ghana: part 2

Our hut

After arriving at Big Milly's, Joey and I were escorted to our room hut.  Now I should say this hut only cost of 34 Ghanaian cedis a night.  That is the equivalent of $25.  So for value for the money, we certainly got more than for which we paid.  Our little hut consisted of two single, vinyl mattresses covered by a flat sheet, each framed on all four sides by two inches of wood, pushed together under a mosquito net built for one.  The ceiling fan hung under the light fixture which created a lovely strobe effect when both were on at the same time.  Also by the grace of God, I had not peed my pants (actually since I was wearing a skirt that would have been an even bigger mess) on the long, bumpy and terrifying journey from Accra.  I scanned our hut for the private bathroom I requested. 

Bathroom

The hut only had two doors, so I opened the only other door which, indeed, led to our bathroom.  Which consisted of a toilet.  And a shower head.  Under a banana tree.  Under the stars.  It did have four walls, but it was conspicuously missing a sink and a light, and oh, a roof.  I sat and prayed that nothing would slither down from the banana tree while I quickly attended to my business.  Then I found the bar of soap in the hut and held the rest of my body as far away from the cold shower in which I washed my hands.  This certainly was going to be an adventure.

Joey and I decided that even though it was past midnight and we were both physically and emotionally exhausted, a night cap was in order.  Cold drinks in hand, we climbed the stairs to the beach overlook under the moonlight and listened to the ocean. 

Friday morning we slept in as late as the morning heat allowed.  Once our hut started baking we donned our swimsuits and headed down the palm tree-lined path for breakfast.  A thatched roof shielded the picnic tables from the sun; the open-air restaurant provided the perfect spot from which to observe the activity along the shore.  While we enjoyed a scrumptious vegetable omelet and some truly amazing fresh-baked bread, we watched the fisherman untangle their webs of nets and marveled at the rickety, wooden boats bouncing in the waves.

View from breakfast

After breakfast we deposited everything in our hut to walk along the beach.  In addition to the brightly colored sign painted on the tall concrete wall around Big Milly’s Backyard, I’d read on many different websites that while the beach was generally safe,  robbery was not uncommon, and I wasn’t willing to risk my good camera beyond the confines of Big Milly’s property.  So empty-handed we turned left down the beach and into a different world.   

Every few yards a line of workers pulled a thick rope to hold a bobbing boat full of muscular men and fish, while women adorned in brightly colored African fabrics carried away huge bowls full of thousands of tiny, gleaming silver fish and half-naked children chased soccer balls on the sand and into the surf.   All set against a backdrop of blue skies, white sands, crystal waters and the tallest coconut trees I’ve ever seen.  Each person had a role: young boys untangled the fishing nets while stronger, older boys held the rope, and the young men formed an assembly line to transport the freshly caught fish to from the boat to shore.  Old women cleaned and scaled the fish while the men sailed the wooden dhow back out to sea.  Never before have I truly understood the phrase, “it takes a village.”  And while I longed to take pictures of the flurry surrounding us, there’s no way my camera could have captured the hustle and bustle of an entire African fishing village at work.  

The best picture I could get from the safety of Big Milly's property

Sometimes I’m completely awed by the incredible experiences I’ve been so fortunate to have that I never could have even remotely imagined.  This was one of those times.  Is it worth living so far away from my family and friends and putting up with everything we do on a daily basis (not to mention cold showers and vinyl mattresses)?  I’m not sure, but it certainly makes me think.  It also makes me so thankful for not only those opportunities to travel, but for all the opportunities afforded me as an American.  

We turned around and walked the other way down the beach, past Big Milly's, all the way to the other end of the beach and turned around again.  We spent the rest of the day getting to know the locals around Big Milly's and the other expats on holiday, reading, swimming, eating fresh seafood and drinking tropical beverages (which cost $2 each).  That night Big Milly's held its Friday "Culture Night" show, complete with three hours of drumming and dancing.

ghana: part 1

This post is out of order, but I felt like blogging about our trip to Ghana while it was still fresh in my mind.

Two weeks ago Joey and I boarded an Arik flight to Accra.  Never mind that the flight scheduled at 5 pm, for which we departed for the airport at 2 pm, left at 7:30 pm and no one from the airline ever bothered to inform any of the passengers what time the plane would actually be leaving; I was just happy that the plane didn’t crash.   Seriously.

Immediately we were astounded by the differences between Accra and Abuja.  The airport had air conditioning.   A sign welcomed passengers to Ghana.  The immigration agent didn’t hassle us.  (Never mind the very prominent sign behind immigration stating sexual deviancy of any kind would not be tolerated in Ghana…)  The airport even had a currency exchange with stated rates and tour company booths.

We’d booked a hotel, Big Milly’s Backyard, about 25 km outside Accra, in a tiny fishing village called Kokrobite (pronounced “Coke-Row-Bee-Tee”).  Big Milly arranged a taxi to pick us up at the airport, so we scanned the taxi drivers who were standing quietly behind the designated rope.  Toto, we’re not in Kansas anymore!

Upon uniting with the taxi driver holding the sign, “Melissa – Big Milly’s,” we followed him out of the airport where we saw a bar with a patio!  And most of the cars driving through the parking lot weren’t honking!  While our driver paid for his parking we watched everyone else wait patiently in line – it was surreal.

Even two weeks later I still cannot comprehend how two countries that are so similar can be so different.  As we drove through the capital of Ghana we saw no litter and no one peeing or pooping on the side of the road.  The roads were well-lit and the power never even flickered.  The drivers were courteous, stayed in their lanes and actually stopped when the light turned red.  The cacophony of car horns to which we are accustomed was replaced by the soft breeze from the open window.  Not to mention the fact that Ghana is safe enough to ride in a taxi in the first place; in Nigeria we are never allowed to even think about using public transportation.  And driving with your windows down?  At night?  Forget it. 

We were certainly still in Africa and especially once we left Accra and entered the countryside I was struck by how much Ghana resembles Nigeria.  Vendors and their wares balanced squarely on their heads weaved in and out of traffic, selling everything from sticks of meat and gum to shoe racks, Tupperware, and brightly colored accordions of pre-paid phone cards that look like scratch-off lotto tickets.  Indiscriminate brown dogs and crowing roosters wandered  along the small one-story buildings made from concrete blocks built one on top of another with rusty tin roofs and stains from the perpetual dust and sand in the air that line the road.  The only thing missing was the piles of litter.  Gone were the discarded plastic bags, used water bottles and anything else no longer wanted or needed. 

I forgot to mention a very important detail.  When I climbed in the back seat of the 1980ish hatch-back taxi and reached over my shoulder for the seat belt, out of the corner of my eye, I noticed a large tank directly behind my seat.  I fumbled with the broken seat belt for a while until Joey noticed the tank too and mumbled under his breath, “That seat belt isn’t going to do anything for you in an accident.”  To clarify, he struck up a conversation with the driver.

Joey: “Does this car run on gas?”

Driver: “Gas and kerosene.”

Joey: “Did it come that way or did you fix it to run on kerosene?”

Driver (proudly): “I fixed it!”

So for the next three hours (and only 25 km), every time a car brushed by ours, traffic quickly halted or we hit a huge bump in the road, I held my breath and braced myself to become a human RPG.

By the grace of God, despite the horrendous traffic; despite the rain, in the car, since it was too hot to roll up the windows without A/C (the driver used a chamois to clear the fog from the front window), and mosquito infestation that followed; despite traveling for at least half an hour along the darkest, bumpiest and most deserted dirt road I have ever seen in my life when the driver stopped the car to chamois the front window from the outside (at which point we were convinced we were going to be sold for our organs), Joey and I arrived at our destination relatively unscathed.  Some inner-thigh sweat and a few mosquito bites were a small price to pay for our safety.

The blue gates opened and we drove into a grove of coconut trees.  The car parked and when we opened our doors we heard the surf crashing into the sand.  Now we could finally relax.

santorini

The cruise brochure shows white-washed buildings of Santorini, capped in bright blue and overlooking the sapphire sea below.

The cruise brochure does not show the donkeys.

After spending our first full day on the cruise at sea, Joey and I were anxious to explore our first stop: Santorini.  But when we hopped off the ferry from the ship to the shore, over 600 donkey shit-covered steps stood between us and the picturesque town atop the hill.

There exists a cable car along the steep volcanic rock, but the line of would-be passengers wound around the port and under the powerful July sun.  We only had a few hours in port, so we opted to avoid the waiting and baking and brave the hike.  What we didn’t realize was that several hundred smelly-ass donkeys would be making the climb with us.

Each of the 600 steps involved avoiding the donkey shit, avoiding the donkeys producing said shit, and avoiding arriving at the top smelling like shit.  Massive.  Fail.

Herds of 10-20 donkeys ran in every direction up and down the steps, carrying powerless, flailing tourists or old Greek men with little whips.  While we sweated up the hill, the asses and the shit coming out of their asses monopolized the stairs and relegated us to hugging the wall in order to avoid being trampled.

By the time we arrived at the top, the bottom of my poor new sandals were caked in shit and hay.  Joey had sweat through his shirt and shorts and gone was my cute little side braid and attempt at make-up.  The amount of sweat streaming down my back, from under my boobs and in between my thighs was enough to cause some seriously uncomfortable chaffing.  

Hot.  Mess,

But we found the first bar, drank a cool, refreshing cocktail and made the most of our day.  We gorged on tasty gyros, shopped for cheesy curios and soaked in the incredible view.  We searched for the angle from which we could take the ubiquitous snapshot of Santorini’s blue domes, and Joey even scaled some of those white-washed walls with my camera to find the perfect shot (which then involved hiding from a Greek Orthodox priest and his congregation as they processed past my husband standing on some roof…).

The sun set on Santorini and it was time to catch our ride.  We went back down the way we came up, my anxiety of dodging donkeys and shit augmented by my lack of coordination and fear of tumbling down the hill.  At least the only hot part on the way down was the shower I savored as soon as we reached the boat.

Here's the link to the rest of my pictures from Santorini:  https://picasaweb.google.com/100586084762366858227/Santorini?authuser=0&authkey=Gv1sRgCIejjbeqiMrbPA&feat=directlink

 

an open letter to celebrity cruise line

Dear Celebrity,

My very first cruise was on Celebrity.  I was a senior in high school and my friend's mom organized Spring Break on the Celebrity Zenith.  We had a blast.  The cruise ship was beyond impressive, the food beyond delicious and the staff beyond friendly (even when I dropped my entire breakfast tray in the middle of the buffet line).  After my week on the Celebrity Zenith, I returned home with stunning photos, lifelong memories, and ten extra pounds.

Five years later, my husband-to-be and I planned our honeymoon: a Mediterranean cruise.  Finances and dates precluded Celebrity, so we settled for Princess.  It was a lovely cruise, but every time my husband pointed out something great, I replied, "It's nice, but it's not Celebrity."

We took two more cruises over the next few years; timing and cost relegated us to Royal Caribbean and Holland Cruise Lines.  Again my husband complemented our cruise experiences.  Again and again I echoed my refrain: "It's nice, but it's not Celebrity."

Finally this summer we had the opportunity to sail again with Celebrity.  We booked an 11-night cruise on a brand-new ship, the Equinox.  I so looked forward to showing my husband the amazing cruise line that, in my mind, reigned supreme.  And after six months of living in Abuja, neither one of us could wait to be pampered and stuff our face.

We boarded the massive, gorgeous new ship and a waiter handed us flutes of champagne.  Joey looked at me and said, "You win."  We dropped off our bags in our room, impressively ready immediately and gorgeous in its own right, then headed straight for the good stuff: the buffet.  Eyes wide and stomachs growling, we examined the multitude of options: Asian, Italian, Indian, Mexican, salads, meats, cheeses, grilled foods, desserts and more!  We proceeded to the poolside grill station and practically drooled over the burgers, brats, hot dogs, nacho cheese dip, hot wings, french fries, onion rings and acutrements galore.  I hadn't seen fresh, bright green jalapenos in six months and they tasted wonderfully crisp and spicy on my big, juicy burger.

With the giant, fluffy pink margarita I ordered from the poolside bar in hand, Joey and I explored the rest of the ship.  We loved the modern art and the bright, clean spaces.  There seemed more cool bars than days on the ship; but we were ready for the challenge.

Then the cracks appeared.  At dinnertime, we walked downstairs to the main dining room, seating assignment in hand.  A waiter greeted us as we entered, and led us to our table.  Except that table didn't exist.  The waiter kindly asked us to stay put while he figured out our seats, so while the other 1,500 people at the second seating brushed by, we stood in the middle of their way.  After about five minutes the maitre d' finally seated us at a table for five in the corner.

Joey and I always enjoy meeting the other people sailing with us, so we anxiously awaited our dining companions.  And waited.  And waited.  Finally, when it was clear we'd be dining on our own, our waiter finally took our order.  Our meal was delicious and once he finally took our order, our waiter was wonderful; however, throughout our meal several different waiters stopped by our table to pick items from the extra settings there.  First, a fork.  Next a knife.  Then a wine glass.   Obviously I don't need four forks, knives, wine glasses, etc., but it certainly kills the romance when every few minutes someone is stopping by to pilfer from your table.  From our vantage we saw many other tables experience problems of some sort.  Joey and I chalked it up to first night jitters.

The second night we were seated in the same table.  We waited for the other guests to join us again, although this time our waiter was immediately more attentive.  Our other guests never arrived, but our procession of visiting waiters did.  Apologetically, our waiter promised the next night to only set the table for two.

The third day our stateroom attendant delivered a new seating assignment to our room.  That evening the maitre d' escorted us to our new table: at the end of the main thoroughfare for the waiters and diners, and directly in front of the kitchen door.  Bright florescent lights glared from the corner as the door slammed open and shut and waiters shuffled in and out, with the clanging of trays and serving lids and silverware drowning out our attempt at conversation.  Our table was surrounded by so much commotion I opted to forgo dessert (yes, it was that bad), and before leaving the dining room, we requested a new spot from the maitre d'.  He apologized and told us that while the seating was full and we might have to wait a few minutes the next evening, he'd find us a new table.

On the fourth night the maitre d' found what he assured us would be a quieter spot.  He apparently didn't notice the table of ten children under the age of ten seated nearby, who screamed, yelled and threw food our entire meal.  When the neighboring table asked the waiter of the whereabouts of these childrens' parents, he replied, "the specialty restaurant."  The parents deposited their children in the main dining room and left them there, under the supervision of the waiter, and went two floors away to enjoy a quiet dinner.  Are you kidding me?  And Celebrity let this happen?

Joey approached the maitre d' again.  And then when I thought Joey was too soft on the guy, I charged into the conversation.  The maitre d' apologized profusely, explaining that nearly 1/3 of the 3,000 people on board were under the age of 18.  He also informed us that 900 guests were either Latin or South American, which he claimed to be highly unusual and that the cultural differences accounted for the parents' and their childrens' behavior.  (Um, okay?  1. We saw the same families throughout the cruise and every single one of those guests, even the kids, had frequent-cruiser cards, so apparently it wasn't unusual at all.  And 2. How does their ethnicity preclude Celebrity from enforcing a modicum of decorum in the main dining room?)  He assured us he'd find us a quiet table in the future.

The rest of our seating arrangements were amenable, although we were disappointed that we were unable to develop any sort of relationship with our waiters, their assistants, or the wine steward, since we bounced around the dining room for the remainder of the cruise.

Our frustration with the service on-board wasn't limited to the dining room.  After shelling out $200 for a massage and a facial, I spent half an hour of my treatment listening to the on-board announcements read in nine different languages.  My aesthetician merely shrugged and said safety regulations mandated that everyone be able to hear the announcements.  This seemed odd, because I could never hear them in the gym or our room.  One bartender had oppressive body odor and another spent half an hour lecturing Joey and me how Slobodan Milosevic was just "doing what he had to do."  Even our room steward seemed to put forward half-hearted service.

Needless to say, a fabulous new ship and haute food do not a perfect cruise make.  It's the people; the little details remembered by the staff that make the experience memorable.  I was so disappointed by Celebrity's dearth in service, it will be a long time before we consider your cruise line again. 

Here's a link to the pictures I took on the ship: https://picasaweb.google.com/100586084762366858227/Cruise?authuser=0&authkey=Gv1sRgCJfB1JevhZDvcA&feat=directlink

portofino

Sunday was another early morning, as Joey and I squeezed in a short run before attending mass at the church where we got married.  The same priest with the giant ring of jangling keys who performed our rehearsal said mass. While we didn't understand him any more than the first time around, his passion and hand gestures transcended the language barrier.  After mass we enjoyed a capuccino before hopping on a boat to nearby, glitzy Portofino.

In Portofino we lunched at a boardwalk cafe while Joey gawked at the mega-yachts and I coveted every handbag that past.  We walked the manicured streets and peeked into ancient St. Martin's church before ascending to St. George's church on the hill.  After fighting a losing battle with the wind and my dress (yes, Mom, I was wearing underwear, but with not nearly the coverage I needed when my dress flew up and my husband chose to take pictures instead of help), we explored the nearby cemetery.  Still worn out after the Cinque Terre, Joey and I took the ferry back to Santa Margherita and spent our last evening there progressing through several cafes for several courses and several glasses of wine. 

Accidental flasher

Monday morning was our earliest yet; we had to fit in our long run before the 8 am train to Rome.  So at 5:45 we hit the pavement, and ran along the winding road to Portofino.  We had the whole of the Ligurian coast to ourselves; not even the fisherman were awake yet.  The rising sun shimmered over the cerulean sea; the waves crashed into the rocky coast while we ran in the crisp morning air.  It truly was the most amazing run of my entire life.

A few hours and two train rides later, we arrived in the port of Rome, Civitavecchia, for the next leg of our journey: time for the floating buffet!

Here's the link to all my picutres from our time on the Ligurian Coast: https://picasaweb.google.com/100586084762366858227/SantaMargheritaLigure?authuser=0&authkey=Gv1sRgCLqd-cmkhsmbgQE&feat=directlink

the cinque terre

Saturday morning Joey and I woke up early.  We'd planned to hike the Cinque Terre; therefore, the broken strap on my walking shoes could be ignored no more.  Good thing Santa Margherita has such cheap shopping!  For yacht owners...

Luckily we managed to find a cute pair of flat sandals with black and brown straps that seemed comfortable enough and didn't break the bank.  Unluckily, I chose not to follow my sisters', parents', or best friend's advice to skip the fashion for the Cinque Terre and just wear tennies.  Even more unfortunate for Joey was my decision not to share this piece of advice with him.  So a flip-flop clad Joey and I, in my cute new shoes, boarded the hour-long train to Vernazza.  Good thing I always carry band-aids in my purse.

Despite the bazillion other tourists who descended upon those same five remote towns that day (seriously, Europe in the fall), the bright colors and stunning views of each tiny village and its surroundings seemed to become more vibrant and more incredible as the day progressed.  I could not believe how blue the water was. 

Halfway between Vernazza and Corniglia.  That's Corniglia in the distance.

The first hour of the steep climb up the mountain between Vernazza and Corniglia was the easy part.  Try going down the other side of that mountain in inappropriate footwear when you are already spatially challenged and uncoordinated.  Even Joey, who is pretty hard to fluster, was mortified at my method of balance as I spread out my arms and hands and plopped one entire leg at a time down each step of the mountain.  I really tried to go down the steps like a normal person, but grace isn't one of my strong suits.

Although we'd scaled a small mountain in flip flops and 90 degree heat while dodging other sweaty people on narrow stairs that should not be shared, the scenery was well worth the effort.  We ambled through the second (technically third, but we skipped Monterosso) town, Corniglia, before we faced "more stairs than line the side of a Mayan pyramid," according to my guidebook, down which I would have to "flop," according to my husband, to reach the next town.  Off I flopped, and we were on our way to Manarola.

The trail to Manarola from Corniglia continues behind the Cornigilia train station, where we found several signs that the trail was closed.  Of course this all didn't register until after we watched the only train for the next half an hour leave, so faced with climbing back up the Mayan pyramid or a bench at the train station, we sat.  I'm not going to lie: I was considerably, disgustingly, sweaty; probably just as smelly (I wasn't about to put my nose in my armpit to find out); my feet were blistered; my shoulders sunburned and my stomach growling (I'd read in my guidebook to find a cafe in the next town so we'd only grazed through the morning - ha, oops).  So as much as I'd originally wanted to hike all the way from Vernazza to Riomaggiore, I wasn't devastated that we had to cheat a little. 

While we sat and waited for our train, the number of would-be hikers increased, and another girl, maybe about 14 years-old, sat next to me on the bench.  Joey and I continued our conversation, and as it reached a lull, the girl looked over at me and said, "I'm from Norway." 

That's all.  Completely matter-of-fact and even more out of the blue. 

Not much for small talk with people I do know, I replied with the nicest thing I could think of: "Okay?" 

And that was the extent of our conversation. 

Joey gave me the "Do you know her" look, to which I replied with the "WTF" look, after which we stifled our snickering until the train came.

Outside Manarola

In Manarola we stopped for gelato.  I ordered a large cone of my favorite: Amarena.  The gorgeous Italian woman behind the counter blessed with long legs and the ability to eat pasta all day every day in her Gucci size 2 pants replied, "you know that's three scoops, right?"

Are you saying something?  Because I just hiked a mountain and I live in Africa.

We drifted from Manarola along the "Via dell'Amore" to the last town, Riomaggiore, where we saw a bride posing for pictures with a huge bouquet of lavender.  Then we took the last train back to Santa Margherita, for naps, showers, and another romantic evening along the Ligurian Sea.

santa margherita ligure

I'd been nervous to return to Santa Margherita Ligure.  I worried that somehow the anticipation and exhilaration that only a bride can feel had softened the edges of my already wonderful memories of the town where Joey and I were married.  My fears that I'd remembered Santa Margherita as fondly and without fault as a mother sees her child, however, were allayed the moment we exited the train station.  Santa Margherita Ligure, with its bright blue skies and puffy white clouds, pastel-colored houses nestled in the rolling green hills, and tall palm trees lined against the azure Ligurian Sea, remained just as breathtaking as it had been on our wedding day.

After much-needed naps and showers, Joey and I strolled hand-in-hand along the shops and cafes lining the waterfront.  We watched the sun set as we dined on Ligurian pesto and gnocchi and carbonara and fresh fish.  Then we climbed the thousand stairs back up to our church.  I can't explain the calm that I felt as Joey held me on the stoop of the church; we sat together in silence for a long time and just watched the moon. 

This posting has been very, very trying for me.  Living in Abuja, compounded by all of the stress from three moves in 6 months, leaving my entire family and everything I had ever known, and moving to Africa, challenged me more than I ever expected.  And when your one constant, the only person with you through it all, also happens to be the only person with you through it all, that person gets to see the good, the bad, and the ugly.  And I can get really.  Really.  Ugly.  So I'm not the only one who suffered during the first six months of our tour.  Joey suffered too.  And so did our marriage. 

I suppose I wasn't afraid as much that Santa Margherita had lost her charm;  I suspect, deep down, I worried that Santa Margherita wouldn't heal the wounds inflicted from this posting, and that we'd leave as bitter as we'd arrived.  I knew that it wasn't Joey's fault that we got posted where we did; I'd had an equal say in his bid list.  But just because your mind knows something doesn't mean your heart will believe it.

But I do believe in true love, and I believe even more that I married my soul-mate.  And maybe it was Santa Margherita or maybe it was our church.  Maybe it was the sea or maybe it was the full moon.  Maybe it was our lovely, old memories or maybe it was the new ones we created this time around.  Nevertheless, three days later when we boarded our train to Rome, Joey and I knew we were going to be okay.

I think it was love.