ghana: the end

Unfortunately, before our arrival, we’d also already arranged with Big Milly to hire a cab and driver to take us up the coast for a day.  That meant another ride in the ghetto-rigged taxi rocket.  All day long.  And, as if we needed a reminder of its volatility, our driver had to stop for gas.  When the gas attendant climbed in through the hatchback and used a plastic bag to seal the valve, I decided it’d probably be a good idea to get out of the car.  Joey and I stood a few feet away and waited while the tank filled, but the smell of propane permeated the vehicle for the next half hour.  

The information I found said it would take about two hours to drive to Cape Coast from Big Milly’s.   So we arranged to visit Kakum, for its rainforest canopy walk, followed by St. George’s Castle in Elmina, and finally, Cape Coast Castle in Cape Coast.  Unfortunately, the information I found does not, apparently, take into account traffic.  After forty-five minutes on the bumpy road in the hot rocket, our driver told us it’d be another two-and-a- half hours to Kakum.  I’m not going to lie: I was exceptionally annoyed.  Four hours, unbuckled, in an un-air-conditioned car on exceptionally bumpy roads had just turned into seven, and had I known this from the get-go, we probably would have planned the whole trip differently.  But que sera, sera, and soon enough we reached the entrance of the rainforest and bought our tickets for the canopy walk.

I’m not really sure how I manage to take us on death-marches (as my husband likes to call them) every time we go on vacation, but sure enough, we faced a hike up the rainforest that left us sweaty and winded.  With my unique inability to put two and two together when they’re staring me in the face, I hadn’t realized that in order to get to the canopy walk in the rainforest, one must first climb to the height of the canopy.  Duh.  Somehow I also neglected to heed that walking through the canopy means walking over the tops of trees.  Really old trees.  Really, really tall trees.  And I am afraid of heights.  

What was I thinking?  Did I mention this canopy walk is a suspension bridge?   This means when you move, the bridge moves.  And the more people on the bridge, the more the bridge moves.  And the guy in front of me is tap dancing.  I so terrified of heights I don’t even enjoy sledding and I am suddenly on a swaying, rope bridge 100 feet off the ground.

And then it started to rain.

I get that it’s called a rainforest.  Who would guess that it would rain in the rainforest?  But seriously, why did it have to rain as soon as I climbed on the suspension bridge?  The first five minutes walking along the wooden planks weren’t so bad.  The view was breathtaking (in more ways than one) and the rain wasn’t coming down too hard. 

Then it really started to rain.  And we are still on the longest suspension bridge in all of Africa.  With a tap-dancing ranger.  It’s actually a series of seven suspension bridges, in total over 1000 swinging feet, and now it is freaking pouring.   My attempt to shelter my camera from the downpour was overwhelmed by my desire for pictures of the gorgeous, terrifying scenery (or maybe documentation of my bravery), so my repeated, one-handed endeavor of removing my camera from my purse, securing the strap around my neck, taking a picture, taking the camera strap off my neck and returning the camera to my purse every few feet, all while trying to balance on the bridge with one set of white knuckles firmly locked on the rope, ended up with Joey in hysterics and me looking like a five-year old who has to pee.

We finally made it off the bridge to the covered platform, but by then we were completely soaked.  At first we decided to wait it out with the other people who walked the bridge with us, but then they discovered we were American.

“OBAMA!”  One Ghanaian exclaimed.

“Yeah!  Obama!  Obama!”  The others chorused.

Then we proceeded to become photographic fodder, as all of the Ghanaians took their picture with Joey and me.  Then each Obama-loving Ghanaian posed for an individual picture with our soaked and bewildered selves.

After our wet’n’wild photo shoot, since the rain didn’t seem to be letting up any time soon and we were already drenched, we decided to just hike back down.

Oh. My. God. it was wet.  Any semblance of a trail before had turned into a rushing brook, and as if I already don’t have enough problems hiking down hills, I was faced with hiking through a stream down a hill.  The water ran into my eyes, taking with it my sunscreen, and the burning sensation that followed was an added bonus.  All I want to know is why we are incapable of having a normal vacation?  I mean, why, why, can’t we just go for one day without some crazy-ass adventure?  What is wrong with us?  Whose idea was it to vacation in the rainforest in Africa?  Just two dumb Iowans who think it’ll be such an authentic adventure! 

Finally we made it to the bottom of the trail and under the gable of a lodge.  We literally rung out our clothes as, lo and behold, the sun came out.  My soggy sandals squeaked beneath me as we waddled back to the rocket, and when we sat down in the taxi, I opened my purse to see how my camera had fared.

Apparently my method of alternating between taking a picture in the rain and stashing my camera in my purse was just as brilliant as going to an African rainforest and not expecting it to rain.  I unzipped my bag and there my camera sat in at least two inches of water.  I grimaced; the cab driver said, “Oh, shit!”

The last picture as shown by my screen.  Oh shit, indeed.

It took about forty-five minutes to drive from Kakum back to Elmina; during which time I pressed the on/off button on my camera at least two-hundred times.  That puppy was not working.  First the lens opened and then the lens wouldn’t open at all.  Then the lens opened and stayed there.   And the screen?  That thing was completely FUBAR.  We are driving past palm trees, white-sand beaches, crystal blue waters, with awesome African fishing boats and a freaking 15^th century castle in the background and my camera is D-E-A-D.  Dead.  Are you trying to kill me?!

As we pulled up to the visitors entrance of St. George’s Castle in Elmina, I tried to remind myself that in the grand scheme of things, my broken camera was pretty far down the list of atrocities that took place where we stood.  St. George’s Castle was built in 1482 by the Portuguese as one of its African trading posts on the Atlantic.  Sadly, it was also where thousands of slaves were kept for months in filthy, deplorable, inhumane conditions before they were sent through “the door of no return.”  The castle tour was quite sobering; it’s just impossible to reconcile how human beings could treat other human beings that way.  But our Ghanaian tour guide remained positive.  He ended our tour by saying, “We keep this castle not to reopen old wounds.  It just serves as a lesson to humanity.” 

Meanwhile, my lens seemed to be responding, and although the screen was still black and worthless, the rest of my camera appeared to be functioning.  Using the viewfinder, I mimed taking pictures, with hopes that I might capture even a little bit of the scene around us.  We drove back through the town of Elmina, in which you could sense the European influences in the narrow streets and architecture, before driving along the Atlantic to reach Cape Coast and its infamous slave castle.

One of the views of Elmina from St. George's Castle

The tour guide at the Cape Coast Castle was decidedly less friendly.  Part of me can’t blame him; it was absolutely disgusting how those slave traders behaved.  But the second tour guide was so hostile that each description of the slave traders’ barbarity seemed to end with the entire tour group of Africans subtly turning and glaring at the two white scapegoats: Joey and me.  We were so uncomfortable that we left half-way through the tour.  It felt like a mob was going to punish us for the sins of our forefathers, and for some reason I didn’t think our argument that none of our ancestors had even stepped foot in America before slavery was abolished would suffice. 

From Cape Coast castle it was another three hours in the rocket back to Big Milly’s.  The dirt roads our driver took to circumvent the brutal traffic were both physically and emotionally jarring.  At one point I felt pretty sure we’d stumbled onto the set of the movie, “City of God,” as we drove through the maze of concrete blocks.  But we made it back safely, and just in time for dinner.  In between bites of fresh grilled rock lobster and sips of hand-muddled caiprinahs, with the sand beneath our feet and the salty ocean breeze in our hair, we swayed to the reggae music played by the band under the moon, and life was good. 

Our last day in Kokrobite was perfectly relaxing.  We walked on the beach, collected shells, drank fruity drinks and ate lobster and french fries.  One more ride in the hot rocket returned us to the airport in Accra, and in a few hours we were safely (well...) back in Abuja.   

Amazingly enough, all of my pictures turned out.  Here's the link.

lessons learned

Travel lessons I should have learned the first time we schlepped around Italy:

1. Train rides suck.  They make me feel like I drank all the vodka in Russia the night before, whether or not I consumed a drop of alcohol.  They are crowded, generally stinky (although after 6 months here, my tolerance for BO is now as high as a Russian's tolerance for vodka), and just altogether unpleasant.  Whose brilliant idea was it to plan a 9-hour train ride from Provence to Santa Margherita? 

2. Europe is not handicap-friendly.  And big, heavy suitcases are big-ass handicaps.  The same brilliant person who planned the 9-hour train ride thought it would be much easier to just lug one bigger suitcase (each) instead of having to juggle two smaller suitcases (each).  Maybe, until the 9-hour train ride included 4 stops, which meant five separate times Joey had to heave my 60-lb suitcase and his 60-lb suitcase down the staircase to the train platform, up into the train, down out of the train and back down one staircase and up another staircase to the next platform.  In 90-degree heat.  Oops.

Yeah, just because Aix-en-Provence is close to the French Riviera, and Santa Margherita is on the Italian Riviera does not mean you should take a train between them.  Maybe if you take a day in Nice.  Or maybe if a direct train overnight existed (it doesn't), it might be a tolerable trip.  But definitely don't do it the way we did.  By the time we left Aix-en-Provence and stopped in Nice, Ventimiglia and Genoa before arriving in Santa Margherita, we were completely and utterly exhausted.  And I didn't even carry the suitcases.  Which brings me to #3:

Pick one destination and stay there.  Going from A to B to C to D to E is expensive, it's exhausting, and by the end of the trip, it's just plain annoying.  Packing and unpacking and repacking your suitcase gets progressively harder, especially if you buy any sort of souvenir.  Particularly if you've been in Nigeria for six months and are struck, first numbly, and then overwhelmingly, by your innate, American consumerism that sat dormant during the last several months.  Trust me.  Go somewhere you can explore for a few days and from where you can easily explore a few other destinations for a few days.   A to B to A to C is infinitely easier.

Oh, and wearing high heels because your travel shoes are broken and you'll have slightly more room in your suitcase is beyond inane.  Who would be dumb enough to do that? 

provence day 5: avignon

Papal Palace in the background

Thursday was our last day with Sujata, and we spent it in Avignon.  Every year, thousands of thespians descend on Avignon for its annual theater festival, with which our visit just happened to coincide.  Oh. Yay.  It was packed and the street performers weren't shy.  But I'd still return to Avignon, with its thick medieval ramparts, imposing papal palace, and shady plane trees, just not in the middle of July.

Really?

We spent the day the same as we'd spent the others.  Eating.  Drinking.  Shopping.  Wandering.  Joey and Sujata bemoaning my excessive photography habit.  By the end of the day when we deposited Sujata at the train station, we were sad to see her go, but I'm pretty sure she'd had enough of Joey's driving and my camera.  She'd made a great traveling companion over the last ten days, and hopefully she'll be willing to brave us again for another fun vacation.

Although it was Bastille Day, Joey and I were both tired and crabby, so we crashed back at the cottage.  The next morning we were up early to check-out; a simple process made infinitely more difficult by the language barrier and Vauvenargues' lack of ATM.  But everything worked itself out, we dropped off the rental car and boarded the first of many trains for the long trip to Santa Margherita Ligure. 
 

For all of my pictures from Provence, click here: https://picasaweb.google.com/100586084762366858227/Provence?authuser=0&authkey=Gv1sRgCOODs5Kqwdzb6AE&feat=directlink

(Don't worry, I narrowed them down after we returned to Abuja).  

Here's the link for my Paris pictures too: https://picasaweb.google.com/100586084762366858227/Paris?authuser=0&authkey=Gv1sRgCKC0h_HKh6CLFg&feat=directlink

provence day 4: the luberon and the lavender

Wednesday was lavender day.  Or it was supposed to be.  I assumed that all of Provence would just be full of lavender.  That the train would suddenly round a corner and you'd see nothing but fields of purple.  This is not the case.  Aix-en-Provence is actually too far south for lavender, so we really had to search for it.

We began our hunt in a darling little village called Lourmarin.  As we parked the car it began to rain,

so we ducked into a dark and cozy cafe to wait it out.  In between down- pours we found the Chateau de Lourmarin, a huge old castle with a wine cave underneath.  After sampling every wine in the cave, we wove our way through the Luberon all day, stopping for "degustation" (wine tasting) and trying to find one field of purple.  I could have explored every town where we stopped to ask for directions to the lavender.  Each one was more picturesque than the next; they say some see Paris through rose-colored glasses, but I saw the Luberon through rose (and Cotes du Rhone and Burgundy) filled glasses for sure.  Several hours later, after many miles of forests, vineyards, sunflowers, wine, laughs (especially after one of the cellar masters asked Sujata if she worked for us), and even more complaints about Joey's driving, we finally found the lavender.  I couldn't believe how good it smelled when I rolled down my window.

Our light heads soon turned into heavy stomachs, and after an entire day in the car, with shaky knees and sighs of relief, we returned to the cottage and piled out of the car.  While Sujata napped, Joey wished for his pillow but accompanied me to finally explore the tiny town where we'd been staying all week.  It didn't take long to walk through Vauvenargues (pronounced Voo-ven-ahg) and find the 17th-century Chateau of Vauvenargues, burial site of Pablo Picasso.

Chateau of Vauvenargues

We employed our cottage kitchen one more time that night, cooking chicken and pasta in a delicious pancetta, arrabiatta sauce.  Exhausted and thorougly defeated, Joey passed out early at the cottage while Sujata and I wandered back down to Vauvenargues to investigate the sounds of the pre-Bastille Day celebration heard from our patio.  Upon realizing we would have stood out like sore thumbs at the celebration, we wandered back to Picasso's chateau under the moonlight.  It was so. creepy.  We both swore we heard a ghost's cackle, and ran full-speed back to our cottage.  We woke poor Joey up to calm us down, then Sujata and I talked long after he fell back asleep, until we were too tired to let any ghosts keep us awake either.

provence day 3: cassis and arles

Early Tuesday morning we drove to Cassis.  And I thought Marseille was breathtaking.  Maybe I'm partial to quaint little towns, especially after brushing shoulders with all the tourists in France's second-largest city the entire day before, but even though it's only a few kilometers away from Marseille, the tiny village of Cassis with its brightly colored buildings and pretty little fishing boats was now my new favorite place. 

After devouring an assortment of fresh pastries from the bakery (seriously, can someone tell me how the French stay so skinny?), we took a boat tour of the Calanques.  We were the first people on the boat and so excited to grab a seat right up front.  Then the captain came out and said "Le Douche."  This apparently means, "You will take a shower if you sit there."  We all figured a little seaspray never hurt anybody and sat tight.

The stark contrast of the white limestone cliffs and deep blue water was overshadowed by the hilarity of our predicament.  I really can't think of the last time I even came close to laughing so hard.  Our boat tour was straight out of an amusement park water ride, or maybe in Sujata's case, a wet t-shirt contest.  I almost peed my pants when, after half an hour of just getting soaked, the boat hit a huge wake and sent Sujata flying out of her seat.  It still makes me laugh out loud to think about it.  We returned to shore, soaking wet, salty, and more than a little seasick in my case.  While we dried off under the sun, we ate our slightly salty and soggy lunch (we had optimistically brought a picnic on the boat) and Sujata and I entertained ourselves with inappropriate remarks about the inappropriate fat ladies baring it all on the topless beach.

Joey drove the hilly and winding rode back to our cottage.  I suppose he should have known better than to rent a stick shift with two outspoken women in the car, and maybe Sujata and I could have complained less considering the driving conditions.  But with our stomachs already on strike after the bumpy boat ride, Sujata and I kept Joey informed of this fact at every hairpin turn.  It was a fun ride for all and definitely time for a nap.

Look familiar?

A few hours later, refreshed after naps and showers, we headed to Arles for the evening.  Arles was remarkably more muted than Cassis but still full of history and beauty.  We saw the spot where Van Gogh painted his famous Cafe Terrace at Night and some wonderfully old Roman ruins, including baths from the era of Constantine and an even older arena that is still in use today.

I could have spent days more exploring all the nooks and crannies of Arles.  I became terribly disconcerted when my camera battery flashed red, though much to the delight of my traveling companions.  Joey exclaimed, "I get my wife back!" Sujata concurred.  Given I took over 2,000 pictures on our vacation, I think they may have had a point.  Plus the slight sprinkle had turned into more of a steady rain, so we decided to head back to Aix-en-Provence for sushi.  After Sujata and I enjoyed a few too many lychee kir royales, Joey patiently drove us home to sleep it off for our next excursion.  Tomorrow was lavender day!

provence: marseille

The next morning we rode the bus back to the train station to pick up our rental car.  This occasion marked just one of the many times we were so thankful to have Sujata along for more than just entertainment value when her fluent French saved us from getting screwed on the car rental.  We piled into our little car, cranked up the tunes - I'm not going to lie that I was beyond excited to hear Britney Spears on the radio for the first time in months - and drove to Marseille.

After about half an hour of winding down through the imposing limestone walls of Provence, we caught our first view of the Mediterranean.  I know I've said it before, but there is something so thrilling to me about the water.  The sun shined hot and shimmered over the pure blue water and I declared I wasn't leaving.  Marseille reminded me very much of the town where Joey and I got married, with its rows of sailboats and terra cotta roofs.  It felt amazing to be back on the scenic riviera, even if it was the French side.  So we walked, I took too many pictures, and we walked some more.

Notre-Dame de la Garde on the horizon

After an already long day of trudging through the crowded seaside town in the thick July heat (and trying, unsuccessfully, to find a new pair of shoes), we climbed up what Joey will swear is the steepest hill in the world, only to be met with many stairs and another hill on top of that.  Finally, we reached the beautiful Notre-Dame de la Garde, which, in all fairness to my husband, sits at the highest natural point in Marseille at 532 feet above sea level.  When Sujata remarked that the view was worth the climb, an exhausted, sweating Joey remarked, "Whose side are you on, anyway?!"

With a sweaty, crabby Joey overlooking Marseille.  I climbed the hill with one shoe hanging off my foot so I don't know what his problem is.

Gradually we made our way back down to the sea, where we found a cafe in the shade.  I decided to try the kelly-green drink I'd seen all over Paris, "Get 27."  I quickly discovered the reason Sujata had warned me not to bother.  I might as well have been drinking Scope on the rocks.  My throat still seizes up when I think about it.  Ew.

We found a darling little cafe overlooking the boardwalk for dinner.  I feasted on mussels and french fries, while Joey stuffed himself with bouilabaisse.  Then, completely stuffed and worn out, we walked back to the car and returned to our little cottage to pass out.

provence: aix-en-provence

Joey came home from work yesterday and said, "You updated your blog!"  Then he frowned and said, "You went from Paris straight to Des Moines."

Write. Your. Own. Blog.

So I'll go back to Paris, where early Sunday morning Joey, Sujata, and I caught the high-speed train to Aix-en-Provence (pronounced "X").  While hurrying through the train station, my sweet husband rolled his suitcase over my sandal and the strap snapped.  My favorite travel shoes, the most comfortable, the most versatile, and most importantly, my only pair of travel shoes were immediately shot.  I flipped out but we were late so with a huff I shuffled my dangling shoe hurriedly to our train.

Joey and Sujata outside the train station in Paris.  Sujata dubbed Joey, "Gay Don Johnson," or "GDJ" for short, to show her fondness for his jacket.

The train was full of colorful characters, including an unsolicited translation of "ham and cheese" from a guy who then deliberately sat on Joey's hand and a woman who squatted in front of our seats.  Don't worry if this has you raising an eyebrow and thinking, "WTF?"  We couldn't explain it either, but by the time the lady squatted (she even put her arms out in front of her to balance), we were laughing so hard we had doubled over in tears.  Then Sujata and I spent the rest of the four-hour trip torturing Joey with girl talk.  Craig/Tex better watch out: I'm pretty sure Joey's still plotting his revenge for ditching him with the two of us for five days.

Our plan was to rent a car at the train station and take day trips from our cottage right outside Aix-en-Provence.  Unfortunately almost everything in France closes on Sunday, including the car rental (who vacations on Sunday, seriously?), so we had to wait an hour for the proprietor of our cottage to pick us up (the high speed train station is situated a several kilometers from town).  In the meantime we entertained ourselves with perverse translations on the train station restaurant menu.  "Salty softness," anyone? (Or a quiche, same thing.)

Finally, Nathalie picked us up and drove us through the gorgeous, rolling, bright green and limestone foothills to Aix-en-Provence.  She dropped us off at the breathtaking La Rotonde fountain, which also happened to be the beginning of the outdoor market, and arranged to return in a few hours to take us to her cottage.  While I waddled in my broken shoe and took a thousand pictures, Joey and Sujata shopped.  They bought fresh bread, homemade sausages, cheese and raspberry jam, ripe peaches and figs.  They even found white truffles.

La Rotonde fountain in Aix-en-Provence

It was markedly hotter than Paris, so after sweating through the market we proceeded to cool off with some pastis for Joey and Sujata and local rose for me.  Then we had to try some ice cream on our way to the little grocery store where we found an entire wall of wine under eight euro.  Amazing.  The three of us left with seven bottles and a bottle of Ricard, among a few other essential items, and slowly meandered back to our pick-up point.  In the meantime we tried to tour the inside of a church, which quickly proved a bad idea with our wine bottles clanging together louder than the bells.  We giggled our way to the fountain.

Upon our arrival at our cottage, we were all thrilled to find it clean and bright and nestled in the most gorgeous valley of Montagne Sainte-Victoire with an incredible view and even more incredible sunset.  That night we feasted on our purchases from the market followed by homemade, white truffle gnocchi.  And several bottles of wine.  I believe the French have a saying about living life like that. Joie de vivre, amen.

paris!

Joey and I landed in Paris yesterday.   We've spent the last two days eating cheese, foie gras, baguettes, dark cherries and chocolate; wandering the city and drinking way too much wine with our friends Craig (Tex) and Sujata.  Sujata and Joey were in the same A-100 class in DC; especially after the past 48 hours here I'd say she definitely got the short end of the stick as far as postings go.  But she's been quite gracious to let us crash in her gorgeous apartment with its parquet floors, tall, molded ceilings and huge windows that open to a gorgeous view of the city.  I mean, it's no Abuja, but not everybody can live in paradise like Joey and me.   

Regardless, our vacation is off to a wonderful start.  Yesterday we climbed a million stairs to visit the Sacre Coure and Joey got to see the Eiffel Tower for the first time.  Actually, Sujata lives very near the Eiffel Tower so we've been able to walk past it several times and it's just so cool.  We even ran by it this morning.  Can you imagine being able to run by the Eiffel Tower every day?  Anyway, this afternoon Sujata was kind enough to invite us to the US Embassy and family Fourth of July reception at the US Ambassador's house (a gift from the French to the US after WWII, and oh my God what a gift).  Afterward we slowly meandered past the Musee d'Orsay, the Lourve and Notre Dame. 

Now it's naptime while we wait for Craig and Sujata to get off work and then we're off to dinner and drinks.  More eating and drinking through Paris awaits us tomorrow, then Sunday the four of us head to Provence.  We're going to see the lavender and Joey and Tex can hardly contain their excitement!