lost in africa and other adventures by leah moriarty

I have arrived home with mosquito bite scares, a large motorcycle burn, a scar from falling into a gutter, the reminisce of malaria and various bacterial infections, 3 dread locks, unshaved legs, and many stories, friends, and memories.  I apparently just wear my experiences on my bod whether I like it or not.

In the past 5 months I have fulfilled life goals of riding on the back of a motorcycle and a pickup truck.  I have crossed every border of Ghana, received love letters and many marriage proposals, learned some Twi, interviewed over 350 market women about domestic violence and so much more that cannot be listed in anyway.

And I am home, I feel ugly because nobody is staring at me or asking me to marry them.  I feel like I should know everybody because I knew most of the white people in Ghana cause there were so few of us, and everyone in America is fat, ugly and stupid. (Well I guess that was a little bit harsh, I am feeling cynical…)

But I am going to think about this year all of the time.  It will shape every decision I make, every thought I have.  My greatest fear is the fear of forgetfulness.  I fear that I will just go back to living life as if this whole year was a dream, and I did not see the things I saw, meet the people I met- I just I have all the more reason to surround myself with beautiful reminders of what I had the pleasure and gift of experiencing.

So I thought I could go the whole semester without getting malaria, but of course, on the last week of my semester I gradually obtained a large headache, backache and fever.  It was malaria. 

Of course people like my mother freaked out, because malaria is seen as almost a death sentence from those westerners.  But we made a connection between malaria and strep throat.  Left untreated, it can be lethal, but it is very easy to treat (only 5 dollars!), and it goes away in a giffy.  It especially was not too bad because I am on the anti-malarial pills, which are obviously not 100% effective.

So dont freak out anyone, I am fine, just a little malarious is all.

Togo was our last trip of the semester, thus completing the goal of crossing every border of Ghana. Togo was the easiest border to cross. It was only about three hours from Accra, driving along the coast. The border official of course asked us to marry him and gave us our visas in the least efficient manor, but this is West Africa after all. We rode on the back of motorcycles to our hotel in Lome, the capital city, which is right on the border.

We stayed at Hotel le Gallion, which was a great bar and restaurant, lined with French ex-pats who were about 80 years old and flirted with us, they were great. Sleeping was a little bit of a different stories, the beds lined with bed bugs and mosquitoes, which caused me to take out almost all of the dreadlocks I have been creating for three months (don’t worry, I left in three of them adorned with beads.) It also rained most of the time, which was also unfortunate.

In the morning, we hopped on the back of the motorcycles again (motos are replacements for taxis in Lome, hands down my favorite part of the city). We headed to the fetish market. Over 40% of people in Togo practice voodoo, whether it be with Christianity or Islam or nothing else. The fetish market was lined with leopard heads, turtle shells, dead hedgehogs and other animals used for various medicines to treat anything from malaria to erectile dysfunction. The chief invited us into this room where the guide showed us the six main voodoo charms. I purchased the travel charm, which the chief blessed in my name.

We then went to the regular market, overwhelming as per usual and some rastas showed us some great leather goods and jewelry. (yes, everywhere we go we make Rasta friends, I don’t know). We ate some Togolese fufu, which was not very different from Ghana fufu, but delish nonetheless. That evening, we went out on the town to a noisy, but relaxed outdoor bar, where we met some Nigerians who wanted to be our friends and then asked if we could write them recommendations to get them their visas to the U.S. The usual.

The next day we headed to Lake Togo, getting lost on the way to the Auberge du Lac, because we did not talk to our travel charms. Once we finally found it, we ended up at this charming lakefront property with bungalows and beach chairs lining the lake. We took a canoe across the lake to Togoville, a village where someone had a vision of the Virgin Mary on the lake and the pope came for a visit. The village is also known for its voodoo practice. It did not seem too different from any other village, but it was picturesque sitting on the water, and there were many adorable baby goats, again, as per usual.

We headed back and relaxed in the evening, playing cards by the lakeside. The next day, we were finally blessed with some sun and relaxed some more on the lake, then back to Lome to sit on the beach.

Togo overall seemed the least different from Ghana. I think that this is because it is small (The Rhode Island of West Africa if you will). Although it is French speaking, many people speak English, and did not seem too different from Ghanaians, but Lome was pretty and riding in a motorcycle gang for three days was pretty badass.

Our experience in Cote D’Ivoire began with being pushed into an unmarked car with two Ivorian women our age with everyone around us yelling. We apparently could not be in a taxi to get over the border, who knows. Kofi, our driver, who would later become our best friend, was fighting with his friends who would not let him leave. Ivorian French is about 300x faster and more difficult to understand than in Burkina Faso, and they were angry and probably speaking even more quickly than usual, so I could not really decipher what was going on. The fight was definitely over Kofi owing his friends money, and might have had to do with Kofi giving a little boy money and not his friends. Either way, when Kofi tried to get in the car and leave, his friends opened his car door into oncoming traffic, then four of them jumped on the back of the car while he drove at least 30 miles per hour.

Kofi stopped the car about a half a mile away and got out and began fighting again. It started to escalate and get physical. Effie and I did not know what to do. We could not get out of the car, because we would have no way to get to Abidjan, and we might have been hurt walking in the middle of a fight. After about another 20 minutes, Kofi ripped his keys our of his friend’s hand and began driving, finally.

On the way to Abidjan, we stopped at many police checks, getting many marriage proposals from border officials. One of them even told Effie he would beat her if she did not call him in two days when we got back to Ghana. Nice. We also stopped for a beer, then waited another 45 minutes at a police check point because Kofi did not have some necessary documents. The whole ride was obviously a little bit sketchy, but the Ivorian women in the car reassured us that we were safe and would get to Abidjan eventually.

Kofi took us to a hotel in Treicheville, the area with less money, but the hotel was small and cheap. He tried to get us to go out clubbing, but Effie and I were tres fatiguees from our journey, so we told Kofi we would see him the next morning.

Our brother, best friend, caretaker… Kofi came promptly a half an hour late, on time on Africa time and drove us around the city. He kept trying to speak French with me while I sat in the back seat and his music was at a very high volume. I could not understand a word he said because he did not speak clearly or slowly and spoke with many obstacles between us. If I asked him, or any other Ivorian to speak slowly, they would say the first two words slowly then continue on with speaking at 100 miles per hour. That was a little bit frustrating I must say. Effie could not speak French, and her interactions with Kofi consisted of looking at each other, laughing, then punching each other in the arm. Their interactions were hilarious and adorable.

Kofi took us to his friends house because his friend could speak English, and Kofi apparently had the idea that we were dumb white girls that could not get around anywhere by ourselves. After intruding in on this man’s house and waiting for him and Kofi to go to the store, we were fed up and wanted to explore Abidjan. We told Kofi we were leaving, and he became incredibly nervous that we would not make it into the city or back to the hotel. We assured him that we were capable young women and we think that we could make it. So we set off on our journey into downtown Abidjan.

Abidjan is the financial hub of West Africa. The Ivory Coast used to be the largest exporter in West Africa, and had the money to prove it, but because of the world economy and civil wars, the country does not have as much money anymore, but the city is still an anomaly of West Africa. There is a skyline, with skyscrapers, which I have not seen in months. The city stands over the water lined with palm trees, it reminded us a little bit of Miami. There are men in designer business suits everywhere. Effie and I looked particularly out of place because the Ivory Coast is not a tourist city. Because of the civil wars, it has been deemed very dangerous and tourists are discouraged from going there, but Abidjan was safe for a short visit. But since we were not in business attire, and we are white, we stuck out even more than we do in Accra.

We walked around the city, stopping for fufu, which was just made of ripe plantains and had the consistency of play-dough, unlike the gluey consistency of the fufu in Ghana. We explored St. Paul’s Cathedral, which looked like more of a giant art piece than a church. It could be seen anywhere in the city, this blue and white statue standing over the water, with stained glass portrayals of the missionaries coming to save Africa. The grandiosity and the idea of how much money was put into this project disturbed us a little bit, but we could not take our eyes off of it.

We headed back to Treicheville and went to the market, which was inside of an old, ugly Chinese-style building. As we looked at the statues, the jewelry and fabric, nothing stuck out as particularly Ivorian. In the markets in Burkina Faso and Ghana, everything looks unique and different, there are specific items exclusive to Burkinebe and Ghanaian culture. But at this market, nothing stuck out as distinctive to the Ivory Coast. It seemed like there was no individual Ivorian culture in general. This probably had something to do with the fact that we were in the business based city. Had we had the chance to explore more of the country, I hope that we would have found this situation different.

Back to the hotel to nap, woken up by Kofi who barged in, turned on the TV and acted like our hotel room was his turf, what a crazy. He told us his heart sank because we did not call him to tell him we made it back to the hotel alive, what a crazy.

That night, we went out with Mat and Constant. Mat, an Ivorian who has lived in England for the past 17 years, stopped us earlier that morning to invite us out, which we accepted, thinking it would be nice to speak English for a change, because I had comprehension difficulties and Effie could not speak French at all. Constant, Mat’s nephew could only speak French so I practiced with him a little bit. They took us to a great Lebanese restaurant, which are plentiful in Abidjan. Lebanese people make up one of the largest minorities in the Ivory Coast. We then went out for drinks and ended the night drinking the wine that Mat had brought from his summer house in France. Quite a different night from the average night in Accra. Mat was quite an “osikani” as we say in Twi (someone with a lot of money). The boys ended up being a little bit creepy, as many men in West Africa do, but they were harmless and it was overall an enjoyable evening.

We had done everything there is to do in Abidjan, because there is not much; the city is not made for tourists because there aren’t any. So the next day Kofi drove us back to the border. We tried to find out as much about Kofi as possible, which was not too successful, but the limited conversation ended up being giggling and speaking in facial expressions for most of the ride back to Ghana.

In the west of Ghana, next to the village of Beyin, about an hour canoe ride from land on a lagoon lies a village on stilts, one of many in West Africa. My sociology professor told us that the stilt villages were built as to not leave footprints when running away from slave catchers, but the people of the Nzulezu did not really seem to agree or give me a different explanation. But either way, Peter, our guide rowed Effie and me through this water that was so still and created reflections in the sky that were so clear it looked like we were flying in the sky on a canoe.

We arrived at the stilt village, and it turned out to be exactly what I would think of when I thought of a Ghanaian village on stilts. There were wooden buildings and pathways created and sat on the water. It seemed a little bit intrusive to be walking around somebody’s village, and we wondered what they thought of us weird oburunis, curious about the way they lived. I could never imagine living in such a tiny village, about a five minute walk across, an hour canoe ride to get any supplies. But of course, I have lived in the suburbs of New England my entire life, so obviously it would be difficult for me to imagine this. But the daily life of the stilt village did not seem to be different from the daily live of any village in Ghana, church on Sundays, eating fufu, washing clothes, the usual. The only big difference is that the children learn how to paddle a canoe probably before they learn how to read.

We had planned to go to the hippo sanctuary nearby, but the rainy season prevented us from trying. We decided to get back to Ghana and visit Tamale, the city in the north of Ghana. After many busses and crossing the border and whatnot, we ended up getting to Tamale at 2am. Now one problem with Ghana is that it is quite difficult to plan anything in advance, like hotel reservations. We start at one hotel, wake up the owner, who was not happy, and told us that the hotel was full. The nicer, more helpful guard at the hotel pointed us in the direction of two more hotels, which were also full. “No room at the in.” On of the guys at the second hotel told us to get a taxi to another hotel, we turned around the the barren main road and saw that this was obviously not possible. There was apparently some sort of conference going on. So the guard from the first hotel let us come in and sleep outside within the gates of the hotel so we would not be sleeping on the streets. For this, we were grateful, but were not sure how we would sleep sans mosquito nets on concrete. Until, ten minutes later, Daniel, our new guard friend opened an empty conference room with fans and everything and told us we could sleep there because he did not want us to get malaria. Daniel, my new best friend. He even let us into one of the rooms in the morning to take a shower.

The next day, showered and refreshed, thanks to Daniel, we walked around Tamale. The north of Ghana is also much more poor than the south, but Tamale was a gem in the midst of the surrounding rural areas. There were streetlamps, and lanes for bicycles and pedestrians. It was planned and organized and very charming. We walked around the market, and to the cultural center where we met some rasta artists, the usual. Then we went for lunch and I ate Guinea Foul! In South Africa, we had some problems with this polka dotted bird with blue heads, so I was really excited to seek revenge by eating one. (My vegetarianism will return with me to the states.) We then head home on a 10 hour bus back to Accra, stopping on the way to pee in front of a “do not urinate here” sign.

Then our new rasta guide of Bobo, took Kristina and I to tea at his house. He assured us that it was in the neighborhood and that we would not be long. Before going to his house, we had to stop at the neighborhood bar and drink “Bière Rouge,” which is beer made of millet out of a wooden bowl.

Then we headed to his house, which did not end up being in the neighborhood. After 25 minutes of walking, Kristina and I were getting a little bit curious as to when we would be there, because it was dark and we did not have a phone. He said we were almost there. 40 Minutes later, we end up in a new neighborhood. At this point, we had no idea where we were or how to get back. Uh oh. Then our rastaman took us through a barren alleyway and into a courtyard and into a cement room, which was apparently his. He went to go buy the tea and left us in this room that looked like a murder scene. It was all cement, and mostly barren except for some broken, random objects on the floor and a single candle. On one of the walls was a poster filled with photos. Kristina joked that these were photos of his victims. It was funny, but also not. We realized that we had done everything on the “do not do list” when traveling: following strangers, not having a phone, not knowing where we were, you know. So he comes back with the tea and suggests we go outside, which was much less scary.

We sat in the courtyard and his friend came with a kora, a large wooden string instrument, and he started playing this wonderful and peaceful music. Our rasta friend then started making the tea with the most TLC I have ever seen. He built the fire with charcoal, put the tiny pot with loose tea on top. When it was boiling, he poured the tea into a cup, then back into the pot about 15 times, making it mixed and frothy. Then he put it back on the fire and waited for it to warm up again, then repeated the process with a unnecessarily amount of sugar that would later make us wired. The end result- a frothy, delicious cup of tea. Much better than plugging in the hotpot and sticking a bag in a cup. He made it all over again, and we ended up having three cups in total, just talking and listening to the music in between. I even had a chance to try making it frothy, but ended up spilling a lot in the process. I asked where they learned how to make tea with such care, and they explained that everybody knows and learns from their fathers or older brothers.

We then decided that our friends back at Le Zion were probably worrying about us, so our rasta friends walked us back, with our friend holding and playing the Kora for the entire walk back.

So what had started as the night I was convinced I would be murdered ended up being a very peaceful and relaxing night with new friends.

Then, we headed to Bobo, the next largest city in Burkina Faso. It was more quaint, but still had the same charm as Ouaga. We went to the huge market inside, full of prints, and Muslim scarves and fezes. We ate some French food and watched the streets then headed to la grande mosque. It is difficult to describe the mosque without photos. It was made out of what resembles mud or stucco, held up by these long, thin logs that stuck out all over the outside. It was nothing like I would ever imagine a mosque to look like. We had a tour of the inside, which was dark and laden with Muslim men napping in between prayer time. We walked up to the roof, which was saturated by the sun and hurt our feet, but it was gorgeous to see the afternoon sun hit the towers of the mosque.

We then headed back to our hotel Le Z ion, which was an oasis outside the city. Past the city, to where the roads were no longer paved and there were no more buildings but small houses, was Le Zion. It was a rasta hangout spot, very peaceful and covered with mango trees. We walked around the neighborhood, which you could barely believe was ten minutes from the city. More than just goats were running around everywhere, pigs and cows were there too. We ran into a couple of soccer games and hung out with some of the neighborhood kids. Then went to hang out at Le Zion, where it was raining and the electricity went out, so we just lounged with candlelight.

We the walked through the border, got our visas, I spoke French for the first time in years with the border patrolman. We walked and had our first Burkenebe beers- which were light and delicious. In West Africa, even at the borders, even though countries are so close to each other, you can still not find the same beers, the same foods, same language, same brands of anything even just across the border of a country. Before our bus to Ouagadougou, the capital, we walked around the neighborhood. We noticed there was something missing, but could not put our fingers on it. There was nobody yelling “Oboruni’ at us, nobody staring at us too much, nobody saying anything. When we got on the bus, everyone stood in a line and quietly moved on the bus, on which there was no loud hiplife playing the entire ride. Burkina was already turning out to be completely different from Ghana.

We arrived in Ouagadougou after three hours of untouched land interrupted by a few thatched huts on the way. Instead of tro tros, there were motorbikes and cars everywhere. My favourite part was the women in fine African prints and heels riding motorbikes. Pretty badass. The next day, we walked around Ouagadougou with our new friend and guide, Ousseni, a small rasta Burkinebe man. He showed us around the market, and into a bronze shop, where we saw how they make bronze statues and jewelry. We then went to take some foutou the Burkinebe version of foufou, which was a different texture and more peppery than fufu. My new plan is to eat every type of foufou in West Africa and pick my favourite one. Even though Burkina Faso is the 3^rd poorest country in the world, they sure have their cities together. And I instantly gained an interest in this country. The city was much more European and Muslim than Accra, there were baguettes and mosques everywhere. The streets were more organized, there were sidewalks and streetlamps, we could even walk around at night. I also really liked people from Burkina; they were very willing to help us get around, but not too overzealous like many Ghanaians. I also loved speaking French to everyone and understood what was going on most of the time, which was good because only two out of the seven of us could speak it.

I don’t know what I would think of Ouagadougou if I had not been living in Accra for the past four months. I think that if I hadn’t seen other places in West Africa, I would not see too much difference between the two cities. There were still bags of water, but the plastic was different, there were still huge beers, but they were different brands, different flavors of fanyogo, and different types of fabrics in the market.

We went to nap, then Ousseni picked us up later to take us out for a night on the town. As we walked to where we would go dancing later on, we stopped inside of one place where I heard drumming and decided to check it out. There, we had a private show from six beautiful men drumming on Jembe drums. We listened and danced and some of us even got a chance to play a little bit. We then headed to the dancing spot, which was surprisingly crowded for a Sunday night, to dance to lively American and Burkinebe music.

So from the bus tickets being cancelled, not being able to get a visa, and not knowing how to get there- we surely did not think we would ever make it to Burkina Faso. But we did. From two very long bus rides, both with live poultry on them, we made it to Paga at about 2am, the town right next to the border.

The next morning, we head to the crocodile pond next to the border. The “Chief’s Pond.” Everyone who works there must be in the royal family. Our guide told us that there were over 200 crocs in the pond. We purchased a chicken as the entrance fee and followed him to one of the largest crocodiles in the pond. We all held its tail, some more afraid than others. I sat on the crocodile and pat its back. It was only scary when the croc would move suddenly and we all jumped and ran away.

The croc was apparently not hungry, and as our guide tried to force feed him the chicken, the chicken ended up just sitting on top of its mouth. It was quite bazaar. So we fed the live chicken to another crocodile, who really, really wanted it.