A Night at the Geneva Airport

This vignette requires me setting the context. For the previous six months, I lived with my colleagues and friends, Kyle and Sebastian. While in Ghana, the three of us shared an office. As the sun would set, our office became our bedroom, grabbing seat cushions to pad the floor. So it is fair to state that I quite literally spent every waking and non-waking moment of the past six months surrounded by Kyle and Sebastian. The running joke (or depressing realization) was that we spent more time with each other than we will spend with any future partner. Following our stay in Ghana, Kyle and I backpacked through southern Europe – continuing our streak of inseparability.

With that in mind, it was time to leave Madrid and fly home. Thankfully there was a layover in the Geneva airport. Arriving at 11pm, the flight to the United States would not be leaving until noon the next day. Unthankfully, for me, I felt unusually sick and incredibly dehydrated. With my body rejecting reality, I decided to throw down big bucks to get a hotel room. So I began calling local Geneva hotels. Not a single hotel had a single room available, so it looked like airport slumber was inevitable. Fighting ninja germs throughout the night, I was just thankful to be alive come morning.

With delirium circling my head like rain clouds, I spotted an airport pastry shop. I signaled to Kyle through inaudible mumbles that we should go there for a croissant and coffee. Staggering over to the Coffee and Friends (so very appropriately named), I turned around only to discover that Kyle was nowhere in sight. Thinking to myself that he must have stepped aside to go to the bathroom, I decided to wait for a few minutes. After about ten minutes, still with no sign of Kyle, I began to wonder whether or not Kyle thought I was pointing to the I’Arc-en-Ciel instead. Fifteen minutes into waiting, I give up my search for Kyle. I decided if worse came to worst, I’ll just proceed through security and meet him at the gate.

Well twenty minutes passes, and I finally realize that the reason I can’t find Kyle is because Kyle has never been with me in the Geneva airport. I was travelling by myself back to the United States. I was just so used to Kyle and Sebastian being in my every-minute that It didn’t occur to me to think I could be the next John Nash. Embarrassed by my delusion or onset of schizophrenia, I took my coffee and found an empty airport seat and sat in silence for the next six hours. I haven’t felt this doltish since my friend Ed.

Quadrilatero d’Oro

While travelling with my former colleague Kyle, we stopped in Milan for two nights. I didn’t have high expectations for this fashion capital. Few people we met before travelling to Milan spoke highly of it (even fewer when we arrived).

But I found Milan to be utterly fascinating. As the fashion capital of the world, the sidewalks are first used as runways, and second, for pedestrian mobility. Every week is Fashion week in Milan. I can say this with 95% confidence, since I stayed there for two nights. Also, I stayed at a Holiday Inn Express.

Suspiciously, I know nothing about fashion. That is an understatement. I hate shopping, I find malls abysmally frightening, and oh, did I mention that I despise shopping. Once, out of FOS (fear of shopping) I tried to purchase discount clothing through eBay. It could have gone better.

To take it a step further, one of the biggest challenges at my consulting job was my shirt-tie coordination. I’m permanently scarred from one particular memory of taking my last remaining starched shirt down the Mer-hall to get a female opinion. With me, I brought my dress shirt and the three tie-finalists. When I presented my selection to my female Mer-friends, it was as if I had just finished serenading them with Songify’s rendition of Double Rainbow. They were literally rolling on the floor laughing. Who ROTFLs? I thought it was only a cyber expression! Point noted: Matching, not one of my strengths.

So combine my fashion inscience with the fact that I was sporting a worn out pair of athletic shorts from American Eagle (isn’t worn out sort of hipster?) with a ragged t-shirt, donning my Jansport backpack from middle school (is that considered vintage yet? Is vintage trendy?), and I was attracting many eyes. Kyle and I sauntered around Quadrilatero d’Oro, home to top Italian designers such as Versace and Dolce & Gabbana. Our general rule: If we recognized the name, we went into the shop. I received death stares (threats, anthrax, etc.) at every store we visited. Judging this book by its cover, it was clear that my goodwill attire placed me far below the good fortune of being able to purchase $500 Ferragamo cuff links. Just a glance at the price tag and I was Ferra-gone-o.

Madonna Had a Child

If I am to be perfectly honest, I enjoy art in various forms, but if I am to be perfectly honest, I don’t know a catnip about it. And there is no better way to develop art appreciation than in places like the Uffizi in Florence, the Louvre in Paris, or the Prado in Madrid. It seemed like every city that Kyle and I travelled to had a corresponding museum obligation.

At the beginning, we indulged in the multiple course art meal served on the plates of the Renaissance. Now, my art history knowledge during the Renaissance is entirely attributed to the Ninja Turtles. Thank you Kevin Eastman and Peter Laird for starting me on my journey of cultural discovery. Although, in my humble opinion, Donatello got the better bargain by being bundled with the other three turtles (as I found the works of Leo, Raph, and Angelo to be much more impressive).

Don’t get me wrong about Donatello. It’s not that he didn’t produce some brilliant masterpieces. I was in awe of his Madonna with Child sculpture in Siena, until I walked into room after room that was entirely devoted to paintings, reliefs, and sculptures of Madonna with Child. The Madonna with Child affiliation must have been to Renessaince artists what the organic affiliation is to Whole Food yuppies.

Patronizing so many museums gave Kyle and I the opportunity to perfect our touring technique. Originally, we decided to eavesdrop on the docent’s guided tours. After spotting a tour group, we strategically trailed them until they stopped to look at some masterpiece. With our backs casually turned, we would feign admiration for the painting in front of us (likely Madonna with Child) while trying to glean the history and importance of the work being discussed. I guess the museums had been hornswoggled too many times by shrewd visitors like myself, because nearly all of the docents talked into a microphone connected to the audio set of each paying tourist, resulting in garbled cliffhangers. This fresco was the most important work of its era because…Madonna...As you can see, the…signifies… Madonna…If you remember one thing about this museum it should be that…Madonna.

After this approach backfired, we started purchasing audio guides. It started with Kyle and I splitting one audio guide. But we immediately found it too cumbersome and socially embarrassing to hold our ears up to the same muted speaker, so we began to take turns listening to the audio guide and give each other the cliff notes.

Realizing that we were being penny smart but dollar stupid (I practiced no restraint when it came to the food and wine that I consumed), we finally succumbed to throwing down the extra Euros for our own audio guides. Finally skylarking with my own audio guide at the Louvre, I found myself smugly listening to some of the contents of the Code of Hammurabi engraved on the human-sized stele, when all of a sudden, my audio guide went static. Dead battery. , when all of a sudden, my audio guide went static. Dead battery. Great. Dead battery I and I’m only at 1700 BC. Instead of working my way through the labyrinth that is the Louvre, I poached off of Kyle until we exited for the day. I’m sure it was simply museum karma.

I’ve decided that the best strategy is to just summon Splinter and have him give me a personal tour. And besides, there’s always a chance I’ll pick up some ninjustu on the side.

Il Palio

I’ll thank serendipity for bringing Kyle and I to the Palio. It just so happened that we were going to be in town for what our guidebook called Italy’s most spectacular festival event. This event, known as the Siena Palio is a twice-yearly bareback horse race around the Campo, a central plaza that draws the entire city and thousands of visitors to the city center.

The event is rather remarkable. Each of Siena’s seventeen communities, or contrades, enters a horse and jockey into the competition. Ten are selected at random to participate in the anarchistic event. The concept is simple. Each participating horse completes three laps around the Campo, the first to cross the finish line, with or without jockey, is declared the victor. The only rule is that jockeys are not permitted to interfere with the reigns of another jockey. Other than that, it’s war. In the past, communities have drugged horses and jumped jockeys on the way to the race. Our personal observation affirmed that it is, in fact, a bloodbath. We witnessed jockey’s lashing competitor horses with their switches; we witnesses jockey’s successfully pulling their fellow jockey’s off their horses. One turn in the Campo is so abrupt that they pad the side with mattresses; this cushion collision is a popular location for jockeys to be propelled from the horses’ backs.

Of course, Kyle and I (okay, me in particular) hate feeling like outsiders, so we needed to buy a bandera to support one of the contrades. Kyle admitted allegience to the pantera to which I was amenable. After all, my middle school, Rachel Carson Middle School, had elected the Panther as its mascot. Although, the final vote came down to Panther and Furry Woodland Creature, which I’m sure received the most votes, but I’m convinced that the school was embarrassed to embrace the furry woodland wonder and assumed the runner-up Panther as its official mascot. So we purchased our red, white, and blue bandanas (we’re Tea Party patriots after all) with the panther print and took our places along the Campo’s inner rail. Since we assumed our position at noon, and since the actual race didn’t begin until 7:30pm, we were able to secure front rail seats.

Front rail seats, man, they are comfortable. They were not comfortable. It was fine around lunchtime, but as more and more people tried to get closer and closer to the rail, there was less and less foot room. At times I felt like I was doing ballet because there wasn’t enough surface area for my entire foot to make love with the ground; just the tips.

The ninety second race was incredible. Well worth the seven hour wait. I mean, I’ve been to similar events before but this one is really one of a kind. The United States would never be able to replicate such an event. The main reason is because two hours before the horse race begins, everyone inside the tracks is locked in, without a bathroom. How 12,000 people can go 2.5 hours without a single one having an emergency is unfathomable. That’s a combined 30,000 weeless hours. It’s times like these that make me realize that there is such a thing as God and divine intervention.

Benedict, Where Art Thou?

Having been born and raised as a Roman Catholic, Vatican City always had a particular appeal. If for no other reason then to go to the sight of so much history that I had learned and since forgotten since my confirmation/indoctrination. Knowing that Vatican City draws some of the largest tourist crowds in the world, Kyle and I made a point to arrive before the doors opened so we would not have to wait in these exceedingly long lines.

Taking the morning metro to Ottaviano, the stop for the Vatican, I noticed our railcar was, to put it politely, lacking the spring chickens. Instead, it reminded me of a 4pm Sunday trip to Cracker Barrel. I pondered how many people in our railcar were on their way to work. When we pulled into Ottaviano station and the railcar decompressed, my question was quickly answered; no one. The generally mild mannered middle aged and elderly crowd immediately turned hostile when the gates opened, akin to the crowds at Wal-Mart on Black Friday. Frail women were throwing elbows (which I found reckless, seeing as they were far more likely to break their brittle bones than mine) while the throng of retirees briskly set off for St. Peter's Basilica. Perhaps my participation in so many 5ks had me well prepared, but I suspect it was our youth that enabled Kyle and I to casually keep pace with the rosary-carrying crowd.

Within one hour, we were inside the Vatican Museums and looking at some of the most stunning art/booty ever collected, depending on how you see it. With its trove of treasures the Vatican could have easily financed the countless bailout and rescue packages.

The one disappointment from my trip to Vatican City was that I didn't get to see Pope Benedict. I was constantly on the lookout for the papal Swiss Guards dressed in their daffy Renaissance outfits. Knowing that they are only around when the Pope is in town, I assumed that Pope Benedict must have retired to his summer place, which was fine by me, since I would be dropping in the following afternoon. Alas, when we arrived at the Pope's summer place, I still didn't see the guards. Having searched the Vatican and traveled through Italy, I saw no evidence of Pope Benedict, aside from a fifteen story blow up poster of his face that filled the Piazza San Pedro. After my failed Pope siting, I've developed a new theory. Pope Benedict was captured by Lord Voldemort and his appearances at present are simply reconstructed holograms. It's amazing what we can do with technology, or magic, these days.

Tales of a Traveller

Knowing how reliable the Ghanaian post can be, when I said my farewells to a year in Ghana, I decided to forgo shipping my years worth of accoutrements home and instead decided to take them with me to my first European destination, Rome, from where, I would ship the luggage back to the United States.

Unfortunately, my bags had other plans and decided to stay in Casablanca, from where my colleague-now-traveling-buddy Kyle and I had made a connecting flight. After talking with the Italian flight-care personnel, I was convinced I would be receiving my luggage, albeit a few days later. So Kyle and I set about shopping for some of the essentials to hold us over until our possessions arrived. For me the most difficult purchase was contact solution. Having accidentally spent the overnight flight with my contacts in, my eyes were oxygen deprived and showing signs of serious struggle.

It took a while to find the first farmacia, where I sauntered around looking at the pictures on each box to try to identify contact solution (Rosetta Stone didn't teach me this valuable word in Lesson 1, which was the only lesson I came close to completing). Somehow, while the pharmacist was restocking the shelf, I ended up behind the counter. She soon emerged on the opposite side and began chastising me in Italian. Finding it humorous that on the first day in Rome, I was able to land myself a gig as a pharmacist, I joked that we had traded places. The actual pharmacist didn't find this funny. I really think she just didn't understand. After returning to my proper place as a customer at the counter, I pantomimed the process of taking out my contacts. Either I have good acting skills, or she saw my bloodshot eyes, but she was able to direct me to the appropriate place.

A few more stops and Kyle and I had everything we needed until our luggage arrived. It arrived 48 hours later. The positive side of this luggage delay was that it gave me ample opportunity to eye-up (and I certainly needed it given how bloodshot my eyes were) an appropriate shipping center. I found a total utility store - FedEx, Western Union, fax email, all-in-one, and paraded my luggage to the store.

As it turns out, the shop was a cash-only, non-receipt-giving establishment that had me seriously questioning its legitimacy. But I was not about to spend the next four weeks lugging around two suitcases, a travel pack, and a book bag. As I handed over my luggage, I said my parting farewells and prayed that the suitcases would arrive in DC. As the saying goes, when in Rome, do as the Romans do. But I felt like dressing as a Centurion and pulling out my sword would not have been the most diplomatic approach. Instead, I did what anyone without bargaining power would do. I agreed to their terms and conditions and prayed for the best.

A few days later, I received an email titled: info. It's contents was as follows. salve, ho bisogno da sapere cosa cè nelle valigge. grazie. I enlisted the help of my Italian friend Serena, who interpreted and replied appropriately. It turns out that the company needed to know what was in the suitcases. After a series of emails, I finally received a tracking number.

Thankfully my luggage arrived safely at home. My prayers had been answered. Which I attributed to my proximity to the Vatican.

And so it Goes

It’s funny how humans have the capacity to segment their lives into chapters. By far the most unique chapter in my life has been the one titled Ghana. It seems like just the other day I was making my decision to move to Ghana – at the same time the US lost Ghana in the World Cup.

But my time in Ghana was filled with memories. And Ghana kept them coming until the very last day. I found myself at lunch with my colleagues for a final meal at a venue known as Starbites that serves coffee and pastries (with an expanded lunch and dinner menu). We asked the manager how he came up with the name. His response – it’s a big secret. Our response – Hmm..doesn’t seem like such a secret to me. (The Starbites logo also looked like that of a Seattle coffee chain.)

Anyway, it was the restaurants’ grand opening, and four of us decided to try the bacon cheeseburger. After discussing Startbites’ marketing strategy, our burgers arrived. They looked delicious. The only problem was that they were all missing the burger. Between the two halves of bun sat a slice of cheese, a slice of bacon, a slice of tomato, and some mayonnaise. It turns out, the chef didn’t know that burgers come with the beef patty. Really? Really.

Humored to be going out on comical note, I began to prepare for the next chapter. Knowing that I was going to be traveling to Italy and France for my Ghana Epilogue, I had every intention of picking up some important phrases that would help me blend into the Italian and French culture. With Rosetta Stone, I envisioned taking the cultural high-road and travelling through Europe to avoid the potential imbroglios. As it turns out, I know two phrases. In Italian, I’ve mastered the boy runs (il bambino corre). Which I’m sure has many practical uses. And my French is a paltry voulez-vous coucher avec moi (ce soir)? My derisory understanding of these Romance languages is shameful. But at least I can't be as embarrassing as the cast of the Jersey Shore…

Everything in Excess

Over the years, I have come to understand that what for many occurs in moderation, for me occurs in excess.

A few months back, my American colleague Kyle, and I, spent the better part of the afternoon trying to find a venue in Ghana that was broadcasting March Madness (read: Kyle was on the phone all afternoon, I listed to his conversation in the background). Through a series of fortunate events, we learned (Kyle learned) that Champs, the one-and-only-American-sports-bar-in-Accra, was expected to play the games. So on the Saturday that coincided with the Round of 32, we proceeded to Champs, with the intent of seeing some half-court buzzer beaters, cinderallas-in-the-making, Dick Vitale’s proclamations of upset cities. Upon arriving, the bouncer stopped us and informed us that to gain admittance, we needed to fork over $12 for an all-evening open bar. $12 for an open bar? Really? Needless to say, it changed our strategy a bit. I can’t prove it, but I’m confident we were responsible for them raising the open bar price the following week. (Yes, we returned…we are opportunists).

Maybe it is attributable to the American affinity towards consumption, but we recently went on a staff outing to the Labadi Beach Hotel’s Buffet brunch. As far as I know, it is the most gluttonous activity in all of Accra. As the proud American that I am, I was clearly in favor of the brunch festivities. The entire faculty arrived over 30 minutes early to the affair. We scoped out the offerings and strategically selected a table that provided quick access to the main serving table. As the whistle sounded to commence the buffet (okay, there was no whistle), I came out like a ravenous beast.

I one-upped gluttony. Not knowing when I would indulge like this again, I channeled my inner Kobayashi. For starters I had potato salad with peaches, chicken and vegetable stir fry, baby corn with tomato and basil salad, cold roast beef, cucumber and feta sprinkled with poppy seeds. As I moved into the main dishes, I savored potato wedges, skewers of grouper and muscles, lamb chop, spicy-yet-sweet fried plantains, stir fry noodles, British boerwors, and roast rump. I cleansed my palate with some vegetable sushi rolls dripped in soy sauce, fried eggplant with parmesan cheese and tomato sauce, and a mixed fruit bowl. To satisfy my sweet tooth, I shoved down a raspberry yogurt parfait, a Belgian waffle covered with toffee and maple syrup, a slice of coconut cake covered in a blackberry spread, a plate of strawberries doused in chocolate fondue, and a noticeable helping of tiramisu.

It’s times like these when I know that I’m proud to be an American. Or at least proud to reinforce the international perception of the overindulgent, gluttonous, excessive American.

The Trip That Was: Part 3 Busua

For the next leg of my Easter travel, my colleagues and I travelled to Busua beach, what is described as a beach that is widely regarded as among the best and safest in Ghana. Just what I wanted and needed; the perfect environment to spread out on my whicker sand-mat and read Great Expectations while bronzing in the heat of the sun (aided in part by my increased photosensitivity as a result of my long-term use of a prophylaxis to prevent malaria).

We settled on a place to stay for our time in Busua – Peter’s Place – named after Peter, the owner. The shoestring accommodation fit within our budget, and with its beachfront location, it was difficult to turn down. So we dropped our luggage in the room and began to enjoy the beach and its surrounding community.

A series of unfortunate events made me seriously question the superlatives donned upon Busua beach by the travel guide. First, the Easter holidays had just passed, and it is seemingly customary for all locals to flock to what I’ve dubbed beer by the Beach. The biggest problem with this form of entertainment is that the local drinking culture is almost non-existent, and few non-beach-natives are adroit swimmers. This intersection of beer and beach apparently led to the tragic drowning of two locals, with one missing person. During our first day in Busua, the number of drownings was revised to three, since the final missing person washed ashore.

I wish I could say that witnessing this tragedy was what kept me awake all night, but it was a calamity of a different color that prohibited my peaceful slumber. That evening, in what turned out to be the calm before a huge storm the following day, the confluence of soaring temperature, sultry humidity, and a stagnant heaven created an unbearably hot atmosphere. Of course, air conditioning was not an amenity we could afford within our budget. So I crawled into bed thinking I could sheep-count myself to sleep, but I was soon drenched in sweat and falling victim to dehydration. Soaking through the fitted sheet and pillow case, I found myself laying in the fetid odor of my bodily excrement, praying for even a hint of air circulation. If I had the chance to select torture method, I think I would have hastily sided with waterboarding. At least there was water and the prospect of rehydration involved.

When it comes to torturous nights in Ghana, the only possible contender for most torturous was my overnight bus ride. And on the subject of superlatives, I’m not sure best and safest are in my cards for Busua.

The Trip That Was: Part 2 Amedzofe

After spending the better part of a day playing a friendly game of Slip n’ Slide with Mount Adaklu, Kyle and I continued onward to a peaceful and self-described heavenly getaway known as Mountain Paradise Lodge nestled in the Avatime Hills. And our first evening did prove to be a nice piece of paradise; I enjoyed the hillside breeze, the savory and well prepared meal, and the scenic outlook.

After a pleasant night’s rest, Kyle and I had agreed to suspend the frantic tourist hustle and enjoy the day in relaxation like a normal vacationer might. Both wearing our Rainbow sandals, we set off on a casual walk to the town of Amedzofe.

After a short fifteen minute stroll to the first town, alive with activity, we stopped some friends to ask for directions. They pointed us down the path to Amedzofe but not before first inviting us to the local treasure hunt. Tempting. The hunt was to begin any minute. Foregoing the quest, we began down the footpath towards Amedzofe, which as it turns out, was a quest in and of itself. The shortcut trail to Amedzofe turned out to be a two hour moderate ascent through the canyon, perfect terrain for our sandals.

But it was well worth it, as we arrived in Amedzofe to boisterous and cultural Easter activities. It seemed as though the entire town had congregated around the village square for drumming and dancing. Kyle and I did a remarkable job blending into the celebrations until one of the participating hams decided to grandstand. Grasping a live chicken around the ankles, and perhaps psychically aware of my aversion for live poultry, he proceeded to slap the chicken against my body; right arm, left arm, forehead, right ear, left ear, chest, foreface. His policy of Don’t Ask Do Touch had me obsecrating God to keep any avian influenza away.

Well, deciding I had seen (and felt) enough of the cultural festivities, Kyle and I spent the rest of the day doing exactly what we promised we wouldn’t do; hiking, hiking to another mountain summit, hiking to local waterfalls, hiking to avoid and numb my emotions to the traumatic event of the day. Maybe I should have stayed back to search for the treasure trove instead.

The Trip that Was: Part 1 Mount Adaklu

Easter arrived, and with my original plans of parading my friend Bowman around to all of the tourist hot spots (and believe me, Sub-Saharan Africa is hot) unraveling, I embarked on a week of relaxation and time away from Accra. Setting off in an eastwardly direction, my colleagues and I were off to explore some of the more remote portions of Ghana.

One of the first activities we decided to tackle was climbing Mount Adaklu. My trusty guidebook indicated that there were guided hikes to the mountain summit, a reasonably demanding 2-4 hour round trip, which I interpreted to mean an easy 1-2 hour trip. Why I’ve irrationally concluded that I am entitled to revise the difficulty level and time estimates is beyond me, since I am far from 50% more efficient than the average backpacker. Perhaps overconfident from our successful mountain trek, we woke up well hydrated from the beers consumed the night before and began our pursuit of the Adaklu summit.

The first step was to get a private taxi to the base of the mountain. Before you negotiate price, it’s essential to communicate your destination, which can be a workout all by itself. This particular encounter went as follows, and is a pretty good proxy for the rest. -Where are you going? -Adaklu. -Where? -Adaklu. -Adaklu? -Yes, Adaklu. -Oh…Adaklu. (Yes that’s exactly what I said.)

Well, our particular chauffer politely dropped us at the base of the mountain and pointed upward along the path that would lead us to the mountain summit. Believing him, we started navigating our way through the poorly marked trail. After thirty minutes of hiking, we finally came to a dead end. Feeling as though we had been duped, we retraced our steps back to the base of the mountain. Come to find out, the driver dropped us at the house of an obruni family, and we had spent the previous thirty minutes meandering through the family farm. I’m not certain they were expecting visitors during their Easter breakfast, but their cordiality masked any resentment.

So after correcting our driver’s wrong, and being redirected forty-five minutes to the actual base of the mountain, we finally began our guided ascent. Reasonably demanding might have been an understatement. As I was belaying myself up the mountain, my unstable and trembling legs were fighting to keep my body upright. I guess I should have been more concerned about the descent. On the way down, my buddies were concernedly asking Are you alright? Almost echoing as I continued to lose footing and slide down the mountainside. Maybe that’s how I concluded that the hike would only take me 1-2 hours. After all, falling off the side of the mountain is definitely more expedient than the slow descent.

The Trip that Wasn't

It’s always been a goal of mine to ensure that people feel that they are not imposing. And for the most part, I believe I’ve been rather successful. Perhaps too successful. In college, all of my friends, many of my acquaintances, and some strangers, knew that my room was open to anyone for any purpose. (And people took some liberties with the definition of purpose here – anything from watching television and grabbing a soda from the refrigerator to taking a nap in my bed and holding an Easter egg hunt in my room. The contents of the Easter eggs – my personal belongings, such as iPod ear buds, cuff links, etc.). This trend continued as I progressed through my early twenties, hosting countless friends at my apartment throughout the holidays. (One New Years I barely had enough space for all the guests – most illustrious of this was the sight of my friend Andrew slumbered beneath the Christmas tree).

So I made it royally clear (not Kate Middleton royal) to all my friends back home that they were welcome to visit me in Ghana at any point in time. I would be happy to show them around my new home. Unfortunately, the $1500 plane ticket put my friendship a little out of everyone’s price range. The only person committed to visit was one of my best friends, Bowman, whose residence in Jordan made friendship more affordable.

Bowman was going to spend Easter break in Ghana and, making it clear that there would be no Easter egg hunts in my room, I was thrilled to have a visitor. In the weeks leading up to the visit, I provided an itinerary and packing advice, and was strategizing on how best to give a real Ghanaian cultural and culinary treat. Two days before his arrival, I received an email. Subject: visa? Contents: I can get a visa at the airport right!?!?!?!?!?!? AH!!!! freakout! The answer, as we soon discovered, is no. Whoops. We seemingly both overlooked this major step.

As with everything in my life, I began to cause a scene. We were brainstorming elaborate workarounds, like flying into neighboring Togo and sneaking across the border. All in all, we called it off because there were too many unknowns. But not before I involved a consortium of Ghanaians to help solve our problem. Unfortunately, hindsight told us that the real solution here was foresight.

So with under a day before my Easter vacation began, I went groveling to my colleagues, begging to be a last minute add-on to their Easter adventure. Thankfully they didn’t mind. Ironically, I am often the one who spearheads the planning effort for our staff outings. Perhaps it’s time to pull me from the starting line-up and bring in the relief planner.

Meals on Wheels

A few years back, I remember seeing a news clip highlighting the grocery store of the American future, Japanese present. The general concept behind this alternative grocer was that a shopper arrives and sits down in a private unit that automatically navigates the patron along the fixed track through the aisles of delight. My initial thought was that the concept was heaven for the lazy consumer, hell for the spontaneous shopper who, upon seeing the hot dogs, decided to have a cookout only to realize the hot dog buns were in Aisle 1, ketchup and mustard in Aisle 2. History will note that the slow-motion-roller-coaster-shopping phenomenon failed to gain traction in the United States, as Americans opted instead for the Flight of the Hippogriff at the Wizarding World of Harry Potter Theme Park.

Well, it turns out that Japan wasn’t the first to adopt this cloud-cuckoo-land behavior. I’m convinced that the concept was simply trying to commercialize the Ghanaian shopping experience. Every major (and most minor) artery in Accra is clogged with street vendors. And any time a vehicle comes to a stop, transit-goers are immediately propositioned by the plethora of hawkers. Over time, my perception has changed far along the inefficiency-efficiency continuum; from thinking these street-clogging hawkers were the cause of traffic to realizing they were actually enabling me to multitask and complete all shopping needs without ever having to leave my taxi.

I’ve been amazed at the amount of roadworthy merchandise. From fresh fruit to pure water; toilet paper to DVDs; hammers to livestock. The street vendors have more than a WalMart Supercenter. But what might be more spectacular than the smorgasbord of obtainables is that the vendors are able to withstand the chronic open-sauna. If I stand outside, I’m usually perspiring within one minute; after one-minute and I’m a water fountain.

Recently, the convenient backseat shopping experience has been called into question by the Accra Metropolitan Authority. This authority just passed legislation making it illegal to purchase from a street vendor unless the street has been designated for that purpose. How these vendors will adapt to the new regulation and how I shop in the future is all in question. I guess if I want to shop while sitting, I’ll have to travel to Japan…Oh, who am I kidding. I’ll probably be at Filch’s Emporium of Confiscated Goods.

Why Did the Chicken Cross the Road?

After living in Accra for nearly eight months, I finally received some answers. Why did the chicken cross the road? And this time I wasn’t looking for a punny answer to a trite riddle.

I’ve always been rather fascinated by the logistics and mystery of the livestock industry in Ghana. Walking around the streets of Accra, it’s very common to see an abundance of poultry and livestock living out their day-to-day lives. With so many chickens and goats promenading about, any pedestrian is bound to stumble upon them.

After discussing with some of my local friends, I have determined that the system works quite efficiently. Let’s hypothetically say I have some chickens. I’m comfortable letting my chickens roam free snatching up scraps along the streets because it minimizes my biddy maintenance. I am also confident that my chickens will come home to roost each night, as the saying goes. Let's run through some additional scenarios. So how do I know if one of those roadside chicks is mine? Actually, this is quite simple. Apparently, somewhere in the Bible (Matthew 23:37), Jesus uses the reference as a hen gathers her chicks under her wings. Dating back at least to Biblical times, newborn chicks have been led home by the mother. But how does the new chick know that this is its roost? Also simple. When a chick arrives, you just tie it up for one week until it’s conditioned to its new surroundings.

What happens if the chicken doesn’t come home? Again, simple. Tragic death by motor vehicle. But how do you know that nobody stole the chicken? Enter honor code (or the law). It is illegal to steal a chicken from the roadside, punishable by six months in prison. The consequences are even worse for goats. Pilfer a goat, and you’re looking at two years.

To the best of my knowledge, there is no legal consequence for snatching a pig. Mission Bacon: Accepted.

Friends from Ivory Coast

For the past week, Didier Drogba and the rest of the Ivory Coast national soccer team have been practicing at the athletic facilities across from my office. Their arrival caused quite a stir, and hundreds of locals flocked to the soccer field to catch a glimpse of the team practicing. From my perch on the treadmill at Pippa’s, my local gym, I appreciated the change in talent. Drogba & Co. was far superior to the usual peewees.

The following afternoon, I returned to the gym, only to find out that this time, instead of practicing on the field, the team was actually working out in the gym. I was originally rhapsodized by the team’s presence, but I became very self-conscious when I realized I was working out among men of Sparta (not literally, just physically). Having the jimjams (also the gymjams) I rushed through my normal routine, thinking that no matter where in the gym I was, I was definitely in one of the Ivorian’s way. From palavering with the gym staff, I soon found out the reason they were in town was because of an upcoming Africa Cup qualifying match against West African rival Benin.

Despite my unhinged nerves and inferior physique, I was trying to find an opening line to strike up conversation with one of team members. So what brings you to Ghana? Oh the reason you’re here is because your home match is being played in Ghana this weekend. And the reason your home match is being played in Ghana is because your native land is amid civil disruption on account of two men believing they are the rightful president. Unable to find a clear conversation starter, I trudged my portly figure to the locker room and called it a day.

Figuring it courteous to support our new acquaintances, my colleagues and I decided to attend the qualifying cup match. In the course of investigating how to get to the Accra Sports Stadium, my German colleague, Seb, discovered that the stadium happened to be home to the worst stadium disaster to ever happen in Africa, resulting in 127 deaths. Overall, I would classify the game as a success. Nobody died and Drogba scoring two goals to lead the Ivory Coast in a 2-1 victory.

Stadium fare: 5 cedis. Vuvuzelas: 8 cedis. Risking our lives to support our new Ivorian friends: Priceless.

Electric Success

For Christmas, my father gave me the ChromePro 25 piece deluxe electric razor set. I was like Ralph opening a Red Rider BB gun, words could not express my enthusiasm. Now I possessed the tools needed (25 to be exact) to coiffure my own hair.

When my hair had grown sufficiently long, I turned to my electric razor. After setting up a nice styling space with table and mirror, I plugged in and turned on my electric razor. I was immediately overwhelmed, bushwhacked by the intensity of the razor. Shaken up (literally) by the force of the vibration, I directed all energy towards maintaining control of the hot potato while my ears were agonizing over the tintamarre caused by the extreme vibrations. Attempting to tame my rogue razor, I used two hands to navigate the razor in a squiggle across my scalp. Approximately halfway through my attempted self-sufficiency, the hot potato became too hot and, afraid that the smoke signals were going to draw unnecessary attention to my plight, I abandoned ship. Accepting failure, I walked through town to visit my local barber, who was all too pleased to cut the other half of my hair (although not at half price).

Well, eventually the time came for attempt number two. Learning from my mistake, I knew that I needed to be more strategic in my use of the electric razor. One week prior to moving to Ghana, while roaming the aisles of Target, I stumbled upon a budget adapter/converter. For as much as I would spend on a hot dog at a New York City street vendor, I impulsively added the device to my checkout cart. Since the purchase six months prior, I had been fearful of using this questionable apparatus for fear that it had the life-ending Midas touch. But desperate times call for desperate measures, and my hair was approaching Beiber length (clearly no defense of desperation needed). Turning on the electric razor, I was ever thankful to see and hear it operating smoothly.

It might have been six months, but I was finally successful at cutting my own hair. And I learned a new meaning of smoke and mirrors in the process.

Baby Lawyer Muslim Church

Beach bumming has become an extremely popular weekend activity. And while I am always an advocate for more adventurous weekends, I also enjoy the relaxing tranquility of the Ghanaian beaches.

So it was no surprise that when Friday sunset rolled around, we found ourselves with toes in the sand, sipping on rum and cokes while discussing the state of the world. Somewhere between the waves, we struck up conversation with a local schoolgirl. And in an effort to exchange a little culture, she introduced us to an exciting game that she learned and played in school.

The game was called Baby Lawyer Muslim Church. The rules were these. Each player selects one of the key words (Baby, Lawyer, Muslim, or Church). Then, on the moderator’s count, participants throw down any number of fingers. The moderator proceeds to acknowledge each finger on the table with the next key word in the sequence. So the first finger is declared Baby, the second Lawyer, and so forth until all fingers have been exhausted. The last finger and kindred keyword determine the winner. Whoever selected this keyword before the finger throw-down is declared victor, and participants proceed to play again.

I was amazed by the game’s simplicity, incredulous with the game’s ability to entertain, and bewildered by the seemingly random word selection. Jiminy Cricket! But having had a minute to make meaning of my scattered thoughts, I realized this school game highlighted an important cultural difference. In the United States, we call Baby Lawyers anti-abortionists and Muslim Churches mosques, and neither is taught in the classroom.

Mount Afadjato

A recent three day weekend afforded me and my colleagues the luxury of exploring some of the Eastern region offerings around the town of Hohoe. Months ago, when we first discovered the Eastern region via our guidebook, we saw this town of Hohoe, located just north of the town of Ho, and immediately felt the impulse to hit up Ho and Hohoe. Only later did we discover that Hohoe is actually pronounced ho hoy (as in Chips Ahoy!).

After a heat-intensive journey, we arrived and settled into the Grand Palace. We decided that the following morning, we would set off to climb Mount Afadjato, believed to be the highest mountain peak in Ghana. Deciding it was time to mentally and physically prepare for the arduous mountain trek the following morning, we conversed over chilled (read: warm) beer.

The morning of our big adventure arrived and we started to look for public transportation from Hohoe to the town nestled at the foot of the mountain. Well, we ran into a number of transportation obstacles. You can get public transportation from the lorry station. So we walked 30 minutes to the lorry station, finding nothing but a set of scheming taxi drivers asking for exorbitant fares. It turns out these lorries take Saturdays off. So we turned to our next option. You can catch a ride to the foot of the mountain at the post office. Great.

The only problem was finding the post office. We spent the better part of two hours in search of the elusive post office, with concerned citizens pointing us up and down the main thoroughfare. It turns out we walked past the post office no less than four times before we eventually stumbled upon it. (It’s no wonder it took four months for my mother’s package of brownies to arrive. And all this time I thought it was because someone literally had to swim my package across the Atlantic. It turns out, the postman spent four months trying to find the post office!)

Well, thankfully we finally made our way to the foot of Mount Afadjato. Mount Afadjato is said to be named after a local word Avadzeto, meaning at war with bush. (I guess everyone was at war with dubbya at one time or another). But really, the phrase comes from the local vegetation that can cause serious skin irritation. At the base of the mountain a sign greeted us Welcome to Afadjato. Take a deep breath. You are just about conquering 885m above sea level. Normally, I would dismiss the mountain as a hill, but unlike many of my previous hiker-friendly trails littered with switchbacks, this was rather hoofer-friendly and a near vertical climb. The conquest was rewarding, until you reach the top and realize that there’s a higher peak 3km away. Said to be the highest mountain peak in Ghana? Oh, yes. The Togo border is 2km away.

Sunday Supper

Once upon a time, in an effort to further forge the Mer-bond, I invited the Mer-maids over for a Sunday taco night. The night progressed with laughter and wine (perhaps not in that order), but regardless, the night was a success. And thus, a Sunday Supper tradition was born.

Every Sunday evening, around 7pm, we would progress to the weekly hosts’ for a deliciously prepared meal. I gormandized over the sweet potato enchiladas, crab imperial, and turkey-stuffed peppers while thinking OneRepublic got it right; This has gotta be the good life. In retrospect, inviting everyone over for the first Sunday Supper was nothing short of the foot-in-the-door technique, which was pretty easy given the fact that I was entrusted with the girls’ spare apartment keys.

Well, after numerous dinner rotations, it became apparent that my toil and tears was not fully appreciated. There was first the incident of the personal pizza. I purchased dough, cheeses, and a cornucopia of toppings and thought it would be pleasant for everyone to decorate their own dough; an interactive dinner of sorts. But this thoughtful gesture was dismissed as a mere attempt to outsource the food preparation process. How rude of me.

The most notable dinner delinquency was the Sunday chili and cornbread. I won some and I lost some. I won with the cornbread. I lost with the chili. Honesty, the chili wasn’t bad, I just ran out of time so the chili still contained many vegetables…oh, how do I say it…in the raw. The cornbread, on the other hand, sat stacked on a serving dish in a pyramid that gave the Great Pyramid of Giza a run for its money (or at least a run for its taste). The cornbread was edaciously devoured by all dinner party guests. In turn, they each praised the meal with their backhanded compliments.

-This cornbread is delicious. It even makes the chili taste good. How thoughtful.

-How did you make this cornbread, I’m going to need the recipe? Oh, I travelled to my local grocer and picked it up. The key to good cornbread is all in the way you slice it. Now exposed as a charlatan, I guess it is safe to say I lost with the cornbread too.

My life has a rather circuitous way; Sunday Suppers have followed me to Ghana. Seeing as commerce is closed for the Lord’s Day, and preferring not to fast, it seemed to be the logical next step. But I’ve learned my lesson – I don’t participate in the preparation. Everyone knows that there were the hunters and the gatherers. I hypothesize that there was a third group, the eaters, who died out through evolution. Yet, somehow I have managed to survive. I always knew I was an evolutionary miracle.

Things that are Swedish

While at a local Irish pub in Accra, we befriended a group of volunteers. Since first impressions can be a deal-breaker, I wanted to make sure I was on top of my game. I was having a fruitful conversation with my new Dutch acquaintance, when somewhere shortly into the conversation, Ikea, the Scandinavian home furnishing giant, became a topic of discussion. I decided to weigh in by sharing my favorite Ikea memory. Disclaimer: I was not present for the formation of the memory; it only became my memory through the retelling.

Years ago, my friends embarked on a rather ordinary Ikea run. But of course, with my friends, nothing can be ordinary. It turns out that a radio station was broadcasting from the parking lot, and a swelling crowd gathered, similar to the phenomenon when Ikea offers sheet sets on sale for $9.99. Well, it came time for a give-away for an audience contestant who was able to correctly answer a question from the DJ. Of course, my friend Katie exhibited extreme enthusiasm and was selected to demonstrate her knowledge and win the radio promotion.

In front of and broadcasted to a throng of strangers, Katie simply had to name three things that are Swedish. So very confidently, she declared Well, for starters…Holland. A rather quizzical look comes over the radio host. Actually, Holland never has been and never will be Swedish. (Although, since I haven’t conquered the time-space continuum, I can’t officially confirm that Holland will never be Swedish). But who knew that a region in the Netherlands, a Nether-region, would not meet the criteria for something Swedish?

Since I wasn’t present for the original Ikea outing, there is a chance that the fish has grown in size through the retelling, but the there are two things I am certain of. First, that the question was to name three things Swedish. Second, that the answer was Holland. Of course, I couldn’t help but rattle off a few acceptable responses to reveal my superior comprehension to my Dutch friend. Well, for starters…Ikea, Swedish meatballs, my personal favorite, Swedish fish. Perhaps boasting a bit of bravado, I pushed the envelope on my grasp of Nordic societies. Or clogs. It turns out, clogs are not exclusively Swedish. Comprehension checkmated by the Dutchman. I suppose it could have been worse. At least I didn’t suggest windmills.

Sounds Like Octopus

I grew up as a what man, reflexively asking what after being spoken to. Brian, did you finish your homework? What, mom? Brian, did you take the dog for a walk? What, dad? Part of the reason was well-intentioned chore avoidance, but I’m convinced that the larger part of it was because I was, and am, audibly challenged. Perhaps I probed too far with a Q-tip growing up, or maybe it is just a natural defect, but I have found that I often have trouble processing auditory stimuli. Such is the case when it comes to song lyrics. Fortunately for me though, when I can’t understand the lyric, I make them up.

So take my hearing struggles and introduce them into a foreign culture with a slightly different dialect, and the output is scrambled eggs. Thankfully, I’m in good company. While having a pint with a local volunteer from southern Australia, he asked if I was familiar with the local hiplife song that contained the lyric Sexy as cheese. Well, I originally thought maybe the bloke had a roo loose in the top paddock, but quickly dismissed this notion when he began humming the tune. Yes, I was familiar with this song. Soon enough, I too was able to pick out the lyric sexy as cheese. The problem was that I never really considered cheese to be sexy, and if I had, I would at least have had the decency to keep such a fetish to myself. The second problem was that it turns out the lyrics are actually Sexy as she is. Clearly.

Well, I recently put my ears to the test again at Reggae Night. Reggae Night draws a melting pot of personalities. Set on the sands of Labadi Beach, the musical evening brings together a varied clientele from Rastafarian locals to hippy expatriates, from university exchange students to working professionals. This particular evening, my friends and I were blessed with a well-informed emcee, or master of ceremonies as he liked to believe. Every 30 seconds he would interject with just one word. Octopus. I was not sure why he kept drawing attention to our eight-legged mollusk. Perhaps it was our proximity to the ocean, maybe he was informing the masses that octopi are sentient creatures, but whatever the reason for the incessant interjections, I found them disruptive.

Come to find out, the microphone monopolizer wasn’t trying to warn the crowds about a potential octopus invasion, but rather exclaiming On the bus. But how can you keep demanding that I get on the bus without telling me where that bus is going? Please don’t say Tamale.

Times in Transit

Travelling the roads of Ghana; sometimes it can be exhausting. Sometimes it is a fun cultural experience. But always, it comes with a story. As society has yet to master the science of teleportation, I can be thankful for my times in transit.

Tro-tros. Derived from the local Ga language word “tro” meaning three-pence, a tro-tro is the primary means of public transportation in Ghana. This informal yet seemingly codified system is the artery of Accra. It’s usually crowded and confining, yet generally furnished with comity. I once had the pleasure of sitting next to a gentleman who was travelling with his poultry. Slightly humored and mildly terrified, I tried to ignore the feathered squawks coming from below my bum. I fought to block the background bowwow, but eventually found the situation escalating. With great haste, I jumped out of my seat, feeling the chicken attacking my ankles. Causing quite a disturbance, all eyes turned to the loco hombre. I soon realized the farm foul was still safely secured. Turns out it was just my shoelaces. Who’s the chicken now, Brian?

Motored-canoe. The most efficient way to get to Ada Foah is to take the motored-canoe. The motored-canoe is 60 minutes faster than travelling by foot, and about 5,000 ore strokes faster than travelling by traditional canoe. The only flaw in water-travel is that too many people sink the ship. If you are travelling in a large-enough party, someone is given bucket bailer duty. Well, on a recent trip, the captain asked me to come navigate. I’m not sure if he wanted a short nap, or if he just thought it would be funny to have an obruni as his skipper. Either way, I was responsible for steering, speed-changing, and stopping. When we disembarked, I told the captain that perhaps I shouldn’t pay for my fare and that he should pay me for my services instead. He disagreed.

Taxis. As is true of many urban locales, taking a taxi can be as terrifying as sky diving. But sometimes this trill is stretched to the extreme and I’m fearfully waiting for the parachute to deploy. Such was the scenario one evening when my colleagues and I piled into a taxi to head across town. Unbeknownst to me at the time, the driver, let’s call him Charlie, was in the middle of a high speed get-away. As soon as we pulled the taxi door shut, our jockey, Charlie, was off like Citation at the Belmont Stakes. Like most of the world, Ghana uses a similar traffic light pattern; green for go, red for stop. Not for this cab. Red light. Be my guest. By the time we sped through the second highway intersection without regard to the cross-traffic, I was fast-forwarding through the highlights of my life. Thank Beelzebub that the Ghanaian police force found this reckless. We were pulled over and instructed to find safety in another driver. Our taxi-jockey was soon united with that Citation he deserved.

LifeTime Fitness

I’m constantly impressed with my friends that possess athletic abilities superior to mine (which is basically stating that I’m impressed with all of my friends). While I have long written off my hopes of becoming a world-class athlete or Olympian, I still dabble in the art of kinesiology. Living in Ghana, I’ve been able to exercise at Pippa’s Health Centre to maintain my athletic pretense. And in this setting, I have been provided with ample time upon the treadmill to reflect upon my personal athletic timeline.

I am pretty sure that it began (and ended) in elementary school, fourth-grade. I was just entering the first season of kid-pitch baseball, where strikes are as abundant as Siberian tigers. The team’s strategy was to walk our way to victory simply by relying on the inaccuracy of the opponent’s pitcher. See, my coach was all about skill-development. Before we went to the plate, we had to first agree not to swing the bat. Even if you spotted a strike, it was best not to swing because (a) the umpire might still call it a ball, and (b) even if it was a strike, odds are the next pitch would be a ball.

It wasn’t much better for me when it came to fielding. Let’s not kid, being positioned in the outfield was never because you were the next Kirby Puckett. The outfield formula in fourth-grade was part unfortunate fielding skills, part poor depth perception skills, and part lack of speed, which, in total, had quite the charming effect on the opponent. Of course, outfield was my specialty. I preferred right-field where I could put some distance between myself and the vitriol of my coach. Needless to say, my team failed to book a win all season, so instead of putting myself through another year of torture, I cut my losses (which were many) and threw in the glove.

Well, hindsight is 20-20 right? My Pippa’s treadmill overlooks a soccer pitch, and I am often entertained by pee-wee soccer practice. Just the other day, I was watching a scrimmage where the goalie grabbed possession and decided to practice his punt. The only problem was that there was a shrimp from the opposing team standing two feet in front of him. It all happened so quickly, but the trajectory of the soccer ball was interrupted by the young face, off of which it quickly ricocheted, toppling the runt and throwing the Lilliputians scurrying in a new direction. It was at this moment that I had an epiphany. I realized that my former coach was really just looking out for my own safety. Walking to first base pretty much eliminated the possibility of a collision with the first-base man. And as an outfielder, I was far less likely to be injured by a line drive.

Well, regardless, I now stick to the treadmill. One might suspect the treadmill to be a relatively safe venture; definitely safer than kid-pitch baseball and pee-wee soccer. Let’s just say that when you’re running at 8.5 miles per hour and the power goes out at the gym, kid-pitch doesn’t sound so terrifying after all.