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.