The First Bus to Accra (Ghana)

The ship is buzzing with tales from Ghana. Mostly for me Ghana was a mixed bag; I enjoyed my time there and I didn’t. More than anything I was astonished. Astonished by the people, by the smells, by the cities, by the trash, by the children. I was just astonished.

The ship docks in Tema now, which is a good 22 miles from the capital city of Accra. There is a closer port but the good ole’ MV Explorer can’t dock there anymore thanks to the drunken escapades of students from past voyages, so SAS was kind enough to rent us buses to take us to Accra every two hours. However, Ghanaian roads are not set up to handle the number of cars driving, so traveling the mere 22 miles from Tema to Accra can take anywhere from one hour and forty minutes at best, and over four hours at worst.

After getting my passport on the first day docked in Tema, I head out to the bus ready to experience a true sub-Saharan African country. A group of African singers and drummers were outside the ship playing music and dancing, welcoming us to Ghana and a series of vendors had set up in the port right outside the ship, but I passed both and boarded the first bus the Accra. The time was around eleven o’clock in the morning when we left, but even with a police escort, it took nearly two hours. That first two hours were fun though, as people waved at us from outside the country felt far friendlier than Morocco had on that very first night.

As we pulled into the parking lot of a club and restaurant called citizen Kofi, however, it was clear that the big green bus and the police escort had warranted us some unwanted attention. A large group of young Ghanaian guys were dancing along side the bus, jumping up and down and shouting. I came to learn that Semester at Sea has only been coming to Ghana since 2009, but a new profession has emerged because of it and that is a special kind of mobile street vendor that caters almost specifically to Semester at Sea students.

We got of the bus and walked straight into the hands of these street peddlers or hawkers and immediately they are all smiles. My brain was reeling- I was being hugged and hand shaked everywhere I turned and before I knew it I had a bracelet that said “GHANA” on my wrist, sporting the Ghanaian colors of red, gold and green. Having learned my lesson from Morocco, I instantly gave the bracelet back- I had no money yet (I still needed to find an ATM) and really didn’t want the tacky bracelet. “No, no,” the man said, “it’s free free. Akwaba!” Akwaba means ‘welcome’ in Tri, a local Ghanaian language. I protested again, Morocco also taught me that nothing is ‘free free’. Nothing. But the man insisted and I went on my way in search of an ATM. 15 minutes later, after successfully procuring money, I turned around and there was the vendor who had slapped the bracelet on my wrist, now demanding 20 cidis for the bracelet (that I hadn’t asked for and had tried to give back). The man was smiling, but wouldn’t accept that I was not going to pay for it. Eventually I thrust it back into his hands and somehow got away. But as we stopped for a traditional Ghanaian meal of Fou-Fou (a play dough like substance with no taste and a strange texture) we all spoke of how much we liked the guys we had met and who had tried to sell us bracelets. Sure, they wanted to rip of off, but they were friendly about it! In Morocco the people were relatively straight forward, the small talk and flattery only lasting a few minutes before hard-core bartering began, but here they wanted your money and they wanted to be your friend! How fun!

By the third day in Accra something about their sales method had begun to rub the wrong way; they started to feel distinctly predatory and aggressive. They still smiled and called me sista, but something was wrong. We would duck into shops or restaurants for a coke hoping to lose the salesmen, but they would gather just outside the door in packs, waiting. I had begun to feel weary and hunted, like those cute baby animals in discovery channel documentaries, running from a predator. I began to feel like I was constantly being hunted.

The streets in Ghana are surrounded by little stands that are charitably called shack, selling everything from fish to candy to clothes. In all the parts of Ghana I saw, these collections of shacks are everywhere, the preferred means of commerce for the people. No matter where we were, the middle region, Cape Coast, Tema, Accra, everywhere the shack malls spread out in the hot African sun. The streets are lined on each side by a trench about one foot (maybe a foot and a half) deep. This is the sewage system. Uncovered in most places, people stop on the street and defecate or urinate right there. Unlike Morocco, the smell never leaves. The ever-present smell of human waste and trash is always present. Speaking of trash- I was unprepared for the amount of trash. Even in the countryside, there is trash everywhere. I don’t know what I was expecting, but it wasn’t that.

On the Second day we decided to say so long to Accra and head out to the coast. Along the coastline of Ghana sit three slave castles- two in Cape Coast and one in Elmina. We rented a car and driver and set out around noon. Once we arrived, the same bracelet hawkers waited outside our car for the doors to open, and we ducked into the castle. Once you walk through the gates an instant solemn quiet overcomes you. Other than the group of guides gathered smoking just outside the ticket desk, no one smiles or laughs here. We went to the slave dungeons/castle at Cape coast, a former Dutch and British Slave post. I wont say that the visit was fun, but it was without a doubt meaningful. I believe that places have memories, and that place without a doubt remembers (Id like to think that any remaining vestigages of spirit in that place have moved on to a happy place). You walk into the dungeons and rooms where the people were kept and you can feel like many people suffered a lot there- the suffering presses in on you, suffocating you in darkness. The reminder of the great atrocities that human beings commit against each other is hard to witness. I took some pictures, but mostly I felt like taking pictures was some kind of injustice to the memory of the place. It’s not a tourist destination, but rather a place to confront humanities truly dark and demon ridden past… and how can you capture that in a photograph?

Our drivers name was Ali (pronounce All-lee). He was a truly awesome person. He didn’t talk to us a whole lot, he was very professional, but at one point we got stopped at a Ghanaian Police checkpoint, where they waived us over to the side of the road, not letting us pass and keeping Ali’s drivers license. He pulled over to the side of the road and got out of the car to talk to the police. A few minutes later he came back to the car and explained to us that the police wanted a bribe. When he refused to pay, they gave him back his license and sent us on our way. But as Ali explained what happened he said, “This is beneath Ghana”. I am sure he is right.

On the third day we went back to the area of Accra called Osu. It’s the place I met the little girl the other day. We went back to play with some kids we had met on the first day and give away some of the candy and things we all have for children. However, it quickly turned into a sad affair. The children we encountered were doing laundry in buckets near the sea. They were 9 and 10. School wasn’t supposed to be out for another hour. It broke my heart that these two little girls were not in school, but were washing the clothes for their large family (5 younger siblings). We talked with them for a while (they couldn’t play) gave them some candy and coloring books, but it all felt wrong. These girls don’t need candy and coloring books, they need to be in school. They need to have bathrooms, not trenches. They need new shoes and proper food and mosquito nets and houses that aren’t falling down shacks. Candy and coloring books feels too small. They feel like nothing in the scheme of things, as I suppose they are.

We left the candy with a mother of a large family and left shortly after to make the bus back to the ship.

Despite all the books I have read and documentaries I have watched on Africa, nothing seemed to prepare me for what I saw. The diplomat that gave us a briefing before we left the ship said that Ghana, as one of the only stable democracies in Africa, is Africa-light. If this is how the most developed Sub-Saharan African country is (with the exception of parts of South Africa), I can’t imagine what the rest are like. I can’t fathom that kind of neglect and poverty. I just can’t.

Ghana had its lighthearted moments. We saw a Spanish soap opera called, ‘In the Name of Love’, badly dubbed in English as we ate ice cream, laughing with the young woman who ran the shop at the cheesy lines. We shared stories with a barman over Cokes as we ducked away from some street vendors. We banded over the play dough like Ghanaian food of fou-fou. We marveled at the women who balance everything from stacks of toothbrushes to sewing machines on their heads.

Ghana has made me think long and hard about my life; about the comforts I enjoy, the home I am lucky to have, and just how much I am fortunate to be born when and where I was. It also made me think about my aspirations to join the Peace Corps- is it still something I think I can handle? After Ghana, I believe I can. I also have emerged with my desire to help others, and to meet others in this great wide world in tact. Morocco started hard and got easier, Ghana began easy and got more difficult. Traveling continues to be a true learning experience.

Here's Looking at You Kid (Morocco!)

We arrived at Morocco and I didn’t really know what to expect. I knew two things; I knew I was scared out of my mind, and I knew I was more excited than I have ever been in my life. Anything outside of those two things, I did not know.

Morocco is a land of juxtaposition; Billion dollar Mosque across the street from total poverty; men who are dressed like any other man on the planet and women who are in full head to toe coverings; nothing about Morocco makes sense if you think about it too much. That’s just how Morocco is.

I went with a group of students who traveled to Marrakech independently. Marrakech is an incredible place, though getting there was quite a challenge.
My group boarded a train to Marrakech without much of a game plan. We have the address of our hostel written down on a few sheets of paper and didn’t think we would have a problem getting to the hostel. But, as Semester at Sea keeps telling us, the ‘F’ word of the voyage is ‘flexibility’, and the 20 of us had no idea just how true that was going to turn out to be.

Outside the train station in Marrakech we were immediately overloaded with sights and sounds. The 20 of us stood outside the train station and just marveled for a few minutes- and that was a mistake. A group of 20 western looking college kids with overnight packs, standing looking lost is a temptation no self-respecting Moroccan cab driver can pass up- and they didn’t. Since we didn’t have a clear plan or any person in charge, we were easy pray to get hustled into cabs and way overcharged to get dropped off into the hands of more Moroccan men waiting to relieve us of our money. The cab drivers deposited us in a busy intersection in the dark Moroccan evening, pushing us into the arms of 3 young, 25 ish) Moroccan men. They offered to walk us to our hostel (which, we came to learn, is down an ally that is not accessible my car or donkey, just by foot). We knew that this was a sketchy plan, so tried to tell the guys la shukkron (no thank you in Arabic), but they weren’t having any of that. Having to choice but to walk in the direction of the hostel behind the guys, we began our 15-minute trek down creepy urine smelling allies in pursuit of our hostel. We kept tell the men that we would not pay them, and they would reply that they just wanted to help out their ‘American friends’ and would not require payment. ‘What is money?’ one of them asked me, illustrating that he had desire to take payment. Ha. That was a joke. By the time we reached the door of our hostel the group of 3 guys had swelled into 5, and now they didn’t seem to remember that they didn’t want money. They barred the door and now demanded a payment of 100 Dirham each. We argued with them for what seemed like an eternity, growing more frustrated with Morocco every minute. Once the threats of violence began to fly, we each paid the 20 Dirham and eventually than left, laughing as the disappeared out of the ally.

As we entered the hostel, we had begun to hate Morocco.

Luckily, our hostel was a fortress inside; an Arabian palace from one of those old black and white movies, it was like stepping out of a nightmare and into a dream. The hostel that night served as our safe place in Morocco that felt hostile and frightening. We went up to the rooftop that night to look up at the moon and stars, sharing a bottle of wine and eating couscous.

The next day we decided to give Morocco another chance and headed out to the medina (the old market place filled with shops and souks). In the daylight, Morocco wasn’t nearly as frightening. We did some shopping and had lunch at a small food vendor (tarjine aux les legumes! Yum!) now that we had splintered into smaller, more manageable groups. We even made an attempt at bartering. Walking through the medina was like walking through a real life Aladdin (though it smelt pretty bad in certain areas). The narrow alleys and winding roads have laundry draped across, drying in the sun. Music plays from street performers and shops. It was truly magical.

But if the medina during the day was magical, I have no description for the medina at night. The medina at night is a whole new place. The main square, empty during the day, is now wall to wall with food carts, selling everything from strong mint tea to rotisserie pigeon. Street performers, magicians and story tellers gather crowds in large circles, and without the sun beating down on you, you feel like you can actually breathe at night (the guys in our group didn’t know how lucky they were. We ladies were in long pants or skirts, long sleeves and head scarves often, just cooking in our own skin).

Bartering for taxis is horrible for women. Darrell, a fellow male student who live on my deck, decided to adopt our group, gets his way all the time. Every once and a while, however, one of the taxi drivers waiting outside train stations, port gates or hotels wont see Darrell to approach him and will instead approach one of the girls. Earlier today one saw us and immediately started bartering with me, until he saw Darrell, who doesn’t speak French (French is super helpful here). Darrell (who is called Denzel Washington by all the merchants and venders) was using me to translate and the man kept trying to get me out of the conversation. Unable to do so politely, he eventually turned to me and said in broken English “In Morocco the man makes the deal”. Darrell then took my arm and walked away from the driver. Darrell has been nice enough to take care of our group (now splintered into only 6 or 8 girls depending what we are doing) while in Morocco. Last night while in the Old Medina (a street square with performers, food venders and shops) a man put a monkey on my shoulder, and immediately demanded payment for the pleasure of having the monkey there. I refused to pay, and Darrell stepped in to get the monkey off my shoulder. He watches over us like a mother duck, leading our caravan through the markets, turning around occasionally to count and make sure we are all still there. He even tries to keep all 8 of our butts from being harassed in crowds- a harassment that is a mixture of pick-pocketing and copping a feel. It’s a near impossible task, but poor Darrell tries really hard.

Anything can happen the medina. A monkey was placed on my shoulder by a street performer who offered to take pictures with it (to which I said no thank you), snake charmers wave snakes around, draping them on unexpecting passers-by. The square is crazy and magical all in one.
The next day we said goodbye to Marrakech and took the train back to Casablanca, and returned ‘home’. It’s amazing how quickly the ship has started to feel like home.

On our last day in Morocco was spent exploring Casablanca. We went to the King Hassan II Mosque, the third largest mosque in the world (the first two largest are in Saudi Arabia). The mosque is located right on the water (in fact one third of it is actually built over the water) and is beautiful. A life long learner told me that, no matter what religion you were, you would feel the presence of God in the mosque. I felt disappointed when all I felt was anger. The mosque is built right across from so of the worst poverty I have seen in my life. The giant, beautiful mosque felt more like a monument to mans own hubris than a holy site. Don’t get me wrong, it was beautiful, one the most beautiful buildings I have ever seen with its 56 chandeliers and Moroccan marble floors that stretch out for miles. But while I was there I couldn’t help but wonder if it wouldn’t have made God happier if they had spent the billions of dollars they spent to build that Mosque, on the poor people right there across the street. Wouldn’t that be more of an honor to God?

I guess I don’t know.

On the whole, I loved Morocco. The place is so different from anywhere else I have ever been to; so uniquely its own. The biggest lesson and struggle I have had in Marrakech is coming to terms with what being a woman, and more specifically a western woman, means here. The men either look through you or are grabbing your butt and calling out to you in broken English that is rude at best. I have never ever been able to let a man do something that I can do better. And even more of a struggle is, when you do feel someone grabbing your butt, knowing that turning around and confronting the pervert will likely get you arrested or worse. I have never felt so helpless, and the fact that the feeling is entirely based on my gender just makes me furious.

We are now sailing through the Canary Islands on our way to Ghana. As we said goodbye to Morocco I couldn’t help but feel like I wasn’t saying goodbye, but rather ‘see you soon’ to a new friend. As my first really different travel experience, I’m sure Morocco will always have a special place in my heart.

I’ll do my best to post some pictures up here as soon as I can find some free Internet in Ghana. We’ll arrive in 5 days.

Here’s looking at you kid,
Mal