”.
This may be due in large part to the slight embarrassment I feel when the other Obrunis make regular appearances at the front desk to request this and that, their voices becoming increasingly curt as requests go unrecognized with each passing day.
The only real frustration comes when housekeeping sprays the hotel room with pesticides to root out the mosquitoes. Malaria is serious business, but I’d spent hours driving around the suburbs, upping my carbon footprint, in order to procure a bottle of my favorite Deet free insect repellent, aptly named Repel: Lemon Eucalyptus, and in five minutes I’d been gassed by a bunch of well-intentioned Ghanaians.
Back home in Colorado now, I sift through a mound of African trinkets - carved wooden masks, yards of kente cloth, Ghanaian chocolate bars, powder glass bead bracelets – a collection of curiosities delightfully out of context here in our suburban home. I just received a surprise phone call from Kojo, our driver back in Accra, a perfect jump start to the day. I unpack sunscreen, separate laundry; eventually stumbling upon the now infamous pair of pants, I run my fingers across the new, expertly stitched seam.
Remarkable! I believe I'll always cherish experiences more than things.
PS - Thanks to all for such wonderful comments. I appreciate your following along on this journey.
Sunday, June 28, 2009
Cocoa and Coffins
Later we braved the nightmarish Accra traffic to visit the legendary Ga coffin makers of Teshie. The Ga believe that individuals should be buried in wooden coffins that reflects a person’s profession (photographer, fisherman, pilot) – and sometimes – coffins are carved in order to reveal a person’s vice (cigarettes, beer). For the devotees of this blog, recall that last July I visited the National Funerary Museum in Houston, which houses the largest collection of Ghanaian coffins outside of Ghana.
Not to sound too morose, but what coffin would you choose if you had a pile of Wawa wood and a Ga coffin maker at the ready? Dibs on the cocoa pod.
Saturday, June 27, 2009
Potholes: Past and Present
Friday, June 26, 2009
Feeling not so young in Ghana
But it’s a whole different ballgame to actually see the youthfulness of a nation in the flesh, with scores of children in flip-flops scuffing through the dirt streets, in seaside neighborhoods like Gamashie or in urban slums fringing Accra. In Gamashie, the average fertility rate is a whopping 10, higher than the national average of four. And though many speak of Ghana as a kind of southern Africa in miniature, easy, breezy, peaceful Ghana has its own unique story to tell.
Schools exist - education was made free and compulsory in recent decades- but basic supplies (pencils, pens, books) are a real problem, not to mention the fact that kids work daily in the informal economy hawking plantains and boiled eggs in order to supplement incomes. Some kids, when they do make it to class, battle to sit at the front of the class, a true inspiration for a jaded stateside educator like myself. I curse myself for packing more sunscreen and shampoo than paper and pens.
The causes of poverty here, in this particular place, are both global and local. Global in the sense that the government has allowed commercial fishermen to strip mine the coastal reefs to the point of depletion, and Gamashie fishermen have been left high and dry with the remaining dregs. Inflation is high. Goofy post-colonial policies have led Ghana to export its own rich natural resources – gold, cocoa, rice - allowing other nations to process the goods and steal away with the big money. Ghana then struggles to buy back the finished products, but by then the price of a jumbo chocolate bar equals two days’ Ghanaian pay.
But I like it here. Two weeks without hot water? Who cares. The world has bigger fish to fry, Barton.
PS - Wadi (seen in green t-shirt) really broke my heart. He was the only kid not smiling and hung onto my index finger for most of the day. David (army t-shirt) outside Kumasi asked if he could "flash me", meaning he eventually got his hands on the camera so he could frame his own shots.
Tuesday, June 02, 2009
Goin' to Ghana
Confession: today I became a little jumpy about next week’s trip to Africa and I’m pretty sure it has something to do with my spending hours perusing the internet for pictures of guinea worm infections when I should be reading about freedom and democracy in Ghana. Casey, incidentally, already knew everything there was to know about guinea worm. What’s curious is that this edginess should have been erased by the fact that my body is somewhat bullet proof to several infectious diseases thanks to the miracle of modern day vaccinations, including, but not limited to: typhoid, Hep A, Hep B, MMR, yellow fever, polio, meningitis, rabies, and ipi-ipi (there’s really no such thing, but doesn’t it sound fun). Barring any dim-witted behavior, such as immersing onself in a pool of standing tropical water, or photographing mosquitoes next to said standing pool of water, or drinking that water, all should be fine for a few weeks.
But maybe this anxiety highlights what’s so fascinating about our relationship with Africa, especially those landscapes south of the Sahara. That is, our ability to glibly reduce a continent down to a skeleton of disease, warfare, and poverty, when that same continent gave birth to man, and to coffee. George Kimble summed it up best: The darkest thing about Africa has always been our ignorance of it.
This week I shall read through tomes on Africa in preparation for next week's trip across the Atlantic – geography, history, environment. I do this in anticipation of taking the longer view Kimble recommended. Still, I’ll be carting along the overpriced anti-malaria meds.
Note: Accra, Kumasi, and Cape Coast are the target destinations: will try to post pictures en route.
Saturday, May 30, 2009
Farewell, Green Spain!
Five general conclusions have been drawn from the 3-week trip to Spain:
(1) Our photos do not nearly encapsulate just how green northern Spain is, so don’t judge the lay of the land by what’s been presented here. The Picos de Europa are the jewel of Europe and we’ve shamelessly shown snapshots of dime store costume jewelry.
(2) The trip was ultimately more expedition than vacation, a chance to test our mettle on training grounds used by some of the world’s greatest cyclists. We survived, and admittedly, were stronger for carrying all our own gear, but we have a long way to go before we thrive.
(3)As we’ve learned from past experiences in foreign lands ranging from wind-scraped Nebraska to sun-drenched Australia - the best journeys are those tackled without a plan.
(4)Abandonment of affectation is also critical; there’s no room for pretense if you want to make new friends. (Squeezing your legs into sausage casing-style bicycle shorts, slathering on the SPF 50 and donning a floppy hat will also guarantee that when you cycle into the next village, you’ll be seen as freakish but harmless).
(5) All countries shall heretofore be judged on a scale of 1 to 10 (10 being best) for the degree to which they prioritize chocolate and canines in their everyday lives. After careful field research and analysis, Spain receives a 10.
Ciao!
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